Two

Hélène

Words had power.

Hélène Bélanger's gaze lingered on the paper plastered to the wall, clean and white against the old stonework, its message in stark, black letters.

à bas les Boches.

Down with the Germans.

The recently applied poster hadn't yet been pulled down by the Nazi forces who had occupied the Free Zone of France six months prior. She shouldn't even be looking at the note, but could not tear her gaze away. Not when it made her heart pound harder with the need to do something.

The tract would likely be torn off soon and a new one would be put up in its place; a show of defiance against their oppressors.

The Resistance—brave men and women who rose against the German occupiers—made their presence known throughout Lyon, bold and without fear.

A finger of icy air slid down the collar of Hélène's coat and a shiver rattled through her. The chill of the overcast April evening would have scarcely been felt in years before, but the limited food within the city whittled away at her body, leaving sharp bones protruding from what had once been supple curves. The Nazis did not suffer such deprivation. On the contrary, they dined lavishly on food stolen from the mouths of hungry families and consumed endless amounts of wine looted from French cellars. All for their rapacious pleasure.

She turned away from the wall and strode briskly down Rue Sala, the wooden soles of her shoes clacking against the cobblestones. The mostly empty streets and the heavy gray clouds overhead did not help the sense of dread knotting her stomach.

Her shopping basket held only a few knobby Jerusalem artichokes rolling about the braided wicker bottom. The yellow-flowered plants were once vegetation used for livestock, yet now the tubers of those weeds kept the people of France alive, replacing fats and meats that were almost impossible to find anymore.

She'd hoped to acquire some bread but arrived too late. All the stale goods had been sold with only the fresh loaves available on the back wall that could not be purchased until the following day. How she longed for the times when she could buy a loaf still hot from the oven. But that was before the ration laws demanded bakers sell bread no less than twenty-four hours old. Not only did the hardened loaf cut into precise slices for easier ration measurement, but it also kept the French from devouring their food too swiftly. Or so the officials said.

Not that any of that mattered. For the first time in years, Hélène's empty stomach did not cramp with hunger. This time, her insides twisted and clenched with anxiety for who awaited her at the small apartment on Rue du Plat.

Or rather who did not await her.

Joseph.

Two days and one night had passed since their argument, the worst one yet. Words had power, and she'd turned the full brunt of them against her husband in her anger.

He was a man who fought and sacrificed in the Great War, who turned to pacifism after what he'd seen amid the Battle of Verdun, whose brilliant mind for chemistry caught her attention when she'd been a girl fresh out of secretary school.

Now she kept her gaze averted from a smear of pale, chalky blue against the wall near their apartment. It had once been a V—victoire,an additional mark of French opposition to the Nazis and a promise that eventually the Resistance would have their victory. That V hastily marked across the ragged stone had been put there by her own hand and had been the catalyst for the fight. Her fingers still recalled the dry grip of the brittle blue chalk she often kept in her purse.

The act was trite, but all she could allow herself when Joseph guarded her every move.

He had caught her midway through, his usually serene expression darkened with ire. The disagreement began as soon as they returned to their apartment, and it was then she had used the harshest of words upon her own husband.

The argument erupted in a blinding flare of their combined frustrations. He had scolded her for not being a proper Vichy wife—the type of Frenchwoman who was a mother and a housewife, obeying the orders of her husband—the type of woman she had never been. The type of woman he had never expected her to be. What's more, Vichy was the regime that worked with the Nazis who she longed to oppose. The vile suggestion had been more than she could bear. In her rage, she called his refusal to join the Resistance cowardice.

He had not been home since.

Except Joseph was not a petty man. Of the two of them, she was the one who leaned heavily on her temper, who was too impulsive. Whatever kept him from returning home was not simply malcontent.

Each attempt to see Etienne, his closest friend, had been in vain as her visits to his flat went unanswered. She considered going to the police, but knew they worked closely with the Gestapo, men who were cold and cruel and likely to be of little help.

If Joseph was not back by dawn the following day, however, desperation would draw her to the police, no matter the risk.

The massive wooden doors of her apartment building came into view, and she pushed inside to the courtyard. All was quiet within.

A quick stop by their letterbox revealed it to be empty and devoid of any clues as to Joseph's whereabouts. The sense of unease in her gut tightened further still as she tried to suppress the hope that he would be home.

She trudged up the stairs to the fourth floor and to the narrow apartment that Joseph's parents left him when his mother passed away several years before the war. Though Hélène and Joseph were in Paris at the time, he kept his childhood home with the intent to use it for holidays. They did so several times. One summer in particular, they explored the winding streets during the day and stayed out late in the evening, drinking wine along the Rh?ne as the warm July air cooled. Lucky for them, the apartment was a place of refuge when the Germans marched into Paris. With so many fleeing to Lyon in those days, such accommodations would have been impossible to find otherwise.

Joseph hadn't wanted to flee the City of Light when they were all warned to go, loathe to abandon his students and his work. But he had left everything in Paris for her, to keep her safe. That had been three years ago, back when their marriage had been happy.

She unlocked the door and pushed inside to reveal a dark, empty entryway.

"Joseph?"

Though she expected no answer, a sense of despair washed over her when none came. He really was gone.

But where? And when would he finally return?

The sky darkened as the imposed curfew neared. Each second dragged into a minute in her interminable wait for Joseph to come home. Hélène was preparing to retire early, yielding to the exhaustion of a heavy heart and an empty belly when a soft knock sounded at the front door.

Surely Joseph wouldn't knock. Unless, of course, he didn't have his key.

She ran to the entryway with such haste, the floorboards barely creaked underfoot. But it was not her husband who stood on the other side of the door. A woman with blond hair similar to her own regarded Hélène warily with wide dark eyes.

The blood in Hélène's veins turned to ice at the appearance of a stranger. She nearly slammed the door when the woman put her hand to the glossy wooden surface to keep it from closing.

"Pierre." She whispered so quietly, Hélène could hardly make out the name.

"Is he here?" the woman continued in her almost silent tone. "Please, I must see him." The glance she cast behind held an edge of paranoia.

Exactly the kind of thing a neighbor like Madame Arnaud was liable to notice.

Hélène waved the woman in to prevent her from speaking further. While Hélène knew no one named Pierre, the woman was obviously in danger.

Which meant Hélène was now also in danger.

But somehow, she could not turn away the woman. Not when Joseph had so mysteriously gone missing. Not when a niggling at the back of Hélène's brain suggested this might all be related.

The stranger hesitated a moment before stepping over the threshold. Her brown coat was dappled with raindrops from the evening drizzle, and the hem of a dark maroon dress fell past her knees. While her garments appeared to be clean and in good condition, her black shoes were scuffed beyond repair.

Only when the door clicked closed did the stranger speak again. "Please, I must see Pierre. I know I should not have come here, but I did not have any other choice."

Hélène shook her head. "I know no Pierre, but perhaps I can help. What's happened?"

The woman's eyes went wider still at Hélène's admission, and she backed up toward the door.

"Is it the police?" Hélène pressed in a low voice. "The Gestapo?"

Her own heart pounded at the risk she was taking. This woman could be a collaborator like Madame Arnaud across the hall, who monitored everyone like a beady-eyed predator and always commented about Hélène having no children. But then, few possessed the fecundity of Madame Arnaud with her eight sons. A proper Vichy wife to be sure.

If the stranger was indeed a collaborator, Hélène would surely be turned in for having asked about danger from the Gestapo.

The woman's desperate gaze scanned the apartment behind Hélène, like she was seeking something urgent. "I need papers."

Hélène frowned. "I don't have any papers here."

"An identity card, a new one. I was told Pierre..." Tears swam in the woman's eyes and her face crumpled. "I escaped the roundup several months ago on Rue Sainte-Catherine and have been in hiding since, but every place I go is found out. I need new papers. Ones that don't have this."

Hands shaking, she presented her identity card, declaring her to be Claudine Goldstein with a red stamp at the top. JUIF. Jew.

Hélène knew immediately of the roundup to which Claudine referred. Every Tuesday, beleaguered Jews lined up for food and medical attention, the oppression of their people reducing them to practically beg for their survival. It was on that day when the Union Générale des Israélites de France was allowed to offer them kindness and compassion that the Gestapo chose to attack, arresting everyone within the organization as well as those who had shown up for aid. Her heart burned with the injustice then, and the fire renewed itself now with a white-hot intensity.

Questions fired through Hélène's mind, all ones she knew the woman would not answer: Where had she been hiding? Where was she going now?

"Forgive me, but I do not know a Pierre," Hélène replied through the heavy, painful sensation pulling at her chest.

Despondency fell over Claudine's face, smoothing her features with a resigned apathy. "I cannot run any longer. If I do not have papers, I will be sent away like all the others." She blinked, and a tear trailed silently down her cheek.

She wasn't incorrect, and the fire burning within Hélène roared to life.

"Take mine." Hélène grabbed her handbag and withdrew her neatly folded papers from its depths. Not only did she include her identity card, but also her food and clothing rations. After all, they were tied to her name. Without her identity card, everything else was useless to Hélène. And perhaps that bit of sustenance and new garments might in some way help Claudine in her escape.

The woman's mouth fell open. "Yours? But how—"

"We look similar, and we are the same height," Hélène said, pushing the folded bunch into Claudine's hand.

Still the woman refused to curl her fingers around the precious papers. "What will you do?"

Hélène ignored the question, not wishing to think of the consequences. "I am not at risk as you are."

And Claudine was very much at risk. Far too many Jews had been packed into trains and never seen again—families, innocent children, it was more than Hélène could bear and why she fought her husband so vigorously for the chance to join the Resistance. Now she was in a position where she could actually help, and she would not turn away from the opportunity.

"Please." Hélène held the papers against Claudine's palm until the woman's fingers reluctantly closed around them.

"The curfew will begin soon," Hélène said. "Stay here until morning."

But Claudine shook her head. "I cannot put you at further risk, not after..." Her voice caught, and she lifted the identity card and ration coupons. "This."

Hélène wanted to argue, but Claudine was already moving toward the door, whispering her thanks in a profuse rush of gratitude.

But Hélène could not accept her thanks. It was the least any French citizen could do for the Jews who the Nazis so openly and maliciously persecuted. The memory of Lucie rose in her thoughts.

The only woman Hélène had befriended in Lyon, when they waited in a bread line one rainy afternoon. Lucie had an umbrella and offered to share. While the weather had been gray and cold, Lucie's sunny disposition more than made up for it. Like Hélène, Lucie did not have children either. Rather than allow others' opinions of her to annoy her as they did Hélène, Lucie waived their censure off with cheerful indifference.

She always saw the light in the world, no matter how dark it became.

It was her brilliance that helped Hélène through so many of those hard days when hunger began to set in, when curfew restrictions edged into their daily comfort and when one couldn't leave their house without a large wallet full of ration coupons and an identity card.

That was, until Lucie and her husband disappeared in the night, their apartment ransacked and cleared of its valuables. Hélène had been helpless to do anything to aid her friend despite the countless attempts to find her whereabouts. It was around the same time Joseph refused to allow her to engage in any Resistant activity, which rendered her impotent. The outrage had remained with her, simmering.

At least now, Hélène had done something.

She closed the door behind Claudine, and once more Hélène was swallowed up by the apartment's empty silence.

The repercussions of her decision woke her in the early hours of dawn while the rest of Lyon was still asleep. The curfew had come and gone and still Joseph had not returned.

Only now, she could not go to the police to inquire as to his whereabouts. No one would speak to her without first seeing her identity card, and if she reported the papers as lost, they would be on the lookout for a thief. If Claudine was caught with what would then be assumed stolen papers...

No, going to the police was no longer an option.

A glance in the kitchen confirmed only a heel of bread remained, along with the few Jerusalem artichokes Hélène had managed to find the day before. Such limited stores would not be sufficient to get by.

Her stomach, deprived of even a meager supper the night before, gave a low growl of hunger. The food would not last the day, let alone long enough for her to come up with a viable solution.

She would have to go to Etienne once more and see if this time he might be home, for there was no one else she knew well enough to trust for help. Their current world was a lonely one, where people had to be careful what they said, what they did, and with whom they were acquainted. Theirs was a world of enemies, where the occupiers wielded submachine guns and fear while the French had only their empty shopping baskets and the power of forbidden words.

Realizing it would be better to wait until the streets were cluttered with people to avoid arousing suspicion, Hélène boiled the Jerusalem artichokes and ate them with the small heel of bread. Once the sun began to rise, she drew her shopping basket from the shelf along with her handbag, as she would any ordinary day, and left the apartment. She was seldom stopped for her papers and likely would not be troubled that day either. She needed only to act normal.

However, acting normal with one's heart pounding was a very difficult feat. Initially she walked too fast, the clack of her shoes obvious even to her own ears. She slowed her pace and kept her gaze forward, intent on her purpose in the hopes that she would not be stopped.

She was close to Etienne's apartment in Croix-Rousse where the streets pitched upward on an incline so steep, that she had to slow down to keep her breath from coming out in great huffs. A fresh smattering of papers lined one wall declaring Viva de Gaulle! Long live de Gaulle, the man who encouraged them all to resist the oppression of the Germans.

A Nazi officer rounded the corner, several feet from Hélène. The rising morning sun reflected off his highly polished black boots and winked at a medal pinned to his chest. His gaze sharpened as he caught sight of the tracts.

With a click of each booted heel on the cobblestones, he strode to the wall and yanked down one of the papers. The illegal note tore off in uneven strips, so only the top came free, and the message clung stubbornly, fully intact. He pulled again, this time succeeding in tearing the words so only a partial "le" remained.

He spun around, his jaw locked. "You. Stop." A white-haired man at his right did as he was bade.

"Papers," the officer ordered.

The man fished in his jacket pocket, his movements hindered by the arthritic curl of his fingers as he attempted to withdraw his identity card.

Hélène could be next. If she were caught without her papers, she would have to admit they were lost. She turned the next corner to avoid the irate officer lest she be looked to next. Her heart thudded in her chest with such rapidity that she found breathing suddenly difficult. But she forced herself to keep walking, her steps measured to match those around her.

"Halt." The voice rang out from behind her.

She continued at her smooth stride.

"Madam," the guard said in a harsh voice. "Halt."

The area was unfortunately absent of women, leaving her his only victim. Three men on the other side of the street looked at her from where they stood, mute with the relief not to be the Nazi's target. In another time, they would have been at her aid, armed with French gallantry and good intentions.

Hélène turned to face the officer. He thrust his hand out, palm up. "Papers."

She tried to swallow but found her throat too dry. Her handbag felt unnaturally light where it hung on her shoulder, the tangible weight of the papers she'd given away poignantly absent.

"Of course." She kept her reply casual as she rummaged through her purse. Sweat prickled at her palms despite the damp, cold day.

The officer flexed his hand. "Now."

"Pardon."She continued to rifle through nonexistent items at the bottom of her empty handbag. "I cannot seem to find them."

Many of the Germans who paraded through Lyon did not speak much French. She hoped this was the case now. An inability to communicate might be her saving grace.

The gray of the officer's eyes was like cold metal. "You do not have them?" he asked in perfect French.

Her stomach dropped. "I thought I did." She lifted her shoulders in a delicate shrug and tried a pretty smile.

His expression did not soften. "You do not have your papers?"

Rather than acknowledge she did not, she turned her attention to her handbag once more and began to rummage. His hand shot out and caught her arm in a steely grip that pinched her skin.

She cried out in surprise. Her gaze flicked to the three men on the other side of the street in time to see them scuttle away, leaving no witnesses.

Cowards.

"If you do not have your papers, you are under arrest," the German said in his immaculate French.

"Elaine," a voice called out.

Hélène and the officer both looked to the breathless man jogging toward them, holding an identity card aloft.

Etienne.

"Elaine," he chided. "You have left this at home yet again." To the Nazi, he gave an easy, apologetic smile. "Women are more concerned about how they look when they leave the house than they are about having all their necessary papers."

The Nazi officer gave him an irritated glower and held out his free hand for the papers Etienne extended toward him.

Hélène inwardly cringed, waiting to see what the officer would do to her when he realized it was not her identity card he had been given. The Nazi flicked the cover open one-handed, revealing an identity card for a woman named Elaine Rousseau whose picture was indeed Hélène.

She fought to keep her face impassive.

How did Etienne have such a thing in his possession?

All at once, the officer released her, folded the identity card closed with an audible snap and thrust it back toward Etienne. "Look after your errant wife better. She was almost arrested for her folly."

"Oui, monsieur."Etienne accepted the papers with a nod and put his arm around Hélène. She slowly released the breath she had been holding, grateful for Etienne's strength. His hold steadied her as her knees seemed to wobble with how close she had come to being caught, to them realizing her papers were gone. To them looking for Claudine.

The officer turned on his heel and marched back around the corner the way he had come, shouting orders at someone to tear the remainder of the Resistance tracts from the wall.

Etienne spat on the ground where the Nazi had stood and turned to Hélène. "Did he hurt you?"

The place on her arm still burned from where the man had mercilessly restrained her, but she had not been arrested. Claudine would not be found out. That was all that mattered. Hélène shook her head. "I'm fine."

"Where are your papers?" Etienne asked.

"Where did you get that?" She indicated the small book between his fingers.

"We cannot talk here." He led her up to his fifth-floor apartment, one smaller than her own.

It was not customary for a bachelor to entertain and so she had not been inside his home before. She stood awkwardly now in the middle of the common living space as she took in the sparsely furnished room. The open area housed not only a tired green couch that sagged at its center, but also a circular kitchen table beside a narrow oven. Another door was visible to the right, which was most likely his bedchamber. No curtains hung from the windows, and no art lined the stained walls. The shutters were mostly closed, casting the room in shadows.

There was a lingering odor of cigarettes and chicory coffee hanging in the stagnant air.

He folded one of the shutters back, their subtle clacks as loud as gunshots as he let in a stream of light to cut through the darkness. "Here, sit."

In a single motion, he swept his arm over the table, clearing away crumbs and an open newspaper that crumpled to the ground. She resisted the urge to retrieve the fallen print and properly fold it to set aside. Instead, she lowered herself to the hard wooden chair, grateful for its sturdiness as she recovered from the fear of what could have happened had Etienne not arrived when he did.

She would have been caught. Claudine as well. And Joseph...?

"Do you know where my husband is?" she asked, pressing her hands together to still their shaking.

Etienne went to the stovetop and poured out two cups of steaming light brown liquid made of roasted barley and chicory. While the brew didn't possess the fortifying effects of a strong cup of coffee, it would be welcome against her dry throat. He handed her a mug, which she wrapped her icy fingers around.

"Where are your papers?" He held out a box of saccharine tablets, the inadequate replacement for sugar these days.

She declined.

Shrugging, he dropped one into his cup with a plunk that sounded overloud in the quiet stretching between them. With a nonchalant air, he sat back in his chair, his brows lifted in expectation of an answer.

She blew at a tendril of steam curling up from her coffee and took a careful sip, uncertain how to respond.

Etienne and Joseph were as close as brothers with Etienne two years younger, having lied about his age in order to be accepted into the military during the Great War. And yet she still could not help but wonder if he could indeed be trusted.

Reaching into his jacket pocket, he withdrew the identity card and opened it on the table, revealing her picture and the name Elaine Rousseau. "We both have secrets." His blunt pointer finger rested on the document and slid it toward her.

"I gave my identity card away." She straightened and looked him in the eye. "To a woman who needed it more than I."

"Claudine," he surmised and then pursed his lips, as if wishing he could take back having said her name.

Hélène took a sip of her chicory coffee to cover her surprise. "Is she a friend of yours?"

"She is a woman in need. That is all you should know." He withdrew a rolled cigarette from a case and lit it. The odor of burning grass filled the space between them, the acrid smoke stinging her eyes and nose.

Its pungency was one she ought to be used to, as the Frenchmen resorted to smoking anything they could dry and wrap in a bit of paper when tobacco was so scarce.

"Who is Pierre?"

Etienne's face remained blank, but Hélène wasn't fooled. "Who is he?" She set her cup down but did not unwrap her hands from its welcome heat. "I want to know what is happening. I want to know who Pierre is and what he has to do with my husband's disappearance. I want to know where Joseph is." Her voice shook as she failed to quell the rise of her emotions.

Her husband's closest friend looked down at the table, mute as his right foot began to bounce with anxious energy, his foul cigarette burning to brittle ash between his fingers.

"You cannot go back to being Hélène," he said finally.

"I know that," she said in a measured tone that did little to conceal her irritation. "Where did you get this?" She picked up the false identity papers. "From Pierre?" The precious pages trembled in her grasp.

Etienne's dark brows furrowed. "You will have to leave your home if your name does not match its location," he prevaricated.

His leg continued to jog, and his mug on the table rattled with the disturbance.

She released the papers and her drink as she clapped her hand over the cup in front of him, so it went silent. "What is happening? Where is my husband?" Her gaze bore into his bloodshot eyes, and she noticed a bruise under the shadow of his unshaved jaw. There was a slight cut over one eyebrow as well. "Etienne."

His leg stopped jostling. "Joseph has been arrested." Etienne swallowed. "For political reasons."

"Political reasons?" Her world spun around her. Joseph had been arrested. And she no longer even had her identity card to go to the police and do what she could to demand his release. "Is he..." She could hardly form the words. They felt too hypocritical after all the months of arguing. After everything he demanded of her and everything he forbade her from doing.

After she had called him a coward for turning his back on his country.

"Is he with the Resistance?" she asked. "Is he Pierre?"

Etienne took a drag off his cigarette. The tip glowed red and as he breathed out a gust of acrid smoke, his nod was almost imperceptible.

In that moment, Hélène's world flipped on its axis. All the times Joseph had claimed the Resistance did nothing, all the ways he had restricted her. And he had been working with them the entire time. The warning prickle of impending tears burned in her eyes, but she clenched her hands until the sensation passed.

Dealing with her emotions would come later. Now was for questions.

Her gaze fell on the identity card as she considered the picture. The dress was dark, its color obscured by the black-and-white print. But she recognized the scalloped edges of the V-shaped neckline so popular then. The garment was a deep, luxurious green and still hung in her wardrobe back home. When she'd worn it last, Joseph had told her she looked beautiful and had insisted on taking her picture.

It was silly to stand there in her apartment for a photograph with only the blank wall behind her, which was why her lips were lightly lifted at the corners in an unsure smile. Now she understood. Joseph hadn't taken the photo for a memory; he'd done it to make a false identity card. She only needed Etienne to confirm her suspicions.

Picking up the identity card, she held it toward him. "Did Joseph make this?"

"In case something happened." Etienne sighed in capitulation. "To protect you. I couldn't bring it to you until the Bosche released me."

Her gaze shot back to Etienne's bruised jaw. To the cut on his brow. He had been beaten. They would do the same to Joseph.

Pain tightened in her chest for her husband whose years as a battle-ready soldier ended long before they had met.

He had been injured by shrapnel in Verdun. He'd talked about it with her only once before, how the bomb had killed most of the men around him with the exception of himself and Etienne. Joseph had been struck in the leg. Evidence of the trauma was still visible where the skin gnarled beside his knee and curled around the back of his calf, leaving him with a slight limp.

Etienne had walked away from that battle unscathed, but then he had always been lucky. Even now, he sat before her while Joseph remained imprisoned.

"Why did they release you, but not him?" she demanded.

A fatigued look deepened the creases of his brow, and his stare drifted despondently into the void. "I am lucky." His tone was flat as he stubbed out his cigarette.

"When will he be released?"

Etienne shook his head as his attention refocused on her. "We do not imagine he will be held much longer."

"We," she repeated. "The Resistance."

He nodded.

There was a confidence to his words that eased some of the tension from her shoulders. There were people looking out for Joseph. And perhaps she could help.

"I want to join the Resistance," she said.

"No."

She stared hard at Etienne, refusing to back down, tired of always being told no by Joseph. All these months of being so eager to throw herself into the effort against their occupiers and all these months he had proclaimed the Resistance to be useless. Instead, he had insisted she remain home, to wait in interminable queues and perform feats of impossibility in the kitchen with their mean food rations.

The inability to do her part against the Nazis now felt like a betrayal. Like she was not good enough to join the men and women in their brave fight.

She would not be told no now, not when her efforts might aid Joseph to freedom sooner.

"I cannot go back to my own name," she said. "You have also mentioned I cannot remain in my home."

Etienne's dark eyes narrowed.

"I want to be part of the Resistance," she said again. "I want to help Joseph."

A muscle worked in his jaw. "Joseph doesn't want you involved."

"I'm well aware," she said through gritted teeth.

"It is dangerous work." Etienne rose from the small table, bumping it in his haste. Without looking at her, he turned to the sink to rinse his cup.

"I don't care," Hélène countered. "I'll do anything to end this occupation, to free our soldiers and my own husband. To stop the degradation of our country and the disgusting treatment against the Jews."

An unexpected smile lifted the corners of his mouth. "Joseph said you'd say that." Still, he tilted his head. "He will never forgive me."

"I don't care about that either."

At that, Etienne gave a mischievous laugh. "My friend was right in all his fears about you, madame. How fortunate for you that I've always been one who seeks forgiveness rather than permission."

She gaped at him. "Do you mean...?"

Etienne extended a hand to her and folded his long, warm fingers against hers. "Elaine Rousseau, welcome to the Resistance."