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And he looks torn. He loves his sister and a part of him is clearly relieved to find her safe here. But there’s something else going on with him, a tension I’ve seen in him ever since last winter, whenever her name has come up.

I rise and nod toward the children playing in the grass. “None of them would be here were it not for what Edouard and Marie did,” I remind him softly.

“It’s true,” says Marie. “You can’t blame me, under the circumstances? And we’ll be married as soon as he’s defrocked.”

His jaw grinds. “You think this is about the fact that you’re not married?” he asks incredulously. “What about the fact that Amelie nearly died for your sake and you repaid her by abandoning her in Saint Antoine? She and Cecelia could be safely away in England right now if it weren’t for you.”

And there it is, the real source of his distress. He just wishes a few of us were safe.

Marie’s smile fades. “You left her alone in Saint Antoine too, did you not? Don’t hold what I did against me when you also did it twice.”

I see Edouard approaching, out of his priest attire, and for once it’s me who keeps a level head. “No one knew what was coming,” I say quickly, “and it all worked out for the best.” This child that grows inside me is there because I stayed. If we’d made it to England, none of this would have happened.

I feel his urge to argue, and then it releases as his lips brush over my hair. “You’re right. Our family is perfect just as it is.”

He and Edouard shake hands, both of them tense. I think they’ll be friends in time, which is good, because they have more in common than they know. I’ve been piecing it together—that glow to Marie, the flush of her cheeks.

I’m not the only one here who’s pregnant.

* * *

The chateau belongs to Genevieve Lepin, one of the country’s wealthiest women and—ostensibly—a Nazi sympathizer. Her mansion in Paris is at the heart of wartime society, a salon for German officers to mingle with the city’s prettiest girls while drinking its best liquor and dining on foie gras, which gives Genevieve many privileges most French citizens don’t have. One of those privileges is that her property is left alone, and I’ll admit that a bombed-out, gated off home makes a good hiding place for the time being. While the ten cottages that sit on the periphery of the rolling green lawn are a bit rudimentary, they provide room enough for everyone—twenty children, plus Marta and Rachel, two Jews who fled from Germany to France—and in the one section of the house that remains standing there are two baths and part of a kitchen. Genevieve is still trying to help them get papers for all the children, but in the meantime it seems as good a solution as any.

Marie shows me to the cottage Henri and I will share with Charlotte, Lucien and Cecelia—it’s a single large room with a curtain used to partition off the beds—a double for me and Henri, and another large bed for the three children.

“So it seems we’re both pregnant,” I say, turning to face her.

Her eyes go wide. “But I thought—” she begins.

I shrug. “I thought so too. I don’t understand it. But...I’ve met her. She visited us when we were on our way here.”

Marie sinks onto a bed. “A time traveler then,” she says.

I hesitate. For the past two years, Marie has believed—as we did—that she was the hidden child of the prophecy. I never got the feeling that it mattered to her, but I can’t swear that it didn’t matter either.

“I think it’s more than that,” I reply. I explain about learning that I’m from one of the first families, and then witnessing our daughter’s powers firsthand. “I think she may be the hidden child,” I conclude.

Her jaw falls open as I speak, and when I’m done, she buries her face in her hands and begins to cry. I’d thought she might be disappointed, at most, but I never expected this. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, placing my hand on her shoulder. “Nothing is certain...I had no idea you’d be so upset.”

She raises her tearstained face to mine and laughs. “I’m not upset,” she says. “I’m relieved. All this time I’ve been thinking the child I lost might have been the circle of light or whatever it is, and that I ruined it. The prophecy my mother died for, that we nearly died for.” She wipes her eyes. “What you’re telling me means I haven’t ruined anything at all.”

Poor Marie, carrying so much guilt for no reason. “I’m sorry you ever thought it,” I tell her.

She steps back, frowning again. “But if the war isn’t ending for years still, does it mean you’ll go forward in time to have her?”

“I don’t know,” I admit. “We haven’t decided.”

Her hand grasps mine. “I’m sorry the responsibility has been placed on your shoulders,” she says. “But so many people have lost their lives or their loved ones in order for this to happen. If you’re truly having the hidden child and you’re supposed to go forward, I hope you’ll think it through.”

* * *

That night, we put the children to bed and then retreat to our own.

“I told Marie about the baby,” I whisper, pressing close to him. “She seems to think it’s my duty to go home to have her.”

He stiffens. “How convenient for her to suddenly preach to you about duty while she sleeps with a priest.”

“Henri,” I chide, “she was just being honest.”