Chapter 10

C leo woke to the smell of burnt toast the next morning. Or maybe it was burnt coffee. Or maybe the house was on fire. At this point, nothing would astonish her. She rose slowly, but her soreness was gone and all that was left was a lingering stiffness in her joints and an itch where her skin healed under the thick bandage.

The influx of refugees arriving after last night's attack meant they no longer had the guesthouse to themselves. An insurance adjuster, a man who sold appliance parts, and a grocery delivery driver took up residence in the parlor, a blank-faced family of four whose house had its roof blown off sat in silence around the dining room table, and the queue for the lavatory was at least five deep.

Cleo found her way to the kitchen, where Bayard toasted bread to go with the tin of sardines Petra was forking onto a plate.

"There's our wounded warrior," he proclaimed. "You've had quite an adventure."

Petra pursed her lips in irritation and turned back to her task, her movements quick and angry.

If Cleo thought they'd come to a détente, she'd been mistaken.

She found a chipped mug in a cupboard and reached around Bayard for the pot of coffee on the stove. This close, she could see a spot on his cheek that his razor had missed and smell his scent of aftershave and diesel fuel. She chalked up the heat steaming along her skin to the paraffin stove. That had to be it. She could be accused of a lot of things but stealing another woman's man wasn't one of them.

"Doesn't seem like the adventure's over yet." Leaning against the counter, she cupped the steaming mug, hoping it hid the flush in her cheeks. "Have you seen Aunt Daisy this morning?"

"She's trying to get through to Stockholm. Not sure if she's having much success though. Telephone service is spotty at best."

"What do you expect?" Petra snapped, slamming her plate down. "The Germans are everywhere."

Bayard's shoulders inched higher, his grip on the toasting fork tightening. He kicked out a chair and sat down at the table with his plate of sardines and toast. "Eat up. We need to get on the road as soon as we can."

"What's the rush? If you hadn't noticed, it's a little dangerous out there."

"You should have thought of that before you decided to treat this war like a child's game and nearly got yourself killed." Petra's words hit like a slap, and Cleo felt herself taking a step back as if she'd been physically assaulted. "If you only did what you were told. You're just like—"

"Enough!" Bayard's sharp response was unexpected. He played the diplomat so well that catching a glimpse of the soldier came as a surprise.

Cleo played it off with one of her patented smiles and a toss of her curls. "It's all right. Miss Kristiansen knows how us grasshoppers like to play." She finished her coffee, setting her mug in the sink. "I'll be waiting at the car whenever the rest of you are ready to go."

As soon as she left the kitchen, she could hear their voices quiet and quick. Hardly the murmur of lovers. This was an argument conducted in whispers.

She'd assumed Petra would be overjoyed to see the lieutenant swoop in out of the shadows. Instead she'd been prickly around him since his arrival as if he was a stranger or as if he was someone she wished was a stranger. It didn't make sense. Mr. Whitney wasn't much better. Rather than being relieved at having another man to share the responsibility of getting the US minister safely through a war zone, he seemed put out by the lieutenant, and as the night wore on, the two of them started to remind Cleo of two cockerels in the same coop.

Only Aunt Daisy had been genuinely happy to see Bayard, though in a rather official way, pulling him aside for a full debriefing that lasted into the small hours of the morning. Cleo had fallen asleep to their quiet voices in a nearby room, weirdly at peace in a way she hadn't been since Oslo.

She wandered outside to where Mr. Whitney readied the Ford. Two cans of gasoline sat by the trunk beside a box of supplies while he secured the American flag to the roof with rope. "I heard the Norwegians watched the Germans marching into Oslo with smiles on their faces."

"Then you heard wrong," Cleo answered, feeling her temper flare at the sneer in his tone. "They were in shock, same as you'd be if you saw foreign soldiers marching up Pennsylvania Avenue. But they weren't smiling. And they sure as hell weren't welcoming them."

" You sure didn't." He bent to offer her a cigarette. "You put a bullet in one of them. Right between the eyes. Must have been quite a fight."

She inhaled, feeling the burn down her airways before the nicotine loosened her lungs, which in turn loosened her body. She leaned against the car, trying not to notice the dents and pockmarks in the paint from last night's attack. "Yeah, that was just what it was."

"I wonder if the minister will be including that little nugget in her official report to Stockholm. I wouldn't think so, would you?"

Cleo looked up, but he had already tossed his cigarette away and was back to loading the car.

T hey drove slowly over the bridge and through the town of Elverum—or what was left of it after last night's attack. Barely a building remained except for the hospital. Bricks and lathing lay scattered in grotesque piles. Here a pipe leading nowhere. There a sofa, still smoldering in a street. Flames licked at a burned-out bus. Men and women salvaged what belongings they could from the ruins, packing them into crowded cars or onto the backs of flatbed trucks.

Petra was as white as the handkerchief she gripped in her hand, but her eyes burned hard and bright, and there was a ferocity to her silence that made Cleo cringe. Aunt Daisy, on the other hand, regarded her surroundings with studied concentration as she filed and counted and memorized. Every broken building. Every displaced civilian.

Bayard and Mr. Whitney, crushed into the front seat of the Ford together, were the only two who seemed unmoved by the destruction. Or perhaps it was only that they were already so focused on their own animosity, there was no space left for anything else.

Was it merely a pissing match between two men jockeying for favor with their boss, or was there something more? Something to do with that crack Mr. Whitney had made about Aunt Daisy's reporting to Stockholm?

Once or twice, Cleo caught Whitney watching her in the rear view mirror, but whenever she tried to catch his eye, his gaze slid back to the road, and she was left with a growing knot in her stomach.

"Shit," Bayard breathed as Mr. Whitney dropped the car into first gear to creep around the bloodied carcass of a dead horse, its flanks riddled with machine gun bullets.

In a nearby field, more dead horses lay where they'd fallen, their blood staining the churned snow. Not plow horses or shaggy-coated cart ponies, these were cavalry mounts from the cadet school. Destroyed as if they were any other piece of military equipment to be put out of commission. Five. Eight. Twelve. Cleo stopped counting.

A lifelong equestrian, Aunt Daisy twisted her face in sorrow. "What a waste."

Leaving Elverum behind, they took the road north, but soon came to a roadblock. Backtracking, they tried a side road that passed beneath a shattered forest of pines but were stopped by the ruins of a bridge. Whether destroyed by Germans or Norwegians, it was impossible to tell.

"Now what, ma'am?" Mr. Whitney asked.

"If we can't go north, we go south and see if there's a detour."

With Bayard manning the map, Whitney turned the Ford around, wheels spinning and sliding in the ice, his driving experience the only thing keeping them out of drifts and ditches. But the roads in every direction were impassible, either by snow or by barricades of wire and felled trees. As the hours passed, the windows fogged with their breath while they shared a package of crackers Bayard found in his kit. A low afternoon sun reflected off the snow and shone in every mud puddle. They'd been driving all day and still hadn't made it farther than a few miles from Elverum.

"I suppose the one consolation is that if we can't get through, neither can the German army," Aunt Daisy offered up as once again they were forced to stop, the bridge ahead lying in concrete chunks ten feet below the roadway.

Whitney backed the car up to take a narrow lane they'd spotted a few miles back. But as he jammed the car into reverse, the rear end fishtailed, sending them into a snowbank. He shoved it into first then into reverse then into first again, hoping to rock the car out, but they were stuck fast, the wheels spinning until gray smoke rose from the muffler to mix with the thickening shadows. Bayard got out to push, but the snow was too deep and the car too heavy.

"Blast," Aunt Daisy muttered. "It's already getting dark."

Petra heard them first, her head lifting like a hound catching the scent. The rest of them fell silent and still at the now-familiar sound of airplane engines. Bayard shaded his eyes as he followed their path. "They're heading for Elverum again."

Aunt Daisy kicked angrily at a tire. "Maybe there's a farm farther along this lane. Someone with a tractor or a plow horse to pull us free."

"I'll go, ma'am." Bayard was already pulling on his overcoat, settling his cap.

"Not you. Whitney can go. He can take Miss Kristiansen with him. She can translate if need be."

"I know Norwegian," Bayard argued.

"Maybe so, but your accent is appalling. We don't need someone mistaking you for a German and blasting a hole through you." She raked Mr. Whitney with a scowl. "Well? What are you waiting for?"

"Yes, ma'am." He pulled on his gloves and wrapped his scarf tighter against the dropping temperature before grabbing a flashlight. As he switched it on, his gaze caught and held Cleo's. This was her chance to get him alone and find out what he intended. Maybe she could persuade him to forget he heard about what she'd done in Oslo.

"I'll go." She ignored the damp seeping over the cuff of her boots and planted her tam firmly over her ears.

"No, Cleo." Aunt Daisy's voice was hard, the boss not the relative in her tone. "I asked that Miss Kristiansen—"

"We won't be long." Ignoring the order, Cleo stepped out ahead of the flashlight beam, pushing through the snow. "I'm sure I saw lights nearby." She gave a final wave. "Come on, Mr. Whitney. Keep up."

"Clementine Verquin!" Aunt Daisy shouted that wretched horrible humiliating name as if it would make Cleo listen.

She smiled into her pulled-up collar. It never had before.

C leo slipped and sloshed up the rutted lane in Mr. Whitney's sullen company, her socks and stockings clinging to her frozen toes, her nose running with the cold. He offered her a hand over a slippery patch of ice—so not a complete jerk. She thought about ignoring his gesture but then her feet nearly slid out from under her, and she grabbed him by the forearm. He chuckled under his breath but didn't let her fall.

Now that she was alone with him, she wasn't sure what she planned to say or do. Plead her case? Defend Aunt Daisy?

Maybe she was wrong. Maybe there had been no hidden threat behind his words. Maybe she was imagining things. Jumping at shadows. Feeling guilty. But there had been something in his tone that worried her. Something that set the hairs at the back of her neck to tingling. She'd had that same feeling the day Micky left their apartment. The sense that something was not quite right. She'd ignored it once. She wouldn't do it again.

"Look, I think we got off on the wrong foot," she said, working up the courage.

Mr. Whitney grunted, swinging his flashlight up, the light falling on the vague shadows of a farmyard, sheds and barns secured against the night, a snug steep-roofed farmhouse with a lamp in the window. It reminded Cleo of Christmas cards or a Currier and Ives scene—minus the bombs and soldiers, of course.

"Keep quiet and do as I say," he growled. "Got it?"

An argument simmered in her chest, but she swallowed it back. Antagonizing was not the way to win him over. She nodded as he banged on the door, setting off a ferocious barking inside. "Hello? Anybody home?"

Not a sound came from inside except for the dog's continued growls and snarls.

"Maybe they think you're a German soldier trying to get one over on them," she offered. "Let me try." Before he could argue, she banged on the door. "Hello? I'm American. A-mer-i-can. I'm friendly. En venn ." She peered in through a curtained window. "En venn!"

After a long minute, there was a latch thrown and the faint squeak of hinges. A figure peeked through the crack. He held a large knife in his hand. Mr. Whitney backed up. Cleo smiled broadly with her hands raised and palms open to show she was unarmed. "How do you do? I'm Cleo Jaffray. I'm awfully sorry to bother you so late, but our car is stuck, and we hoped you might be able to help us get it out." She racked her brain for the right words. " En bil ... um... en bil . An automobile." She mimed driving. "Snow. Trapped in the snow." She made screeching sounds and thumped her hands against the doorframe to illustrate being trapped, all while trying to ignore Mr. Whitney's chuckles. " Nei... nei g? . No go." Where was Einar when she needed him? "We're stuck. Can you help?" She ended her performance with another broad, guileless smile.

It must have worked. The door opened wider, and they were ushered into a cozy front parlor. Three children sat on the rug by the fire playing a board game while a middle-aged woman with streaks of gray in her brown hair knitted to the sound of the radio. Cleo smiled and offered thanks in every language she could think of while the man of the house pulled on his coat, gloves, and hat; gathered a lamp; and explained the situation to his family.

"What are you people doing on the roads?" he asked in perfect English, shutting the door firmly behind him. "Don't you know there's a war on?"

Mr. Whitney gave a bark of brittle laughter while Cleo jogged to keep up. "We're on our way to Nybergsund actually. You wouldn't happen to know the best way to get there, would you? Only our driver"—she shot a hard look over her shoulder—"can't seem to find a way through the roadblocks."

"Hang on. It's not my fault," Mr. Whitney sputtered.

"Nybergsund?" The farmer shouldered open the heavy barn door and led them inside, where the air smelled sweetly of manure and hay. A sleepy cow eyed them from her byre while chickens rustled and murmured from their roosts. "What do you want there?"

Mr. Whitney stammered an answer as Cleo replied smoothly, "We were hoping to catch up with some friends, but then this horrid business with Germany started, and we're afraid we're going to miss them. We're in a dreadful rush."

Mr. Whitney cleared his throat as if to warn her she might be laying on the posh a smear too thick. What did he know? She'd survived for months on charm, finishing-school polish, and, when necessary, wide-eyed ditziness. If it worked, why change?

The farmer led an enormous, deep-chested draft out of his stall and snapped him into the crossties. The horse shook its shaggy head as the farmer moved quickly to harness him. Cleo scratched the big bay behind one ear and inhaled the sweet, dusty aroma of horse.

"There's a way." The last harness buckle secured, he grabbed a coiled length of heavy rope, which he handed off to Mr. Whitney before unsnapping the horse and leading him outside, where it stamped and puffed in the slush and mud. "Or was. Not sure how things stand these days."

They started back up the lane, but by now night had fallen and there was only Mr. Whitney's flashlight to see by. Above, stars mixed with snowflakes. Cleo's breath came in puffs and a stitch pinched at her sore ribs. "I don't remember it taking this long. Could we have missed a turn?"

Mr. Whitney paused to look around, swinging the light up over the trees. "A plane. Can you hear it?"

It was barely a growl over the wind and the creak of the trees, but the horse shifted in a jingle of buckles, and Mr. Whitney doused his light, plunging them into invisibility. The sound grew louder. The plane passed overhead, fire trailing from its left engine as it struggled to stay aloft.

The farmer spat a few words in Norwegian that were clearly meant as an insult.

When the plane disappeared behind the tree line, the farmer tugged his horse forward as they resumed their trudge through the snow, falling thicker and faster now. They'd gone only a few steps when the ground shook and the sky exploded, silhouetting the trees in flame, lighting Mr. Whitney's face with an eerie glow and reflecting in the horse's wild eyes as it tossed its head and sidestepped in fear. The farmer controlled him with a sharp jerk on the lead while Cleo soothed him with a stream of nonsense that had always worked on her hunter back home.

A car horn sounded. Three quick blasts followed by three long ones then three more quick. Cleo's heart stopped. "SOS! Aunt Daisy's in trouble."