The Directress’s expression was grim. “I received a letter from the university library in Strasbourg. Monsieur Wickersham wrote that he and Madame Kuhlmann packed and evacuated 250 crates of books.”

“War is coming.” There was a catch in the Countess’s voice.

Strasbourg was dangerously close to Germany. Librarians had moved books to safety when politicians hadn’t said anything about evacuating people?

“The crates were shipped to the Puy-de-D?me region,” Miss Reeder said. “We need to plan ahead, too.”

Was the Southwest safer than Strasbourg? Safer than Paris?

“I’ll take our finer things to my country house. Young Seeger’s papers, the first editions. They’ll be out of harm’s way.”

“We’ll stock up on canned goods, bottled water, and coal. Sand to put out fires.”

The Countess sighed. “And gas masks, if this war is anything like the last. Ten million dead, and that many wounded and mutilated. I can’t believe it’s happening again.”

Dead… wounded… mutilated… I’d avoided talk of war, changing the subject when Rémy brought it up, nipping into the children’s room when Mr. Pryce-Jones banged on about it. But now it seemed the Library’s collection might be in danger. We might be in danger. I had to face the fact that war was on the way.

CHAPTER 11

Odile

AT 11:55 ON the day of Rémy and Bitsi’s engagement luncheon—les fian?ailles, my parents and I perched on the divan. I wore a pink silk blouse that Margaret had lent me for the happy event. Maman’s rouged cheeks resembled luscious plums, and she’d put on her cameo brooch, which she brought out on the most special of occasions. Papa’s suit was too tight, and he tugged at his tie. The doorbell rang, and Rémy, pulling on his blazer, rushed to let Bitsi in. As always, her hair was a braided crown, but she wore a lime-green dress instead of her everyday brown one. She and Rémy gazed at each other. I felt breathless, something akin to pain, and wished Paul was with me.

When Bitsi finally noticed us standing there, she didn’t meet my eye. Was it shyness, or was she cross for some reason? I sometimes left my teacup in the sink, and she’d reminded me more than once that no one wanted to clean up after me.

Maman beamed at Bitsi. “Odile and Rémy have said such fine things about you.”

Papa drew himself up. “I hear you’re one of those career girls, too.”

“I help my family, sir.” Bitsi met his gaze straight on.

“A fine thing,” he said.

Maman exhaled shakily. Perhaps Papa would behave.

“You work with children,” he said. “That must mean you’d like some.”

Bitsi blushed, and Rémy put his arm around her protectively.

“Ignore the commissaire,” he said.

I glared at Papa. Never able to put water in his wine, he always had to say what was on his mind.

“Do you knit?” Maman asked Bitsi, jerking the discussion back to decent ground.

“After reading, it’s my favorite pastime. I also like to fish.”

Papa gestured to the sitting room, where he’d set out the decanters for the aperitif, but Maman pointed to the dining room. She couldn’t stop Papa from badgering Bitsi like he would any new recruit, but she could curtail the interrogation.

Papa presided at the head of the table. I was beside Maman, the happy couple across from us, with Bitsi next to Papa. When the maid brought out the roast and potatoes, Papa served Bitsi, Maman and me, then Rémy and himself. As we ate, Bitsi continued to avoid my eye. I could sense Maman mentally rifling through her jewelry box, searching for Grandmother’s opal ring for Rémy to present to Bitsi. There would be a wedding feast, a honeymoon. I wondered if the newlyweds would live here, at least at first.

Rémy looked to Bitsi, who clasped his hand. With her at his side, he was more confident.

“I have an announcement,” he said.

This was it. They were engaged. Bitsi’d had trouble meeting my eye because she’d been keeping a secret. Well, it was no secret! I lifted my wineglass to congratulate the couple.

“Yes?” Papa grinned at Bitsi.

“I’ve joined the army,” Rémy said.

Maman put her hand to her mouth. Papa went slack-jawed. My arm remained frozen midair. The cold defiance, the finality in Rémy’s tone hurt me. It felt as though he’d emptied a canister of bullets onto the table, into our water glasses and what was left of the gravy. I didn’t realize I was shaking until I noticed the wine quivering in its glass. Only Bitsi remained serene. Rémy had discussed his plans with her. She clearly approved. Perhaps she’d encouraged him.

“What?” Maman said. “But why?”

“I can’t just sit home,” Rémy had said. “Someone has to do something.”

“I want to make a difference.”

“Do something here.” She gestured to Papa. “Join the police.”

I could read Rémy’s thought: The last thing I want is to be like him.

Papa pushed himself from the table. His chair scraped across the floor and fell over.

I expected him to attack with the arsenal he had at his disposal. Derision—how could you possibly be a soldier? You can barely stand up straight. Contempt—if you refuse to help me chop down a Christmas tree, I doubt you can fell a man. Guilt—what will this do to poor Maman? Machismo—do you think the army will take a weakling like you? They only take real men like me. Fury—I’m the head of this household. How dare you enlist without informing me!