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Only when they’re three streets away does Tina speak. “I need to sit down. My hands are shaking.”

Louis guides her to a bench. They sit. Around them, Paris endures. People hurry past, heads down, focused on survival. No one notices an elderly couple resting on a bench.

“Every time,” Tina says. “Every single time, I think they’ll see through us and arrest us right there.”

“But they don’t. We’re too old, too ordinary. They don’t see us as threats.”

“That’s our advantage.”

“That’s our only advantage.” Louis looks at the handbag. “What do you think’s in there?”

“Troop movements, probably. Patrol schedules. Names of collaborators. The usual.”

Tina’s hands have stopped trembling. She takes a breath. “We should get home. Josie will be back from school soon. And Andrée needs to see this before she leaves.”

They stand. Begin the walk home. Just two elderly people, out for lunch, enjoying what’s left of the afternoon. The handbag swings between them, heavy with secrets, with danger, with the small victories that might, eventually, add up to freedom.

Behind them, Le Fleuron gleams in the winter sun, feeding the occupiers, sheltering traitors, and hiding in plain sight the Resistance that will, one day, help bring liberty back to France.

Chapter Nine

Josie’s fingers stumble over the keys, the notes of Claude Debussy’s “Arabesque" colliding rather than flowing. She stops, places her hands in her lap, stares at the sheet music.

“I can’t do it. I’ll never play it like Maman would want to hear it,” she says, her voice quivering.

Andrée slides onto the bench beside her. “Your Maman heard you play this piece dozens of times, Josie. Every time you sat at the piano, she heard you. And do you know what she heard?”

Josie shakes her head.

“She heard you getting better. She heard you trying. She heard how much you loved it. That’s what music is, Josie. It’s not about being perfect. It’s about feeling something and sharing it. Not everyone has this gift, but you do.”

Josie’s fingers return to the keys, tentative. She plays the opening again, slower this time. The notes find each other, one following the next as the composer intended.

“Better,” Andrée says softly. “Much better. Now, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

Since collecting Josie from school an hour ago, Andrée has been wondering when to tell her she will be away for a night. She hadn’t planned to raise it during the lesson, but somehow, sitting here together at the piano, the moment feels right.

Josie’s hands freeze on the keys. She turns to look at Andrée, her eyes suddenly wide. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong, ma petite. Nothing at all.” Andrée smiles. “But before I tell you what I need to say, I want to tell you something else first. I peeked into your classroom this morning, before my first lesson.”

Josie stares at her. “I didn’t see you.”

“I know you didn’t.”

“Why?”

“Well, I stood at the window and watched your teacher call the register.” Andrée pauses, her eyes warm. “She called Joséphine Levallois—and you just sat there, completely absorbed in whatever you were thinking, not a flicker of recognition.”

Josie’s hand flies to her mouth. “Oh no! I forgot.”

“You forgot entirely. And then Monique, she was sitting next to you, gave you a firm nudge with her elbow and I could see her lips moving: That’s you, Josie. Remember—you’re Joséphine Levallois now. And up shot your hand.” Andrée laughs softly at the memory. “And you said, ‘That’s me, that’s me, I’m here.’”

Josie drops her face into her hands. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Not for a moment.”

Andrée reaches over and gently pulls Josie’s hands from her face.