Would he have kissed her like that if he thought her defective? No, he wouldn’t have, and she pressed her fingers to her lips as if she could preserve his kiss.
But she stood alone. Alone and bewildered.
27
VEDBÆK
SATURDAY, AUGUST14, 1943
With a stack of books, Henrik entered the library at Lyd-af-Lys.
He slammed into a wall of memories and stopped short. Breathless.
The scent of leather and ink prevailed, but a hint of Far’s cologne and pipe smoke lingered. Three leather armchairs curved around a low table, and floor-to-ceiling bookcases covered the walls.
Mor had been the family storyteller, but Far was the man of letters, and the library had been his sanctuary. But a sanctuary open to all.
Since the occupation, Henrik had avoided all but the kitchen and his basement quarters. And he hadn’t entered the library since Mor’s death.
Janne Thorup usually served as his librarian, but he couldn’t bear questions about the book return.
Since Hemming didn’t read, he needed to rid himself of his accumulation of books in preparation for moving to yet another boardinghouse.
Moving out was the wisest choice. He needed to protect his alias—all his aliases. And he needed to protect Else. Not just fromthe danger of knowing his identity but from getting involved with a doomed and flawed man.
Henrik shoved through the wall of memories. He set the stack on the table and shifted aside the envelope full of resistance documents he’d retrieved from Søllerød Kirke.
His physics textbook lay on top of the stack. His heart writhed, and he returned the textbook to the shelf. If only he could shelve his memories of the physicist.
What a fool he was. No, not a fool. A cad.
He’d been cruel. He’d misused her. All because he’d forgotten who he was, who he was supposed to be.
Henrik had kissed her, but she’d kissed Hemming. “My Hemming,” she’d murmured.
Else had fallen for a man who didn’t exist.
Henrik groaned and picked up three volumes of Kierkegaard. Her soft voice reading to him filled his mind. As did the kiss, no matter how much he longed to forget it.
How could he forget? He’d kissed many women, but never with such urgency, such ... love. He loved her so much, his whole body ached.
Only two choices remained—reveal or leave.
The last few days, he’d battled a reckless desire to reveal his identity. He’d avoided her, skipping breakfast and eating dinner at a café, but he couldn’t do that forever.
He thrust the books onto the shelf. Silently leaving was the best course of action. What had he told Else? “Sometimes silence takes much courage.”
It was courageous to protect the woman he loved, even though he’d break his own heart. Courageous and reasonable.
He picked up a leather-bound volume ofA Midsummer Night’s Dream. Shakespeare’s line flitted through his mind—“Reason and love keep little company together nowadays.”
Was he being reasonable and loving? Or was his silence nothing but cowardice?
Ridiculous. Henrik slid the book into place. No one could ever accuse him of cowardice.
He gripped the edge of the shelf. He shouldn’t dismiss the nudging. Over the past few years, he’d learned to examine his motives.
Henrik plopped into an armchair and rested his head in his hands. In what ways might leaving Else be cowardly?
