She hummed absently as she typed out the words to a formal letter announcing that Leo Traube of the rue Elzévir in Paris had in fact been born in Argentina and thus was exempt from German detention. He was, she wrote, to be released immediately. When she was finished typing, she duplicated the flourished signature of the real diplomat and then set to work with the black art pen, carefully copying the consulate’s letterhead.

Next came the stamps, red and blue, and she slid the old leather-bound volume of epistles and gospels across the table to hold down the paper while she worked. As she rendered the false stamps, her mind drifted as it often did when she created. She could feel the rhythm of her breath with every pen stroke, and as the stamps slowly materialized on the page, hope floated up within her. She was doing good work, and she knew it.

She was nearly done with the final stamp—a sun etched in blue—when the sound of a door opening snapped her out of her reverie. She jumped up with a gasp, clutching the false document. From the shadows between the shelves, a young man emerged, and Eva scrambled to grab the real Argentine letter, too. She stuffed it, as well as the false one, behind her into the stiff waistline of her skirt.

The man stared at her without saying anything. His hair was black, and his eyes looked green, or perhaps hazel, in the flickering lantern light. He was tan, square-jawed, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. His expression was impassive.

“Good evening, monsieur.” Eva was attempting to sound casual, innocent, but her voice cracked.

His face didn’t change as he crossed his arms, his eyes never leaving hers. “What are you doing here?”

Eva flashed him a nervous, fake smile and groped around on the table. “Just a little reading,” she said, holding up the leather-bound book.

“Epitres et Evangiles,” he said, tilting his head to read the spine. “Ah yes. Nothing like a two-hundred-year-old guide to the weekly mass to titillate the senses.”

Now she could feel her cheeks flaming. “Well, I’m very religious, you see. Père Clément said it was fine for me to be here.”

The man still hadn’t moved. “Yes, he’s very supportive of religious scholars like yourself.”

“Very.”

He stared at her for another long beat, and though Eva wanted to look away, she couldn’t. “I assume, then,” he said at last, “that you are the infamous Colette Fontain.”

Her heart skipped. Had Père Clément betrayed her after all? Or had it been Madame Barbier?

“You can stop looking like a rabbit in the headlights, mademoiselle,” the man said without waiting for an answer. “Père Clément told me all about you.”

Eva blinked at him and then looked down. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He took a step closer, and then another. He was so close now that she could feel the warmth of his breath on her forehead as she stared at her feet. “I think you do.” And then his arm was around her, almost an embrace, and she screamed. So this was it? He’d come to arrest her? Then he stepped back, and for a split second, she felt a surge of relief, but it was short-lived. Her whole body went cold as she realized he was holding the papers that she had attempted to stuff down her skirt.

“I—I can explain those,” she said.

“You really shouldn’t scream like that,” he said casually as he began to examine them. “People outside can hear you, you know. Do you really want to blow our cover?”

“Our… what?”

He looked up. “Our cover,” he repeated slowly, as if talking to a small child. “Surely you know that we need our privacy here. Père Clément said you seemed quite bright, but if you don’t understand that, he has oversold you.”

Who was this man? Should she try to run? She began to inch quietly toward the door.

“Where on earth are you going?” He looked puzzled.

She swallowed hard and retreated to her original spot. “Nowhere.” There had to be a different way. “Look, I just came across those papers, you see. They were sitting here when I arrived to read the gospels.”

“The epistles, you mean.”

“Yes, yes, of course.”

He looked back at the documents. “Well, you’ve missed an accent over the e in the consul’s signature. Otherwise, this is quite good. I’m impressed.” He looked up and handed the letters back to her as she gaped at him. “There’s just one problem. Your papers that say you’re Colette Fontain? I understand they’re quite good, and I commend you for that. But where did you get the name?”

“It’s—it’s my name, of course, monsieur.”

He waved her words away dismissively. “It’s late, mademoiselle. I’m clearly not here to harm you. I’m here to help. Identities pulled from the sky are perfectly fine in emergency situations that only involve travel. But if you plan to do anything more than boarding trains—such as, for instance, marching up to the gates of an internment camp and demanding the release of a prisoner—you’ll need papers that are more convincing.”

“I don’t know what you—”

“The authorities check identities against official records, you see,” he said, rolling right over her objections as if she hadn’t spoken. “Now, there are several ways to lift real identities. False demobilization papers are a favorite of mine because they’re so easy to forge, but that only works for military-aged men, and you’re a woman, of course. There’s not time to impose upon a real person to share her identity with you, and besides, this town is so small I’m not sure we’d find anyone who’s a good match anyhow. And personally, I find it distasteful to troll the graveyards in search of names and birthdates.” He seemed to be speaking almost to himself as she gaped at him. “But the Journal Officiel. Now, that’s the ticket, mademoiselle. It has saved us more than once.”

“The Journal Officiel?” She felt dazed as she followed his rapid-fire chain of thought. Of course she knew the newspaper, often called the JO, which recorded all official laws, decrees, and official declarations for the whole country, but what did that have to do with her?

“I bet you skip right over the sections for births, deaths, marriages, naturalizations, things of that nature. Am I right?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “Of course I am. Who has time for such dullness? Well, I’ll tell you, mademoiselle, I do. It’s a veritable treasure trove of identities just waiting to be borrowed.”

She blinked a few times as she finally understood what he was getting at. “You borrow real names from the JO for false documents.”

“You are bright.”

She glared at him. “So you’re a forger, then.”

He grinned. “Well, I prefer to think of myself as an artist—or sometimes simply a genius. But forger is fine if that’s easier to understand. Now, I’m told you’re good. Let’s see, shall we?” He turned to the shelf just to her left and removed several books. Behind the shelf, there was a false wall that concealed a compartment the size of a bread box. She stared as he removed a small handful of blank papers. He set them on the table in front of her before sliding the wooden panel closed again and moving the books back to cover it. “Blank documents,” he announced, nodding to the papers.

She looked down. Indeed, there were several identity cards and some loose sheets of paper. “But what—?”

He interrupted her again, his tone cheerful. “I’ve taken the liberty of choosing an identity for you. It can be tedious to go through the Journal Officiel, and, well, I hope it won’t offend you if I note that you look exhausted.”

Slowly, she shook her head.

“Marie Charpentier,” he said simply.

“Pardon?”

“Marie Charpentier. You really should be writing this down.” He waited patiently while, dazed, she picked up a pen and obediently jotted the name. “Middle name, Renée. Born the eleventh of February, 1921, in Paris. You’re a secretary. And you live in Paris, at number eighteen on the rue Visconti in the sixth arrondissement. Oh, and there’s a bus to Clermont-Ferrand that leaves the town square just past ten in the morning. Got it?”

She looked up at him. “But…”

“Good. You should be able to loosen the staples on your current photograph, and if you’re as good as Père Clément says, you should be able to work with the portion of the stamp that’s already printed there. Stamps are difficult, of course; there are so many in circulation, and I’ve only been able to engrave the most common ones, but I see you’ve made do. Impressive. In any case, we’ll get you some better documents when you return from Paris. And one more question, Mademoiselle Charpentier—I hope you don’t mind if I call you that. Have you much experience forging other documents?”

“I’ve—I’ve never done any of this before.”

He frowned. “Interesting. Well, do make sure to extinguish the lanterns on the way out, would you? You wouldn’t want to burn the church down.”

“I—” she began, but he was already heading for the door.

“Enjoy reading the epistles!” he said cheerfully, finally cracking a small smile.

Before she could reply, he was gone, shutting the door silently, leaving her alone with her racing thoughts. She stared after him and then looked back at her forged letter. It was indeed missing an accent mark, just as he’d said.

Chapter Ten