The streets were empty and no one bothered her as she made her way back to the church. Inside the main room, candles burned on the altar, and Eva bent to pray. It no longer mattered to her that the man with the kind, sad eyes hanging on the cross wasn’t supposed to mean anything to her. She knew now that they were all on the same side. She prayed for her mother and father; she prayed for Rémy; and she prayed for the strength to do the right thing, whatever that might be.

By the time she slipped into the hidden library and lit the lantern a half hour later, she felt a peace she hadn’t felt in ages. Maybe it was Madame Barbier’s words about saving France, or perhaps God was listening to her prayers after all and steering her in the right direction. She sat down to work, and perhaps because a weight had been lifted, the ink flowed more steadily, and the work went quickly. By midnight, she had completed three new sets of papers for the newest children to arrive in Aurignon.

It was too far past curfew to return to the boardinghouse now, and though Eva’s hands ached, her mind was still racing. She stood to stretch, and after pacing for a few minutes, she decided to head out into the church to say another prayer; it had calmed her earlier, and she knew she needed all the comfort she could get.

She had just cracked open the door from the secret library when she heard voices in the church. Her heart thudding, she melted back into the shadows. Who could be here this late at night? It was too dangerous now, though, to pull the door to the library closed. She was fairly confident, as the conversation continued, that no one had heard her emerge, but she might not be so lucky if she tried to retreat. She stayed stock-still and tried to breathe as shallowly as possible.

The voices—both male—were coming from across the church, and it took a minute for it to register that one of them belonged to Père Clément. She relaxed slightly; he had every right to be here, even if the timing was odd. The man with him could easily be another member of the Resistance or even a troubled parishioner who had come to seek God.

Just as she was breathing more normally, though, the man spoke again, and she stifled a gasp. The man’s accent was unmistakably German. Heart thudding, she crept forward, careful not to make a sound. There must be a logical explanation.

But when she finally peered over the edge of a pew near the library and saw Père Clément on the other side of the church, her blood ran cold. The person with him was a man around her age with gold, wavy hair and ruddy cheeks.

And he was wearing a Nazi uniform.

Eva put a hand over her mouth and retreated into the shadows. She couldn’t make a sound; if the men heard her, she’d be finished. Unless this meeting is innocent, she reminded herself. The German could have sought Père Clément out because he needed religious counsel Perhaps I’m jumping to conclusions.

But as she strained to make out the conversation, her last shreds of optimism vanished.

“They’ll be moving on the thirteenth,” the German was saying in a low voice, his words just barely distinguishable.

“That’s sooner than planned.” Père Clément’s voice was clearer.

“Yes. That’s why I’ve come. I need names.”

“And then what?”

“We’re expecting Schr?der or Krause to make an appearance early in the week.”

“So that’s it, then.”

“For now. You have the list?”

“Here it is.”

“I’ll do what I can.”

She heard rustling, and a few seconds later, footsteps. She scooted back a few more inches, trying to make herself invisible against the wall, but the sounds were retreating, moving toward the back of the church. She held her breath again until she’d heard the main door open and close. Père Clément must have exited with the German, for there were no returning footsteps. Heart pounding, Eva waited another two minutes before ducking back into the library and pulling the door quickly closed behind her. If Père Clément found her, she would act as if she’d been here all along.

Her hands shook as she sat down at the small table. Was Père Clément betraying them? Was he trading information with a Nazi? She replayed the conversation in her head and again heard the friendly tone between the two and the priest’s easy familiarity with the German names the soldier had mentioned. And clearly, he had handed over some kind of list. But what could this mean? Was Père Clément playing some sort of long game she didn’t understand? Or was she getting it all wrong?

Just then, there was a noise at the library door, and she gasped. As the door cracked open, she threw her arms and head down on the table and pretended that she’d fallen asleep in the middle of her work. Though she was still trembling, she forced herself to take long, slow breaths. As she felt a presence over her, she even faked a light snore, hoping that it would mask the fact that her hands were still shaking uncontrollably.

“Eva?” Père Clément spoke softly. “Eva, are you awake?”

Eva squeezed her eyes closed and prayed he would go away. He lingered there for a few more seconds before sighing and muttering something unintelligible, then she could hear footsteps retreating and the library door opening. She cracked open an eye just in time to see Père Clément, still in his priestly robe, disappearing back into the church as quietly as he’d come. He pulled the door closed behind him, leaving her in total darkness.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Eva didn’t dare stir or leave the library until dawn broke, and as she waited, exhaustion finally forced her into a strange half slumber filled with nightmares of monsters dressed as men.

When she finally let herself out just past eight in the morning, there was no sign of Père Clément, but she didn’t breathe easily until she had returned to the boardinghouse. Her mother was still in her nightgown and robe, taking her morning ersatz coffee in the parlor, and she looked up wearily as soon as Eva entered. “Night after night, I worry sick about you,” she said by way of greeting. “But I suppose that doesn’t matter to you, does it?”

Eva’s head pounded. “Mamusia, I can’t do this right now. I have to go find Joseph.”

Her mother brightened immediately. “Joseph? How lovely. Why don’t you invite him to dinner again? He’s handsome, he’s young, he’s single…”

“Please stop.”

“Don’t dismiss me so easily, Eva. He’s a good man—a good family man. Do you know he’s been coming by to check on me once a week?”

Eva stopped and stared at her. “He’s been doing what?”

Mamusia’s chest puffed out with pride. “He says I remind him of his own mother. He stays and prays with me, Eva, which is more than you do. You could learn something from him, you know. He’d be a wonderful son-in-law.”

“Mamusia, enough!”

“It’s just that you should think of him, Eva. You should be with someone like us.”

“Yes, well, isn’t that what the Nazis say, too, when they encourage their young people to band together against those who are different?” Eva knew she’d gone too far, but she couldn’t help it. Her mother lived in a world of black and white, and Eva knew that neither of those colors existed, not really; it was all a spectrum of gray.

Mamusia’s eyes narrowed. “It’s easy to dismiss me. But Joseph is someone you can trust. How can you turn your back on that?”

Eva sighed. “Please, Mamusia, you must stop trying to matchmake for me.”

Her mother frowned, but she didn’t say another word when Eva emerged from the bedroom ten minutes later after having changed clothes and splashed some water on her face. She merely waved goodbye with a small, encouraging smile, clearly hoping that Eva would take her advice.

Eva wasn’t sure where to find Joseph, though, and it wasn’t as if she could ask Père Clément. Nor could she go around town asking for Faucon. But, she realized, Madame Travere might have a way to reach him in case of emergency, and certainly she could be trusted. She’d been putting her life on the line for more than a year simply to save innocent children.

She knocked on the door of the children’s home twenty minutes later, and the silver-haired caregiver appeared almost instantly, cracking the door only a sliver as she peered out suspiciously. “What is it?” she snapped.

“It’s me, Eva Moreau.” Using her alias with people she trusted still felt disingenuous, even after all this time. Then again, if last night had shown her anything, it was that no one could be trusted at all.

Madame Travere pursed her lips, considering, and then she opened the door more widely to allow Eva in. “This is quite unusual, Mademoiselle Moreau. I’ve had no notice that you were coming.”

“I’m very sorry, madame. This is—an unusual situation. I need to reach Gérard Faucon, and I was wondering whether you might help me.”