Charlotte still wasn’t certain that it was the right thing to do, but she suddenly had a desperate urge to be face-to-face with this stranger. She took a deep breath and opened the door.

For a moment, they just stared at each other. She could see the questions in his green eyes. He was wondering who she was and what she was doing here. But was he searching for something else in her face too? She found that once she had locked gazes with him, she couldn’t look away; he had the kind of eyes that looked too bright for his face—for any face, in fact.

“Good day,” he said, breaking the silence. “I’m looking for Madame Fleur.”

“She’s not here. But she’s my cousin.” Charlotte could scarcely believe she’d just said that. It was part of her new cover, of course, but it felt like a betrayal of Maman and Papa. “I can take a message, if you like.”

The boy studied her, one corner of his mouth curling up slightly. “I see. Well, then, please tell your cousin that I’ve delivered your papers. Forged them myself.” He held up an envelope.

Charlotte’s cheeks grew hot. He knew she’d just lied to him. “You forged them?” she asked.

He shrugged. “It was nothing.”

“But how old are you?” Charlotte realized right away that it hadn’t been a polite question.

“Fifteen.”

“Oh.” She felt silly for asking and didn’t know what to say next.

“I learned to forge from my dad,” he said finally. “But he’s dead now, so I had to take over. I’m pretty good. Take a look.”

Charlotte took the envelope from him and slipped the papers out. She didn’t know what birth certificates and adoption papers were supposed to look like, but these appeared very official, with stamps and seals and everything. “Nice work,” she said, trying to sound like she knew what she was talking about.

His smile widened a bit. “Thank you.”

“Maybe—maybe I could help too.”

He looked confused. “You want to forge papers?”

“No. I mean, maybe, though I don’t know that I’d be any good at it. But I want to do something. I’m tired of just watching things get worse and worse and not doing anything.” If Ruby wouldn’t let her help, maybe this mysterious boy would.

He studied her for a minute. “How old are you?”

She drew herself up to her full height. “Nearly fourteen.”

“Are you brave?”

“Oh yes.” She wanted to believe it was true. After all, she hadn’t broken yet.

The boy searched her face again. “Well, I suppose you could be useful. Let me talk to some of the people I work with. I’ll be in touch.”

“Really?” She could scarcely believe it.

“Why not?” He shrugged, then turned to go.

“Wait!” she called after him. “You didn’t tell me your name.”

“It’s Lucien.” He held her gaze for a moment. “The papers say you’re named Hélène. But who are you really?”

She hesitated. “Charlotte. But I’m not sure I’ll ever be her again.”

“Charlotte’s a beautiful name. But so is Hélène. Whoever you decide to be, I’m glad to know you. I’ll see you again.”

And then he was gone. Charlotte stared after him as he disappeared down the stairs of their building, confused by the way her heart was still pounding and the fact that her face felt like it was on fire.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

July 1942

News of the massive roundups in Paris had reached England, and Thomas was worried. He knew how much Ruby cared for the girl who lived next door, and every time he closed his eyes, he imagined Ruby throwing herself between the child and the barrel of a Nazi soldier’s gun. Ruby wouldn’t let something happen to Charlotte without putting up a fight, but what did that mean? And what guarantee was there that either of them was still alive anyhow?

He knew he should be worrying only about his own missions, but each spare minute somehow belonged to her. He had signed up for this fight, had even derived some enjoyment from his time in the cockpit. Ruby, on the other hand, hadn’t asked for any of this; she’d fallen in love with the wrong person and had found herself in the middle of a war. He wondered if she had continued to harbor pilots after he’d gone, but no other pilots from his squadron had returned after being shot down, so there was no one to ask.

Today, he was returning from a mission over eastern France after escorting a fleet of bombers. He let down his guard for a second, just as they passed Dunkirk, and thought about how Paris lay almost directly to the south, just over 150 miles away. It was a distance he could cover quickly in his Spitfire. What would happen if he made a ninety-degree turn to the south and simply disappeared over the horizon? It was a nice fantasy, but of course he knew exactly how it would end; he’d get shot at as he approached Paris and probably die in a fiery explosion in the sky. No thank you.

And so he forced himself to refocus. He had to survive if there was to be any hope of seeing her again. And he wouldn’t live through the war if he was daydreaming every time he flew over the Continent.

The cliffs of Dover came into view, white and gleaming, as Thomas made his way back across the Channel, and when he turned toward his home airfield, he tried hard to focus on what lay immediately ahead instead of on a future he couldn’t control. For all he knew, she hadn’t given him a second thought after he left her apartment.

As the landing strip came into view, Thomas opened the cockpit hood, reduced his airspeed to 140 miles an hour, and prepared for landing. Undercarriage locked. Propeller functioning normally. Flaps down. He made a wide turn, reducing his speed further, and then he brought her down safely, easing the long nose in and bumping a few times along the runway before bringing the plane to a stop. He taxied off quickly to leave room for others to land behind him, and once back in dispersal, he cut the engine and turned the instruments and radio off. Another successful flight under his belt.

He had just returned to his room and was about to get dressed for an evening at the pub with Harry, who’d promised to buy the first round, when there was a knock at his door. He answered quickly, but instead of Harry standing there, it was the squadron adjutant, a man named Fred Horn. “Clarke? I’m afraid something has happened.”

“Sir?” Thomas’s mind immediately went to Ruby, but that was crazy. He certainly wouldn’t be notified if anything happened to her. But who else was there? He was a man without a family. “What is it?”

“It’s Harry Cormack, I’m afraid,” Horn said, his eyes downcast. “He didn’t come back today.”

Thomas felt his heart drop to his knees. Harry? Again? “Do you know his status? Where did he land?”

“I’m afraid I’m not being clear enough. Some 109s caught up with him over the Channel.”

Thomas felt a heavy weight settle on his chest. “Did anyone see him go down?”

Horn nodded. “There was a whole mess of 109s out there, complete chaos. But Wellesley and Newton both saw him go into the water on fire. Had a couple of boats out in the area after the crash, but no sign of survivors, I’m afraid.”

Thomas felt a wave of hopelessness wash over him. Harry was one of the best pilots he knew. A swarm of German 109s shouldn’t have been too much to handle, unless he was severely outnumbered or one of them got very, very lucky. Even then, wouldn’t Harry have tried to bail out? “Any evidence of ejection?” Thomas asked.

“It seems his plane went into the water intact.” Horn looked away. “No indication of attempted escape.”

“Damn it.” Thomas pounded his fist against the door.

Horn was already backing away. “Anyhow, Clarke, I just thought you should know.”

“Yes. Right. Thank you.” Thomas closed the door and crossed the room to his bed. He sat down heavily, dazed by the news. Could Harry really be dead? Just like that? He couldn’t understand why he was so shocked. After all, this was the sort of thing that happened nearly every day. No pilot was guaranteed a safe return. Hell, no civilian was either. Just look what had happened to his mother.

It was so senseless. There were days that Thomas felt on top of the world as he soared above the clouds, but other days, especially as he crossed over France, he wondered what it was all for. Someone would win the war one day, whether it was the Allies or the Krauts, and then all those lives lost would feel as if they’d been taken in vain. And what if Britain wasn’t triumphant in the end? Would that mean that Harry and Oliver and Thomas’s mother had died for nothing? What if Ruby was lost in the end too, swallowed into the gaping hole of German aggression?

And so, just before he sat down to write yet another letter—this one to Harry’s parents—Thomas found himself on his knees, praying for his friend’s soul, for his own mother’s soul, for an end to the fighting, and for the strength to play a role in bringing this war to an end. But most of all, Thomas found himself pleading with God that Ruby would stay safe and that one day, fate would deliver him back to her door.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

August 1942