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Louis shows her the sketches. She studies them carefully. “Impressive. Thorough. Tell me: How do you plan to get this information out of Saint-Nazaire?”

“We’ll carry it. Hide it in our luggage. The papers authorizing our visit also authorize our departure.”

“And if they search your luggage at a checkpoint?”

Louis and René exchange a glance. What other option do they have?

Sister Bernadette sighs. “Luckily for you, I have a courier system. Young women, nuns in training, who travel regularly between Saint-Nazaire and Paris. They carry correspondence, church documents, religious materials. The Germans barely glance at them. I’ll have one of my sisters carry your intelligence. She’ll deliver it to whatever address you give me.”

“Sister, that’s . . .”

“Risky? Yes. But less risky than you two carrying sketches of military installations through a German checkpoint. Trust me, gentlemen, I’ve been doing this for two years. I know how to get stuff out of Saint-Nazaire. You focus on gathering it. I’ll handle the delivery.”

Louis feels relief wash through him.

“Thank you. Truly. My apartment is a safe-drop zone; I’ll write the address down for you.”

“Thank me when you’re safely back in Paris. Now, eat. Rest. Tomorrow, we do it all again. Different route, different areas, more observations. We have two more days to gather everything London needs. Let’s make every minute count.”

As the door closes, René sighs. “I really do want to marry her.”

That evening, in Paris, Josie lies awake. She gets up, pads softly to the piano, and sits down. She doesn’t turn on the lamp but merely lets the darkness fold around her shoulders.

Then she plays quietly, her fingers barely pressing the keys. “Clair de Lune.” The piece that always comforts her. The first proper piece that Andrée taught her. The piece that sounds like moonlight on water, like safety, like home.

Tina hears the music from her bedroom. She gets up and goes to the living room and sits beside Josie.

“Can’t sleep?”

“I’m worried about Grand-Père.”

“So am I, ma petite. So am I.”

“Will he come home?”

“Yes. He’ll come home. He promised me, and your Grand-Père always keeps his promises.”

“Maman promised she’d come back for me. Papa promised he’d keep us safe. They couldn’t keep those promises. Sometimes promises break, Grand-Mère. Sometimes people don’t come home.”

Tina pulls her close. “You’re right. Sometimes promises break. Sometimes people don’t come home. But we must believe they will. Because if we stop believing, if we stop hoping, then the Germans will have already won. Do you understand?”

“I think so.”

“Good. Now play for me. Play something that makes you feel less sad.”

Josie thinks, then begins to play. Bach. The Minuet in G major. The one she played for Philippe. A piece that’s light and happy and full of possibility.

Tina listens, and in the darkness she prays. Not to God, not after everything that’s happened. But to something. To fate or to luck. Or to whatever force governs survival and return.

Bring him home. Bring Louis home. Let this child who has lost so much keep her Grand-Père. Let me keep my husband. Please. Please.

The music continues, filling the apartment, for a short while, with the fervent belief that all will be well.

Two days later, Louis and René board the train back to Paris. Sister Bernadette stands on the platform, waving cheerfully, looking for all the world like an aunt seeing off visiting relatives.

“Safe travels, gentlemen! Do come visit again!”

Louis waves back, feeling ridiculous and grateful in equal measure. Their intelligence is already on its way to Paris, carried by a young nun named Sister Marie who left yesterday evening.