She had seen him two streets ago, too, and now, as she turned another corner, she hurried into a doorway and held her breath, wondering if he’d follow. If he did, it was too much to be a coincidence, for what Aurignon resident would need to wind methodically up and down the spidery lanes in the same pattern as she? If he didn’t, she needed to rein in her runaway imagination.

The seconds ticked by. No trench-coat-wearing man. Stop making everyone out to be a German boogeyman, Eva, she chided herself. As she stepped out from the doorway, rolling her eyes at herself, she was just in time to collide with the man as he made a quick turn around the building. She gasped and stumbled backward.

“Oh, excuse me,” he said quickly, his voice deep and muffled as he ducked his face further into his lapels.

Eva’s heart raced. He didn’t sound German, at least. He was perhaps in his mid-forties, with sandy hair, a narrow, pointed nose, and thick eyebrows. Was he a French policeman, tailing her because Madame Barbier had raised the alarm? But if he was, wouldn’t he simply demand to see her papers? As her mind spun quickly through the possibilities, she decided that the best thing to do was confront him. Certainly his limp would slow him down if she needed to run. “Are you following me?” she demanded. She had hoped to sound tough, but she could hear the quiver in her voice.

“What?” the man took a step back, his lapels still covering the lower half of his face. “No, of course not. Excuse me, mademoiselle. Good day.” He hurried on, limping away from her, and she watched him, wondering if he would glance back. He didn’t, and when he vanished around a bend in the road, she let herself relax a bit. Perhaps she’d been wrong.

Still, the encounter had unsettled her, so she walked more quickly as she scanned the shop windows. The feeling of peace was gone, and now Aurignon seemed as sinister as anywhere else.

It took her another fifteen minutes before she found a small bookstore and papeterie that had a display case of ink pens near the window. She ducked in, hoping that they also stocked art pens. Inside, she closed her eyes for a second and breathed in deeply, the familiar scents of paper, leather, and binding glue transporting her back to her beloved Sorbonne library in Paris. Would she ever walk once more among its books, bask in its silence, revel in being surrounded by so many words and so much knowledge? Would Paris one day be hers again?

“Mademoiselle? May I help you?” The old woman behind the counter was peering at her with a blend of concern and suspicion when Eva opened her eyes.

“I’m sorry.” Eva could feel heat rising to her cheeks. “I—I was just thinking how much I love being surrounded by books.” The words had sounded strange, and Eva’s blush deepened.

But the woman didn’t look put off. In fact, she smiled, her doubt melting away. “Ah. I should have known. You’re one of us.”

“Pardon?”

“You’re someone who finds herself in the pages,” the woman clarified, gesturing to the shelves all around. They were stacked high and haphazardly, reminding Eva of the layout of the town itself, chaotic but beautiful yet the same. “Someone who sees her reflection in the words.”

“Oh, well, I suppose I am,” Eva said, and suddenly she felt peaceful. She wanted to stay here all day, but there was work to be done.

“Can I help you find something?” the woman asked, following Eva’s gaze as it roamed over the shelves. “If you’re in need of some guidance, I know every book in this place.”

“I—I wish I could buy one,” Eva said. “But I only have a bit of money, and I need to purchase some pens.”

“Pens?”

Eva nodded and explained what she needed, and though the woman looked disappointed that Eva didn’t want to discuss books, she went into the back of the store and returned with three art pens in black, red, and blue. “Is this what you’re looking for?”

“Oh yes.” Eva reached for them, but the woman withdrew, her expression more guarded now.

“What do you need them for? You’re an artist?”

“Er, yes.”

“And here I had you pegged as a book lover.”

“I was. I mean I am.” Eva inhaled the familiar scents again and sighed. “I—I worked for a time at a library in Paris.”

“In Paris?”

Immediately, Eva realized she had made a mistake. Why was she telling the real details of her personal life to a stranger? “Well, I just—” Eva began as the woman turned to shuffle through one of the shelves behind her.

“You must miss it. My son lived there, too, before he was killed. Paris was a magical place indeed, until the Germans arrived.”

“Yes. It was,” Eva said softly. “And I’m sorry about your son.”

“Thank you. He was a good man.” The woman turned and held out a book before Eva could ask anything more, and after a moment’s hesitation, Eva took it and looked at the cover. It was Guy de Maupassant’s Bel Ami. “This one takes place in Paris,” the woman said.

“Yes, I’ve read it,” Eva said, puzzled. “It’s about a man who seduces practically everyone in the city.”

The woman laughed. “Indeed. When it comes to books, the saucier, the better, don’t you think?” Her eyes twinkled. “In any case, I thought perhaps you might be missing your home.”

“There’s not much to miss about Paris these days.” Again, Eva worried she’d said too much.

The woman nodded. “I imagine that must be the case, but this tells of a Paris long before the Germans got their hands on it, dear. Please, take it. Consider it a gift with the purchase of your pens.”

“But—” Eva was thrown by the kindness of this stranger. “Why?”

“Because books bring us to another time and place,” the woman said as she handed over Eva’s pens and accepted the francs Eva gave her. “And you look as if you need that.”

Eva smiled. “I don’t know how to thank you, madame.”

“You can thank me by staying safe, dear.”

As Eva walked out of the store and headed back to the boardinghouse, she scanned the streets for any sign of the limping man with the trench coat, and wondered how the woman in the bookstore had known that Eva needed all the wishes of safety she could get.

* * *

Eva spent the rest of the day and evening working on her father’s false papers and practicing her hand at drawing stamps on the pages of a newspaper she’d found sitting in the parlor of the boardinghouse. She would burn it in the morning. When Madame Barbier knocked on the door and announced brusquely that it was dinnertime in case Eva and her mother wanted some, Eva and her mother took a brief break to silently inhale some potato soup served in the dining room. Eva fell asleep at the desk in her small room sometime after midnight, still holding the blue pen in her hand.

Something jolted Eva out of her slumber just after dawn, and she lifted her head from the desktop with a start, blinking into the dim room, which was just beginning to come alive with traces of sunlight. In the bed behind her, her mother slept soundly. On the desk where she’d been working lay the newspaper filled with false stamps, now damp with Eva’s drool.

Just as she was wondering what had woken her up, there was a soft knock on the door, and Eva froze. Who could possibly be outside their room so early in the morning? Had Madame Barbier come to collect payment already?

She quickly shoved the newspaper into a desk drawer and hid the pens and her father’s documents under the mattress. Her mother didn’t stir. Eva knew she had to answer the door, for if it was Madame Barbier, she would be suspicious if no one responded. And who else could it be? After all, if the authorities were here, they wouldn’t knock politely; they’d surely hammer at the door and break it down if it wasn’t answered immediately. Reassured that there likely wasn’t imminent danger lurking on the other side, Eva opened the door a crack and peered out into the dark hall.

It took a half second for her eyes to adjust to the dim lighting, and another for her to realize to her horror that it wasn’t Madame Barbier there at all. It was the man who’d been following her around town, the tall, thin man with the trench coat and limp.

Eva gasped, stifled a scream, and tried to slam the door on him, but he wedged his foot into the opening at lightning speed. “Please, Mademoiselle Fontain,” he said quickly. “I mean no harm.”

Eva shoved the door in vain. Her heart hammered. He had called her Mademoiselle Fontain, which meant that Madame Barbier had betrayed her, for who else could have given him her false name?

“What do you want?” she demanded. He began to speak, but she cut him off. “If you take a step closer, I’ll scream.”

She was suddenly acutely conscious that her mother, who could sleep through anything, was still in the room behind her.

“Mademoiselle, please. There’s no need for that, I promise. I’m a friend.”

“Friends don’t tail me through town and show up unannounced before dawn,” Eva shot back.

“Actually, I waited until after dawn, you’ll notice.” There was laughter in his eyes, and Eva was struck by the fact that he looked kind, which was unexpected. Without his lapels pulled up to cover his face, she could see the rest of his features—a clean-shaven chin, a wide mouth, a childlike dimple on the right side. He looked younger than he had yesterday, not as menacing. A gold cross sparkled at his neck, just above the collar of his shirt.