Charlie led them across a field with grasses bright in the chilly sunshine, past Jersey cows, small and russet, and to the granite farmhouse.
After Charlie knocked, he opened the door. “Uncle Arthur? Aunt Opal?”
In a cozy drawing room, a middle-aged couple rose from their armchairs. Stared at their uninvited guests. Turned ashen.
“These are my friends,” Charlie said, “Bernardus Kroon and Gerrit van der Zee. Bernardus and Gerrit, may I introduce Arthur and Opal Jouny?”
“Friends.” Mr. Jouny’s voice rasped, and his cheeks worked. Poor man, trying to conceal his hatred and fear of his enemy.
“Friends indeed. Wait until you hear.” Charlie waved Gerrit and Bernardus to the sofa.
Gerrit clenched wool and silk in his hands. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Jouny.”
His host and hostess stood stiffly. Mrs. Jouny and Ivy bore a strong family resemblance—Ivy would be an attractive woman in middle age.
Mrs. Jouny shook herself. “Please do have a seat. Would you like some parsnip coffee? It’s all I have, I’m afraid.”
“No, thank you.” Gerrit and Bernardus sat on the sofa with Charlie at one end.
Charlie rested his elbows on his knees. “Gerrit and Bernardus are Dutch, and they’re in the resistance.”
“Charlie!” Bernardus whacked him in the arm.
“They joined Organisation Todt so they could spy on German fortifications.”
“Oh no,” Gerrit muttered. What was Charlie doing?
“They can’t send their maps and diagrams off the island,” Charlie said, “so I’ve been acting as their courier.”
“Charlie Picot!” Mr. Jouny’s face turned stonier than the walls of his home. “What on earth are you thinking? It could be a trap.”
One shake of Charlie’s head. “I’ve been their courier for several months. If it were a trap, I’d already be in a concentration camp.”
“Or dead.” His uncle ground out the words, and his aunt slapped her hands over her mouth.
“May I?” Charlie reached across Bernardus and took the silk from Gerrit’s lap. “Gerrit draws in secret ink. You can’t see, but this is a diagram of a German command bunker about to be built at Noirmont Point—with all the specifications. Think how this will help the Allies.”
“What do you two have to say for yourselves?” Mr. Jouny shifted that rock-hard gaze to Gerrit and Bernardus. “How dare you use a fifteen-year-old boy?”
“I volunteered, Uncle Arthur.”
Bernardus raised one hand in a calming gesture. “We don’t take it lightly, Mr. Jouny. We didn’t want to involve Charlie at first.”
“You shouldn’t have done at all.” Mr. Jouny shook his hand toward the silk. “If he’s caught with that—”
“I’ll be shot,” Charlie said. “Which is why I need your help. I’ve been carrying the maps in my duffel, and I have a cover story about buying silk on the black market for my girlfriend in Saint-Malo or—”
“Oh no.” Mrs. Jouny’s voice trembled through her fingers. “That won’t do.”
“No, it won’t.” Charlie waved to Gerrit. “Tell them your idea.”
Gerrit felt as if he were the one facing the firing squad. And for good reason. He cleared his throat and lifted Charlie’s jacket. “Charlie’s work jacket is lined. If we could open the lining and insert the map, hang it from the shoulders perhaps, and sew it back up.”
“None of us knows how to sew.” Charlie turned a pleading look to his aunt. “But you do, Aunt Opal. This could save my life.”
Mrs. Jouny’s hands drifted down to her lap. “You want me—”
“Absolutely not.” Mr. Jouny slashed his arm through the idea.
