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She begins to play.

The piece that had kept her sane when sanity seemed a luxury she couldn’t afford. The piece, she believes, that brought her home.

Her fingers are stiff, the joints damaged and reluctant, still carrying the cold of that place inside them. The music doesn’t sound the way it used to. She plays anyway.

She stops. Her hands rest lightly on the keys, and she stares ahead at nothing. She can’t bear to see her mother’s face when she asks the question that has threatened to escape since the moment they were reunited. She is frightened to ask. Frightened of the answer.

She must know.

“Why didn’t you tell me about Papa in your letter?”

Behind her, Tina looks at her daughter’s back, at the curve of her shoulders, her bowed head.

“Ma chère, I couldn’t write the words.” Her voice is barely above a whisper. “I can’t say them even now. Please forgive me. You must think me a terrible coward.”

Andrée is off the piano stool before the sentence is finished. She crosses the room and sinks onto the sofa beside her mother, pulling her close.

“No, Maman. No.” She holds her tighter. “You are the bravest person I have ever known. I understand. I truly do.”

Tina’s breath catches. When the words come, they rush out of her.

“In your letter, you asked me not to tell Josie you were alive, in case you didn’t make it. You sounded so weak, ma pauvre fille. I couldn’t write anything that might make you worse. I needed you to come home. I needed that more than anything.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I asked that of you.”

“No.” Tina pulls back just enough to look at her. “Don’t be sorry. I was going to explain it myself. But I wasn’t ready yet.”

A silence settles between them, not uncomfortable, just full.

“Is it too soon,” Andrée says carefully, “to ask if you know anything about the others? Agent, Doctor René, Cat?”

Tina shakes her head slowly. “All I know is that they were arrested. Beyond that, nothing. I would tell you if I knew anything. You know I would.”

“Dancer? Her son?”

“Nothing. Not been seen or heard from. Maurice tried to make inquiries, but no one seems to know anything.” She pauses. “Or they’re too afraid to say.”

Andrée nods. She leans back against her mother, and for a moment she is a child again, and the world is small and safe and warm.

“When I’m stronger,” she says quietly, “I’ll find out what happened to them.” She closes her eyes. “But for now, I’m where I need to be. With you. And soon Josie will be home.”

“Hello, M. Dupont,” Josie greets Maurice, who is standing outside his apartment with the biggest smile on his face she has ever seen.

“Good afternoon, Mlle Josie.”

“Are you all right? You seem different.”

“I have never been better.”

Josie trudges up the stairs. School was hot and boring. The teacher droned on about history while all Josie could think about was the Hôtel Lutetia. Another day of checking lists. Another day of finding nothing.

She’s halfway up when she hears it.

Music.

Piano music.

“Clair de Lune.”