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Exposed. Visible. Anyone watching could see them now. But there’s no choice. The agent will land, will need help gathering the parachute, hiding it, moving quickly away.

The figure lands hard, rolls, comes up tangled in silk. Andrée and Visitor reach her together. A woman, young, dark-haired, already struggling out of her harness.

“Suzanne?” Andrée asks.

“Yes. The cases—there.” She points. Two suitcases, attached to their own smaller parachutes, lie twenty meters away.

Visitor is already gathering the parachute, rolling it into a bundle.

“Get them. Quickly.”

Andrée runs. The cases are heavy, awkward. She grabs one, Suzanne the other. Together they run back to the trees while Visitor finishes bundling the parachutes.

“We’ll leave them here,” Visitor says. “My friends are coming later to bury them later. Let’s move.”

They half run, half walk back through the forest, the suitcases banging against their legs. Suzanne stumbles once but catches herself. No one speaks. Behind them, the forest is silent. No shouting. No searchlights. No indication they were seen.

At Visitor’s house, they tumble inside. Andrée and Suzanne drop the cases, exhausted. Visitor bolts the door, pulls the blackout curtains. Only then does she light a lamp.

In the lamplight, Suzanne looks young. Twenty-five at most. Her face is pale, her hands shaking slightly. “Sorry,” she says. “First time jumping. Rather more frightening than they said it would be.”

“You did well,” Andrée tells her. “Very well. I’m Andrée.”

“Pleased to meet you. And thank you. Both of you.” She looks at the two suitcases. “The wireless sets. They’re the newest model. Faster, harder to detect. I’m to train your operators to use them.”

“Tomorrow,” Visitor says. “Tonight we eat, we rest. The danger is over for now.”

They share more bread and cheese, a bottle of wine that Visitor produces from somewhere. Unheard of bounty. Andrée enjoys the wine, the cheese, and even the stale bread, again pushing back the feelings of guilt for the three she left in Paris, who will have eked out what scraps remain in the larder.

Suzanne tells them about London, about the training, about the flight over France. “I could see Paris. The lights are dimmed, but it’s still there. Still Paris, my home.” She looks at Andrée. “Is it very bad?”

“Yes,” Andrée says simply. “But we endure. We resist. We wait for liberation.”

“It’s coming, I promise you. London’s getting ready. It won’t be much longer.”

Andrée wants to believe her. Wants to think that Josie won’t spend years hiding, that the occupation will end, that Ruth and Léon might somehow still return. But she’s learned not to hope too hard. Hope is dangerous, and it can make you careless.

It occurs to her she might know more about the progress of the Germans than Suzanne does. She may be living in an unoccupied country, but how much of what is going on in Europe, in Africa, does she really know? Andrée has seen classified stolen documents. She’s not convinced this war is going to end anytime soon. But she knows the rules: follow instructions, speak only of that which is connected to the mission at hand. Speculation, gossip, rumors are dangerous and do nothing to help the cause.

They sleep three to a bed, fully clothed, ready to run if needed. Andrée lies between Visitor and Suzanne in the chilly room, listening to their breathing, to the house settling around them, to the silence of the village outside. She thinks of Josie, safe in Paris with Louis and Tina. Playing cards. Laughing, perhaps. Forgetting, for a moment, to be afraid.

“Sleep,” Visitor whispers. “Tomorrow comes early.”

Andrée closes her eyes.

Friday morning is gray and bitter. Frost covers everything, turning the world silver and sharp. They eat quickly, the remains of the bread from their supper, washed down with chicory coffee. Then they prepare to leave.

Visitor accompanies them toward the station. At the edge of the village, she stops. “From here, you’re on your own. Safer that way. Good luck.”

“Thank you,” Andrée says. “For everything.”

“Thank your Colonel Pallas. He chose well, sending you.” Visitor turns to Suzanne. “Welcome back to France. May your work here be successful.”

They part. Andrée and Suzanne walk to the station, each carrying a battered suitcase. To anyone watching, they’re just two women traveling. Perhaps friends. Perhaps sisters. Nothing suspicious. Nothing worth noting. They try to make the suitcases appear less cumbersome, less heavy. Andrée focuses on the imagined contents of the case: some light dresses and shoes. Not a wireless set. This part of the trip is far more dangerous because of their precious cargo.

On the platform, they don’t speak. Don’t stand too close—side by side but apart, gazing forward, waiting. When the train arrives, they board separately, meet in a compartment only after the train is moving. Even then, they keep conversation light, impersonal.

“Visiting Paris?” Suzanne asks, as if they’ve just met.