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It is a relief—a huge one—to know that Josie will receive a small meal at lunchtime, along with the vitamin bars the school distributes to all its pupils, something the Germans have not yet thought to ban.

After saying goodbye to Josie, Andrée sets off on another errand. She wants to see Dancer at her apartment on rue Péclet. The building, like Doctor René’s, is also without a concierge. Their own concierge, Maurice Dupont, seems trustworthy enough—accepting the story of their “niece” Joséphine without question—and never remarks on the steady stream of visitors, but the Germans are known to use concierges as spies, finding ways to pressure them into betraying residents they suspect of working for the Resistance.

Andrée makes her way up the stairs, ducking in after someone entering the building. At Dancer’s door, she gives the recognized signal—three short rings, three slow. She waits, sensing a presence behind the door. She places her face in front of the small glass peephole, and the door immediately opens. A hand grabs her arm and pulls her inside.

“Andrée, hello. I wasn’t expecting you,” Dancer says, looking down the corridor to see if anyone is around. Satisfied, she shuts the door and locks it.

“I’m sorry. I should have sent a message. If now isn’t a good time, I can come back, but I need to talk to you,” Andrée says.

“No, it’s fine. Philippe is at school. I was just . . .” Dancer looks around her small living room, her eyes resting on the rug in the middle of the room. One end is flicked back. Andrée follows her gaze.

Dancer’s expression is trusting, but wary. It’s highly unusual for operatives to visit one another.

“I have to be more careful,” Dancer says, walking over to the rug and flicking the rug straight with her foot. “No doubt you’ve guessed that I keep my wireless under the floorboards. I was transmitting when you knocked: I can only do it while Philippe is asleep or at school. Andrée, is everything all right? Has something happened to the child?”

“No, she’s fine. I just want to talk. I came straight from dropping Josie at her school. I’ve reenrolled her under our name.”

Andrée has come to see Dancer partly out of concern and partly because she needs her help. Dancer’s husband is Jewish. He was taken by the authorities back in 1940, two years ago, right at the start of the occupation of Paris, leaving her alone with Philippe, who was only four years old at the time. Since then she has burned with rage, throwing herself into the work with a fierce, almost reckless determination. Louis has confided to Andrée that he fears she will be caught, which would leave Philippe without either parent to care for him. And the boy is half Jewish, which makes him vulnerable in ways that are difficult to think about.

“I know we’re not the only network you’re involved with, Dancer. And that your other network is linked with General de Gaulle in London. If you’ve got too much to do, please tell me and we can cut back on what we ask of you.”

Dancer doesn’t answer this question. She looks around at the clutter.

“I can’t believe how messy this room is. As a dancer, my life was all about discipline and everything being neat and tidy. Now look at me,” she says, sweeping her arms around the room.

“Can I help you tidy up a little? I’ve got time,” Andrée asks.

“Thank you, but no. I will get on top of it. Everything will be sorted and put away by the time I need to go and pick up Philippe.”

“Do you miss it?” Andrée asks as she sits in a chair Dancer has just cleared of clean, folded clothes.

“What? The dancing?”

“Yes. I saw you several times at Folies Bergère. You were absolutely spellbinding.”

“Thank you. That was an exciting time in my life. I loved not only the dancing but the people: the other dancers, the audience. It was an otherworldly experience every night.”

“Are you teaching Philippe to dance?”

“I’m teaching him about the joy of listening to music and moving in time with it. You’d understand that, as a musician.”

“Oh yes, I do. Not that there’s much movement possible playing the piano.”

“But there is!” says Dancer. “When I wasn’t on the stage, I often watched the pianist, and his whole body swayed in time with the music.”

“You’re right. You could say our hands dance across the keys. I’ve never thought of it that way before.”

She looks across at the photographs displayed on the sideboard. “Did you meet your husband while dancing?”

“Yes. He was one of the financial backers of the Folies. I became aware of him when I saw him night after night sitting at the same table, and he seemed to be watching only me. One night the manager said there was someone, a key supporter of the company, who wanted to meet me. We met, had dinner, and I fell madly in love with him on our first date.”

“A proper coup de foudre.”

Dancer laughs. “I’m living proof it can happen.”

She stops laughing abruptly and goes over to pick up one of the photographs.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up sad memories.”