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“I cannot see you,” he replies. “Don’t call my home again.”

Coward, I think, fury bleeding from my pores. He would let an infant he personally delivered die simply because she’s a quarter Jewish. And yet I can’t say a word to him about it because, like the rest of this town, he holds us in the palm of his hand. Eventually, he, or someone else, will suggest to the Germans that they look more closely at us than they have been.

“He refused?” asks Henri, his voice quiet but livid as he walks in behind me. I nod, so angry that I don’t dare speak.

“When he stands before God,” he hisses, “he will regret the decisions he made during this war.”

Not soon enough, I think. It would be so easy to make Nadeau pay for this now. And why shouldn’t I? The man doesn’t deserve the comfortable life he has, and he’ll clearly never be of use to us again.

Henri is watching my face. “What are you not telling me?” he asks.

“Nothing,” I lie.

He grabs his coat. “You know what I miss?” he asks softly, heading for the door. “The days when I was certain you were telling me the truth.”

What he said bothers me, and the tension between us that lingers afterward, even more so. It’s as if a part of him has closed off to me. And yet, I suppose, he feels as if a part of me has closed to him as well. It’s there when we go to sleep at night, and the next day, even though nothing seems to have changed.

It’s just the stress, I tell myself. It’s just that the children are sick. But I’m not sure it’s true, and when he leaves the next day to get a Christmas tree, hoping to buoy everyone’s spirits, my stomach sinks as I watch him walk away. I don’t want to lose him to the war, but I don’t want to lose him to me either, to this piece of me I’d rather he not know.

When Cecelia and Lucien go down for a nap, I pull my coat on and cross the yard to feed the single chicken now in the coop. I’ve just reached for the feed when I hear the low purr of a vehicle approaching and freeze, fear flooding my system.

Henri is gone. The gun is inside, on the high shelf. I could time travel to warn us, but what if something goes wrong and by the time I fix things, one of them is dead?

I take a single step out of the coop just as the jeep pulls up to the front door. Three German soldiers, in crisp new uniforms, medals gleaming. Their eyes lock on me, and I panic. I want to race inside for the gun, but I would be leading them straight to my family.

I need to get them out of here before Henri returns. Alerting them to his presence is as good as signing his death warrant.

“Bonjour, mademoiselle,” says the one who climbs from the back of the car. He’s older than the others, clearly in charge. “You’re alone here on this farm?”

“No, my daughter is inside sleeping,” I tell them. “But she’s quite ill.”

“Perhaps a visit from the doctor is required,” he says. I glance at him, wondering if he’s toying with me, if he’s already aware the doctor won’t come. My anger begins to coalesce, sharpen.

Even if I were able to get the gun, I could only kill two before the third killed me. So, whatever I do, I can’t let them into the house.

“Perhaps,” I reply. “Is there something I can help you with?”

He looks at me as if it’s an invitation, his eyes roaming from my mouth to my chest to my legs, capping it all off with a small smirk. I grow colder inside, watching it. He’ll die first.

“We are surveying the properties here,” he says. “How many rooms have you?”

“Three rooms,” I reply crisply. “All taken, I’m afraid.”

He laughs. “My math skills are failing me, madame. Explain to me how a child and a woman require three rooms?”

“My sister-in-law will return soon from Paris. The third room is hers.”

He raises a brow and begins to approach. “In these difficult times, I’m sure two women and a child could share a room.” He circles me. “Or my men would be happy to share with you if you’d rather.” His baton lowers, slides just beneath the hem of my skirt. It reminds me of Gustave, and my hands begin to shake with fear and rage at once. That coldness inside me grows—the part that hates them for making me scared. I picture how they will die when this is over, the same way I used to picture the guards’ deaths. It makes me feel powerful, except attacking them could bring more problems than it solves, and the driver is just a boy, unable to meet my eye. Nearly as much a victim here as me.

The commander’s baton goes to my palm, pushing my right hand in the air. “No ring, I see, but you claim to have a daughter. Are you married?”

The ring is still packed, waiting for the trip it appears we will never take. The soldiers behind him shift uncomfortably. Obviously, they’ve dealt with him before. They’re well aware that no answer I can provide will satisfy him.

“Yes,” I reply. “I lost the ring.”

“Let’s go inside and have a look around, madame,” he says with a smirk. “Perhaps together we’ll find it.”

I brace myself, ready to spring for the door if necessary. “No.”