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I pack up the valise with the first-aid supplies and push it back under the bed. “I’ll need to close the trapdoor while I’m gone. Will you be all right if I extinguish the lamp?”
He nods.
“You should try to sleep while I’m away.” I put my hand on his chest and encourage him to lie down. He doesn’t resist. I extinguish the flame, climb up the ladder, and lower the trapdoor into place.
I cover it with the bales of straw and leave the barn.
Jacques is standing outside the entrance, watching the driveway to the farmhouse.
“I need to fetch Dr. Deschamps. I won’t be long.” I mount the bicycle that belonged to Jacques’s wife. She died five years ago, and he’s letting me use it while I stay at his house.
I pedal to Dr. Deschamps’s office in the village and balance the bicycle against the brick wall that separates the garden from the road. I ring the doorbell, and his wife lets me in.
“Bonjour, Roselina. Is your husband available? I have a patient for him.” Three years ago, I would never have thought a phrase as innocent as that question could imply the local resistance circuit needs help with a task. But these days, I can conduct entire conversations in code without batting an eyelid.
“He’s with his last patient of the day.”
We talk while waiting for her husband to finish. At the same time, we fold the towels he needs for his practice. In this instant, we are just two women catching up on life and sharing recipes.
It feels good. Normal.
For the past three months, I’ve been focused on helping to end the war and keeping alive. No spare moments to be me, to reflect on how my engagement fell apart, to think about my family and friends. No spare moments to think about my job as a translator, to appreciate the latest fashions, to lament a hole in my stockings.
Dr. Deschamps and his patient step out of the exam room. The woman and I exchange greetings.
“You have a patient for me,non?” Dr. Deschamps inquires once she has left the house.
“Oui. He may be in need of stitches.” My voice is whisper-quiet, even though Dr. Deschamps, Rosalina, and I are the only people in the house. “He is resting in the chicken coop.”
“I’ll meet you there. I have a few more things I need to complete first. I shouldn’t be more than half an hour.”
I smile, the stress of the day easing slightly. “Merci.”
I return to the safe house and prepare a broth for Todd. The familiar hum of Dr. Deschamps’s car engine stops in front of the kitchen window. I go outside and lead him into the barn.
I shut the door behind us, and we push aside the bales of straw covering the trapdoor.
“Le Hobbit,” I say, loud enough for Todd to hear me, and lift the trapdoor. The weak sunlight leaking into the barn bathes Todd’s pale face as he looks up at us. His expression boasts a relieved smile that speaks of so many things.
Dr. Deschamps and I climb into the space. With the two of us in here, there is not a lot of room to move.
He examines Todd’s leg and tends to the wound. “You’ll need plenty of rest for the next few days.” He turns to me. “Your plan is for him to leave France via the Pyrénées escape route,non?”
“That’s correct. Unless Baker Street sends a Lysander to pick him up.” Which is doubtful.
And even if Baker Street agrees to it, airplane landings can only be safely done around the time of the full moon. Todd will have to wait another three or four weeks—at the earliest—before he can be flown out. Hiding him for a week or two is dangerous. Hiding him for a month or longer will put us all at tremendous risk, especially because he doesn’t speak French.
“How long will it take for him to heal enough to make the trek?” I ask.
Todd looks between us, unable to comprehend what is being said. There’s not enough time to translate. Dr. Deschamps will need to return home shortly.
“He’s young and the wound isn’t deep. I estimate approximately two weeks. Maybe less if he doesn’t attempt to rush his recovery.”
I nod, mentally preparing for the next steps in getting Todd back to England. “Good, I’ll send word to Baker Street and start arranging his escape.”
Dr. Deschamps leaves. The sound of his car engine starting up and driving away can be heard from the hiding space. The noise is barely more than a soft rumble.
“So, what’s the verdict?” Todd clutches the sides of the bed as if bracing for bad news.
