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The courier’s face is sympathetic. “I’m afraid so. The Militia is virulently antisemitic. They’ll be zealous in hunting Jews, perhaps more so than the Germans. They see it as cleansing France.”

Andrée’s hands ball into fists. Josie. They’re talking about hunting Josie. Hunting thousands like her.

“We will protect them,” Louis says firmly. “Whatever it takes. The Militia doesn’t change that. It just means we must be smarter, more careful.”

“There’s one more thing,” the courier says. “The Militia uses torture. Extensively. They’ve set up interrogation centers. If they catch any of you, they won’t just arrest you. They’ll torture you for information. Names, addresses, meeting places. Everything.”

The room is silent. Everyone knows what this means. If caught, they won’t just die. They’ll suffer. And they might break. Might give up others.

The courier shakes her head. “Continue to rely on what you’ve always relied on: silence, courage, and luck.”

She stands. “Colonel Pallas wanted you to know immediately. The Militia is the gravest threat we’ve faced yet. Not because they’re more brutal than the Germans, but because they’re French. They know us. They are us, but corrupted. Be careful. Trust no one you haven’t known for years. And remember: If you’re caught, hold out as long as you can. Even if you crack in the end, every hour you stay silent gives others an extra hour to escape.”

She leaves first, disappearing into the gray, foreboding afternoon.

For a long moment, no one speaks.

Félix breaks the silence. “French hunting French. God help us all.”

“God isn’t helping,” Dancer says bitterly. “We’re on our own. We’ve always been on our own.”

“No,” Tina says, her voice stronger than Andrée has heard it in weeks. “We have each other. That’s something. That’s everything.”

They begin to discuss practicalities. New meeting protocols. Perhaps they should change the time of their meeting each week. Afternoon one week, morning the next. This is rejected. Thursday afternoons provide the flimsy cover of Andrée’s piano lessons, as people come and go from the building. They are dependent on Maurice continuing to turn a blind eye to the number of visitors arriving at the apartment. It is worth the risk. Emergency escape routes. How to recognize infiltrators, extra precautions. It’s all necessary, all rational, of course, but Andrée feels an undercurrent of fear, feels it spreading throughout Paris and beyond. The Germans were the enemy. They were foreign. Other. Easy to hate. But the Militia? They’re countrymen. They’re neighbors, family, friends. The enemy isn’t just at the gates anymore. The enemy is inside the walls.

The meeting breaks up. Cat leaves first, then Agent, then Félix. Dancer lingers, pulls Andrée aside. She speaks quietly.

“Josie—you need to prepare her. If the Militia come, if there’s a raid, she needs to know what to do.”

“She’s eleven years old.”

“She still needs to know where to hide, how to stay silent. Think, Andrée, what will she say if she’s caught?” Dancer’s eyes are hard. “We know what these people can do. Better she’s prepared than innocent. I’m only thinking of Josie and what I intend to say to Philippe.”

Andrée nods, her throat tight. “You’re right. I’ll talk to her.”

“Good.” Dancer touches her arm. “We’re all at greater risk now. Take care of yourself. Take care of her. And if it comes to it, if you are forced to choose between saving her and saving yourself⁠—”

“I’ll save her, of course.”

“I know you will. Just making sure you know it too.” Dancer pulls her coat tighter. “The war just got harder. Stay sharp.”

When everyone is gone, Andrée turns the sign to open. Almost immediately, the bell above the door tinkles. Mme Charbonnier steps inside.

“So, you are open. I walked past a little while ago and the closed sign was up, the blinds down. But then I saw people leaving.”

A smirk, a hint of menace.

“Is there something I can help you with, madame?” Andrée asks, forcing a polite smile.

“No, not really. I was just passing and surprised to see you shut at this hour. I was worried that something had happened to you or your parents, or to that dear little girl living with you.”

Fearing the two women in his life might not be able to contain the anger welling inside them, Louis steps forward and addresses Mme Charbonnier, hoping she can’t sense his rage.

“As you can see, we are all fine. Thank you for your concern.”

“Oh, well, if there is nothing to worry about, I’ll be on my way.”

“Let me get the door for you.” Louis beats her to it, holding it open just enough for her to squeeze through. “Good day, madame.”