Chapter 12

Dear Anne,

I've written pages describing my days and been remiss in never once asking about yours. AM says your health is still up and down. I know how you hate to be dictated to, but please listen to the doctor's advice. Despite all our efforts, this war in Europe will be worse than the last. We'll need as many of the old guard as we can muster to build a new and stronger army of heroines to face what's coming...

T he road ran alongside the ice-covered Glomma River. Smoke rose from small farms nestled into the hills. A herd of shaggy cows huddled under a stand of birch trees. They met no traffic and, other than the smoke, there was no sign of life. Curtains were drawn. Yards were empty. A tractor stood snow-covered in a barnyard. It was as if the population of this little valley had simply vanished.

"It's damned eerie is what it is," Mr. Whitney muttered under his breath as he gripped the wheel while Bayard scanned the skies for planes. Twice now, they'd stopped the car at the sound of engines, a shadow of black crosses sliding over the snow. Daisy felt them along her bones and in her jaw like a dentist's drill.

If she closed her eyes, she was back in France—dashing along sodden roadways under splintered trees, past scarred and crumbled villages on her way to the French headquarters at Senlis through Chateau-Thierry and Belleau Wood, Rheims and Compiègne. But she wasn't in France. And this wasn't the last war. It was a disastrous new one, a scar barely healed over and now ripped open once again.

The Norwegians had set up their blockade at the perfect spot. Ribbons of barbed wire wrapped a stockade of newly cut logs stretching from a steep wooded hillside to the icy banks of the river. The soldiers who waved them to a stop were all painfully young, and all of them eager for any news she could give. They crowded around the car, rifles slung over broad shoulders, faces ruddy and wind-chapped, bright against the white of the uniforms.

Was it true three busloads of German soldiers had been driven over a cliff when their Norwegian drivers chose death over collaboration?

Had the king and Crown Prince Olav really hidden in the woods during a German air attack on their hotel?

Did the government really send military call-up notices through the mail?

Rumor and fact mingled, a painful reminder of the confusion sown by the Germans' rapid advance. Daisy had no answers to give, though she hated admitting it.

"We need to pass," Daisy said after explaining their situation.

An enormous oak tree of a man sporting a thick yellow beard stepped forward. He studied the Ford, the hillside, the river. Daisy could almost see the calculations going on behind his bright turquoise eyes. At last, he nodded. "Do you trust me?"

An odd question, but what choice did she have? "Implicitly."

His teeth gleamed from deep within his frosty facial hair before he turned to shout orders to his men. It took a moment for Daisy to comprehend the enormity of her trust.

The officer—Myre, his name turned out to be—beckoned her to follow, his hands in their gloves as large as dinner plates. "This way."

Together, they descended the hillside one treacherous step at a time. Along the edge of the river, the surface was frozen. Farther out, the current churned with ice floes and a flotsam of rotted logs and splintered branches.

Mr. Whitney and Lieutenant Bayard skirted the riverbank. She shuffled after them, Myre's meaty arm keeping her steady. That was when she heard the familiar roar of planes. She froze, feeling the push of adrenaline through her veins but no panic.

The noise grew louder, the sound drowning out the shouts of the soldiers slowly maneuvering the Ford down the hill.

"Almost there. One step at a time." The words, deeper in tone than even the planes' growl of engines, acted like a balm to her bruised eardrums. She gave a grim smile and allowed Myre to practically carry her around the barricade and back to the road.

The planes passed, one waggling his wings, but none of them made any move to attack. Were they headed to Nybergsund? Had the king's defiance put a bull's-eye on his back? Had the Germans decided it was preferable to kill a king they couldn't coerce?

She held her breath as the team of soldiers eased the Ford along the river's edge, the ice groaning and creaking under its weight.

"You are lucky it has been a cold winter," Myre remarked as the men, with much shouting and gesturing, hoisted and shoved the car back up the hill to the road on the far side of the barricade and began removing the chains from the tires.

An odd sort of luck, but true nonetheless.

The sun glittered over the snow, but the air was icy and carried a promise of a storm to come. A snow that would close roads, ground planes, snap telegraph and telephone wires. Slow the en emy. Play to the Norwegians' strengths , she thought as she glanced at the nearby line of skis sticking upright out of a snowbank.

"Be careful," he warned. "Word is that the bridge this side of Nybergsund has been bombed and the town is under attack. We are hoping for a British counterattack to relieve the pressure on our cities, but we have heard nothing."

There was a challenge in his gaze. Daisy felt scoured as if by an arctic wind. But since parting ways with Cecil Dormer and his wife in Elverum, she was as in the dark about British intentions as he was. "Is there anything I can do for you or your men to thank you for your help?" she asked.

"Could you get word to my wife in Oslo? Her name is Anna. If you could let her know I am alive and safe. There wasn't time before, you see."

Daisy started to prevaricate when she caught the desperate hope in his face. "I'll see she gets word of your situation."

He quickly found pencil and paper and scratched her address and phone number down.

Mr. Whitney leaned on the horn, chivying her along like a mother hen with a wayward chick. She frowned at the presumption and turned back to address her furry knight in shining armor, but he and his men had already slipped away, the trails of their skis disappearing into the trees.

T he little girl pointed to a chair.

" Stol ," Cleo answered.

The girl pointed to an oil portrait of two grim elders hanging on the wall.

"Bilde."

A table.

" Bord . Come on, something hard."

The girl sighed as she kicked at the legs of her stool. At last, she said, " Jeg er lei av ? l?re deg. Jeg skal leke med kattungen min. Ha det. " Then hopped off the stool and headed for the door without a backward glance.

"Wait a minute," Cleo complained. "I got goodbye , but the rest of what you said whizzed right over my head"—the door closed, leaving her talking to herself—" and she's off."

There was a muffled groan of pain quickly stifled. "She said she's bored with teaching you and wants to play with her kitten." The words were as raspy as dried leaves, but Cleo had never heard anything so beautiful in her life.

"Petra? You're awake!" She slid off the kitchen table and flung open the door the youngest Peterson had just closed. "Fru Peterson! She's awake," she shouted before turning back to Petra, whose eyes remained bleary and half closed, bruised hollows within a face white as chalk. "Golly, you had us worried. Can I fix your pillow? Are you warm enough? Maybe a glass of water?"

Petra closed her eyes. "You can stop shouting. My head feels like a soft-boiled egg."

Fru Peterson bustled in to fix a deliciously smelling bowl of something from the stove, which she tried offering Petra. "I'm sorry. I am not very hungry."

Fru Peterson reluctantly set the bowl to the side with a frown. "My husband will be here soon with the doctor and have you up on your feet in no time."

Cleo caught a hint of something in the woman's gaze that worried her. "Can you come with me, ma'am? There's something in the parlor I want to show you," she said with a pointed look.

Out of earshot, Cleo practically pinned Fru Peterson against the wall. "Why would you say that about the doctor when we know Elverum's been bombed to smithereens and the hospital, if it's still standing, will be overrun with wounded?"

"Because in her case, hope is the only medicine I can offer."

Fru Peterson's expression frightened Cleo. She slid a hand across a chair back before gripping it tight to stop the downward spin of her fear. If she didn't acknowledge it, it wasn't real. "Tell me the truth—how long until you think Miss Kristiansen will be well enough to travel?"

Fru Peterson glanced over her shoulder to the kitchen. "I don't know."

Cleo tiptoed back in to find Petra lying quietly, her eyes closed. Her hair was fanned out on her pillow and her hands were crossed over her chest. Like a corpse ready for burial. Cleo touched her shoulder, praying she wouldn't be cold. Petra's eyes flew open, her pupils dilated, giving her gaze an oddly haunted look in her gray face.

Cleo exhaled on a muttered curse. "I thought you were dead."

A smile tipped Petra's mouth. "Not yet."

Cleo pulled up a chair. "Come on, then. Eat up. Fru Peterson says this is the best thing for invalids. Puts hair on your chest."

"Are you never serious?"

"You'd be surprised how serious I can get, but humor staves off the panic—usually."

"Is there a reason to panic?"

"Says the woman who was blown up."

Petra consented to a sip of the broth, but her heart clearly wasn't in it. "You know what I would love right now? Cloudberries."

"Sounds like something out of a child's story."

"They grow in the wild. We go out every August and pick them. We have a spot that only our family knows about. My father guards it like a state secret. Mother makes jam with what we don't eat straight off the stem." After a few bites, Petra pushed away the bowl. "I can't eat any more."

"You've barely eaten enough for a bird, but I'll let you sleep."

"No." Petra grabbed Cleo's wrist, her grip frighteningly weak. "Please stay. I do not want to sleep anymore. Not yet. I can continue your lessons."

"You'll soon be as bored as Katye Peterson."

"I'll risk it."

"Now you're laughing at me."

"As you say, humor staves off the panic." As if she'd said more than she wished, Petra fell silent, fiddling with a loose thread on her quilt. But only for a moment before she composed herself, courage locked into place. "I am surprised you would be interested in learning Norwegian."

"I figure it's good to know more than yes , no , and thank you ."

"I have heard you speak—and listen," Petra replied. "You know far more than that."

Cleo leaned close. "Don't tell Katye. She'll realize I'm not a prodigy."

"But you have other languages. I have heard you."

"I've always felt it was good to know what people are saying about you in as many languages as possible."

"I expect that made it easier to search for Mr. Kominski."

"Easier to ask the questions, but the answers didn't come, no matter what language I spoke. They still haven't."

"Do you believe he is still alive?"

In the early days, Cleo would have answered immediately and with certainty. She'd have shoved aside her doubts as useless and unhelpful. But now, how to answer Petra? Once she could have sworn she'd sensed his presence, that she had only to close her eyes and he was there. She had only to follow that feeling like an unspooling thread and he would be there at the end of it. She'd not had that feeling in weeks. When she closed her eyes, there was only the roar of flames and a fading voice on the wind. Did that mean he was dead? Or did that mean the doubts had won, and she was giving up?

"I don't know what to believe anymore" was Cleo's answer. "The more I go over my time with Micky, the less I feel I really knew him. Maybe if I had a photograph to remind me, but all I have left is this necklace he bought me for Christmas." She ran a finger over the cheap pink costume diamond nested within its encircling faux-ruby setting. She smiled when she saw Petra's distaste. "It's hideous, I know. But he was so proud when he gave it to me. All smiles and excitement. How can I get rid of it?"

"It is hard to lose the people we love."

"Bayard told me about your sister."

"Sofia has always been the brave one, the strong one. If she decides she wants it, there's no stopping her." Petra's eyes fluttered closed, her breathing shallow and even, her last words barely more than a whisper. "Like someone else I know."

Dear Anne,

Forty miles has turned into what feels like four hundred as we seek to reach the village of Nybergsund. I'm reminded of the last time I felt as if a vast conspiracy of diplomacy was ranged against me—1919 Paris as we struggled and fought to birth Wilson's promise of a League of Nations. At least then I was younger, the company was exhilarating, and the dining sublime. Sadly, I can't claim any of those benefits this time around. It's been a packet of crackers, a thermos of weak coffee, and a pair of grumbling men for companions. Their grumbling has not improved despite my attempts to lighten our situation with amusing anecdotes. How can anyone not be cheered by my story of being trapped in a corner table at Henri's and inadvertently eavesdropping on the Prince of Wales's conversation because I was too embarrassed to squeeze past him? You would have laughed, Anne. In fact, I believe you did when I relayed that story to you right after it happened...

D aisy closed her diary, bookmarking her letter to Anne. She'd no idea when, or indeed if, her letters would get through to her sister-in-law. Would they come to her one at a time in a trickle of overdue mail or all at once in a deluge of airmail envelopes? Either way, the act of writing down her observations and experiences helped to cement them in her own mind. The way Mr. Whitney tapped the steering wheel as he drove, a repetitive Morse code mixture of boredom and frustration. The frequent stops as they were passed from roadblock to roadblock, with little new information to show for it, but a growing list of scribbled names and hasty messages for wives, mothers, and sweethearts.

All is well.

I am safe.

Hope to be home soon.

Every message a pin stuck in a map between Elverum and Nybergsund. But like her letters to Anne, she had no idea when or if they would ever be delivered.

The bearded soldier's warning proved to be inaccurate. The bridge into the village was intact, though the road to either side was churned and cratered, debris filling the icy ditches and scattered over the roadway so that Mr. Whitney had to slow the Ford to avoid damaging the undercarriage. They crept across, every bump causing Daisy to twitch as if the span might collapse under them at any moment, but they made it without mishap and were soon in the village—or what was left of it.

Mr. Whitney flagged down a man sifting through the ruins. Gray dust coated his face and hair, making his age impossible to guess. His coat hung loose, and he wore a pair of slippers as if he'd flung on the first clothes to hand when the bombing started.

Daisy rolled the window down. "Excuse me. We're looking for someone in charge. I believe members of His Majesty's cabinet arrived in the last day or so."

The man paused, his hand clutching a leather-bound book singed at the edges, the pages glued together in a soggy mess. He eyed the car and the American flag with confusion. "Who are you?"

"This is Mrs. Harriman, the US minister to Norway," Mr. Whitney jumped in before she could answer.

The man combed a hand through his hair before eyeing his fingers as if surprised they were still attached to his hand. "Why should I believe you?"

"Why would we lie?" Mr. Whitney replied, his voice rising as he fought back his irritation. "Who else would be flying the damn Stars and Stripes?"

"Nazis lie. They killed my little girl as she crossed the street here. You could be a Nazi." He turned back to the wreckage of timber and brick. "What danger was she to anybody?"

"Look here . . ."

"Enough, Mr. Whitney." Daisy's tone brooked no argument. She'd not intrude on this father's grief. "We'll find someone else to ask."

They stopped more than once, but no one knew where to find the Norwegian government. No one knew what direction the king and his son had traveled. No one knew who was in charge. Or if they did, they were keeping it close to the vest. Mistrust and skepticism had become the village's watchwords. Best to remain silent. Invisible.

Nybergsund was no more, and its inhabitants, all but ghosts.

Snow had started falling again, and the afternoon light was uncertain. Mr. Whitney started his infernal tapping. "We're not getting anywhere with these people. Maybe we should go west—back the way we came."

"Back to Elverum?" Bayard asked.

"Back to Oslo. We can ask the Germans for safe passage."

"I have a duty to report on the situation," Daisy said. "Washington needs to know what's happening on the ground."

"Fine, but there's nothing to report. And we don't know what's happening." Mr. Whitney's volume rose as his temper frayed. "We can't even get anyone to talk to us."

Daisy could feel Lieutenant Bayard bristling, but Mr. Whitney had a point and a lifetime of serving in diplomatic posts around the world. What were they accomplishing driving in endless circles?

"You know I'm right, Lieutenant." Mr. Whitney pressed his advantage. "Miss Kristiansen's already been hurt. How long do you think an American flag and God's luck will keep us safe?"

"So we just give up and run back to the capital with our tail between our legs?" Bayard fired back.

Daisy intervened before it came to blows. "Enough. Both of you. I can't hear myself think with the bickering."

They mumbled apologies, but it was obvious the argument hadn't ended, merely been put on hold. "We have to face facts, ma'am," Mr. Whitney said, replacing his driver's cap with his vice consul's seniority, wielding the gravitas of a career man who'd studied diplomacy like a science. "The Norwegian government and its royal family have left Nybergsund, and we've no way of following. Our best option is to return to Oslo, where we can regroup and consult with Mr. Cox and the rest of the foreign service officials about our next steps."

Daisy felt herself folding under the logic of his arguments. In Oslo, she might be able to reestablish contact with Washington, Stockholm, and Berlin. She might be able to look upon the situation with more than just rumors to direct her actions. And once she had a grasp of events on the ground, she might have a better view toward her next move.

Might.

She glanced at Lieutenant Bayard, but this was her decision to make.

"It's dangerous out here. We've seen it firsthand," Mr. Whitney added. "Continuing on is risky, with no guarantee of success. No one would blame you for calling it quits and turning back, ma'am."

Wouldn't they? Her insides squirmed just imagining the pitying reactions when she turned up back at the legation. "Thank you for your thorough read of our situation, Mr. Whitney. Now, if you'll just turn the car around, we can get moving."

"Back to Oslo, ma'am?" he asked a little too smugly.

Three roads led out of Nybergsund, any one of which could have been taken by the king and his cabinet. Had he gone north toward Lillehammer and Sjusj?en, where the US legations' families waited in relative safety? East into Sweden? No matter his desperation, His Majesty had made it clear he had no intention of slipping over the border to give the Germans a propaganda win. South? What would be the point? He would be driving straight into the German armies swarming up to press the Norwegian forces against the border.

With no way of knowing where the Norwegian king and cabinet were hiding, she had no way to complete her mission of supplying Washington with information. So, if she couldn't fulfill her duty, perhaps she could fulfill her promise.

"Ma'am?" It was Lieutenant Bayard, his expression concerned as he hunched deeper into his coat.

She smiled, suddenly sure of her decision. "We're going to find the crown princess."