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“And she’s your aunt?”

“Not like a relative. Like I said, she and Grand-Mère have been friends since they were little girls. I call her Tata Sophie because I love her like family. That’s what you should call her too.”

“Of course. I can’t wait to meet her, as long as her piano is working,” she exclaims, her excitement now brimming over. “And she lives in the forest?”

“Right on the edge of the forest.”

With the heat continuing unabated, Andrée has arranged to take Josie to see Sophie at Barbizon. It’s a risk, but, they agree, no greater than staying where they are. The child will get some fresh air and sunshine, and the food will be slightly better. Louis is home safe; her activities can wait. The network understands her need to take care of this child.

“When was the last time you stayed with her?”

“Four years ago. Before the Germans came. When we were . . .”

“Free?”

“Yes. When we were free.”

“Are you two going to hurry up, or would you rather miss your train?” Tina interrupts them, handing Andrée a small bag with cheese and bread for their journey.

Josie runs to the piano, runs her hands over the keys. “I’ll be back soon,” she promises, before closing the lid.

Louis emerges from the bedroom with their small suitcase.

“Travel light, travel safe. That’s what I told your mother when she was young, Andrée. Now I’m telling you both.”

“We’ll be careful, Papa. A week in Barbizon. Fresh air. The forest. Josie needs this. We both do.”

“I know. Just . . . be vigilant. Even outside Paris, the Germans are everywhere. The Militia are everywhere. Don’t talk to strangers. Don’t draw attention. Keep your papers at the top of your bag for easy and quick access.”

“We’ll be invisible,” Andrée promises. “Two girls on holiday. Nothing suspicious. Nothing worth noting.”

Tina embraces them both. “Send word when you arrive. And Josie . . .”

“Yes, Grand-Mère?”

“Play that piano every day. Don’t forget to practice just because you’re on holiday.”

Josie laughs. “I won’t. I promise.”

The train to Fontainebleau takes an hour. Then a local bus to Barbizon, another twenty minutes through countryside that feels impossibly green after the gray stone of Paris. Josie presses her face to the window, watching fields and woodland slide past.

“It’s so beautiful,” she breathes.

“Wait until you see Tata Sophie’s house. You can walk for hours and never see another person.”

“Is that safe?”

“Safer than Paris. Fewer Germans so fewer eyes watching. Out here, people mind their own business. As long as we’re careful, we’ll be fine.”

Barbizon is a small village, perhaps three hundred people, clustered around a main street. Artists’ studios, a church, a bakery, a café. And beyond it all, the forest, ancient, vast, mysterious.

Tata Sophie’s house sits at the end of a narrow lane. Stone walls, blue shutters, a garden bursting with summer flowers. The door opens before they even knock.

“Andrée! Oh, my dear girl!”

Sophie, small and wiry, with her graying hair pinned up and eyes that sparkle with intelligence and mischief, is waiting at the open door. She embraces Andrée, then turns to Josie.

“And this must be Joséphine. Tina wrote to me about you. Welcome, child. Welcome to my home.”