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“It is,” Louis says. “A gift from a kind stranger. And we wanted to share it with you.”

“It’s a pear, isn’t it? I’ve never had a pear,” Philippe whispers.

Josie takes his hand. “I had them sometimes before . . . Anyway, they’re very sweet. And juicy. You’ll love it.”

Louis takes a knife, cuts the pear into six equal pieces with surgical precision. Each slice is perfect, identical. He distributes them solemnly, as if conducting a sacred ritual.

“Together,” Tina says.

They eat at the same time, all six of them biting into their pieces. The flavor explodes on Andrée’s tongue. She’d forgotten fruit could taste like this. Rich. Complex. Alive.

Philippe’s eyes close. A single tear runs down his cheek. “It’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

Josie eats hers slowly, making it last. When she’s done, she licks her fingers carefully, catching every drop of juice. No one teases her. They all understand. This moment is precious. This taste of normality, of sweetness, of something beyond rationing and occupation.

Once they’ve washed their hands, the children move to the piano at the far end of the room. Andrée hears Josie explaining to Philippe how to sit, how to support his wrists. “Like this, see? For curved fingers, not flat. Tata Andrée says to pretend you’re holding a small ball.”

Philippe tries, his hands awkward on the keys. A discord of notes. Josie laughs, not unkindly. “No, no. One at a time first. Like this.” She demonstrates, playing a simple scale. C major, ascending, descending. “Now you try.”

“I need to talk to you about something,” Dancer says quietly. “Something that happened last week.”

Louis and Tina exchange glances.

“Let’s move into the kitchen for a moment. We can chat while I make us a cup of coffee,” Louis says brightly, glancing at the children.

They move swiftly into the kitchen and stand in their usual spots out of habit. Louis stokes the fire.

“What is it?” Andrée asks.

“I transmitted intelligence for another network. Medical supplies, supposedly being dropped by the Red Cross. Coordinates in the Loire Valley, near Angers. Times, quantities, everything detailed.” She pauses. “The supplies never arrived. The operatives waited at the drop point, but nothing arrived.”

“Could it have been the wrong location?” Tina asks.

“No. They had the exact coordinates. But they weren’t the only ones there.” Dancer’s voice drops even lower. “The Germans were waiting for them. Two members were arrested.”

Andrée’s stomach drops. “The Germans knew about the drop.”

“Yes. Which means either the intelligence was false from the beginning, a trap, or someone informed. Either way, the area around Angers isn’t safe for drops anymore. We need to get word to London, and to Colonel Pallas. No more operations in that region until we know what happened.”

“I’ll tell the colonel,” Louis says. “He needs to warn other networks too.”

Dancer nods, but she’s not finished. Andrée can see it on her face.

“What else?” she asks.

Dancer looks at her hands. “London has offered me additional training. Physical training. Weapons training. They say operators should be able to defend themselves if caught. That we should be able to fight our way out if necessary.”

“And . . . ?” Tina prompts gently.

“And I don’t know what to do. Part of me wants to be able to do more, fight harder. I transmit intelligence, but I’m not . . . I’m not active in the way you all are. The way Cat is, or Andrée. I sit in my apartment and tap out messages. It doesn’t feel like enough.”

“It is enough,” Louis says firmly. “Dancer, what you do is vital. Without radio operators, we’re blind. We’re isolated. You connect us to London, to the Free French, to hope.”

“I know. I know all that. But the training would make me more useful.”

“Or dead,” Andrée says bluntly. “Radio operators who start doing fieldwork get noticed. You’re valuable because you’re invisible, Dancer. Because you’re careful.”

Dancer’s eyes flash. “I can be careful and trained. I can be invisible and armed.”