“So your grandfather knows about her past, too?”

“The pieces she chose to share, yes, and the pieces he witnessed himself. But I’m sure there’s more to the story.” Julien reached out and squeezed Liv’s hand. “Give her time.”

She was struck by the warmth and strength of his fingers against hers, and she quickly pulled away. “Thanks.”

“Pas de quoi. And remember, Liv, the best things in life are worth waiting for.” And then, with a murmured au revoir, he was gone.

twelve

FEBRUARY 1942

INèS

After the harvest ended, autumn turned to winter, the days shortening, the nights turning frigid as ice crusted the vines. Michel had grown colder, too, bit by bit. Inès had tried to make him understand why she’d needed to see Edith, but it had been months now, and he hadn’t forgiven her. Not that she needed his absolution, but it felt as if he’d closed himself off to her since September, and that was a long time—in the midst of a war, no less—to continue feeling as if you’d made an enemy of the person who was supposed to love you most. Then again, she’d been losing him long before that.

“It is not that I’m angry at you,” Michel said wearily late one night in early February as he climbed quietly into bed beside Inès and found her awake, shivering beneath the thin blankets. Outside, snow fell lightly. “It is that my trust in you is shaken.”

“All because I took the car for a night, many months ago?” Inès asked, hating how desperate she sounded. “Michel, I’ve apologized a hundred times. But I feel so stifled here.”

“Don’t you think we all do?” He sat up, and even in the darkness, even without seeing his face, she knew he was vibrating with principled anger. “You can’t just run away when things get difficult!”

“I wasn’t running away! I just needed to breathe.”

“Breathe?” Michel choked on a laugh. “Do you know how lucky we are? How lucky you are? All of France is starving, and because we live near farmland—and because the Germans want to keep us happy in order to keep the champagne flowing—we have enough to eat, enough to heat our home. We still have a way to make money, to make it through the war. There are people in the cities who would kill for that, Inès. Do you understand?”

“Of course.” And she did; on her return from Reims, in the light of day, she had seen living skeletons clutching ration tickets and standing in lines that snaked for blocks. “It’s just that you still have a purpose, Michel. You still get to be you. Who have I become?”

He looked away. “These are trying times for all of us.”

“You don’t understand. I’m—I’m not happy.”

“For God’s sake, Inès!” Michel shoved the blankets aside and climbed out of bed. “Is that all you think about? Your happiness?”

He stormed out of the bedroom, slamming the door behind him, before she had a chance to reply. In his absence, the tears came, and she angrily wiped them away. Didn’t she know better than to let his words hurt her?

Now, in the deep darkness of the night, with Michel’s criticism washing over her, something stirred in Inès, something angry and righteous, and she threw the covers off, shivering as she groped around for the cardigan Céline had knit for her, a gift for the holidays that had embarrassed her, for all she’d gotten Céline in return was a tube of lipstick, purchased on the black market through a local vigneron’s young son. It had seemed at the time a great luxury, for many women were resorting to using beetroot to stain their lips. But Céline had merely given her a pinched smile and a murmured merci before turning away in unspoken judgment.

Inès was sick of feeling useless, shallow, and unprincipled. She knew she wasn’t as knowledgeable as Michel, Céline, and Theo were about what was happening with the war, but that didn’t mean she didn’t care. And though she wasn’t particularly good at anything having to do with champagne production, she was tired, too, of Michel making her feel as if she no longer had a place here. She was going to go tell him that before she lost her courage.

She lit a lamp and shoved her feet into her decaying boots. They had once been warm and solid, but they’d been worn so many times the soles had mostly disintegrated, and there were holes in the toes. Still, they were all she had, and they would provide some measure against the wet freeze outside. She slid into her fraying overcoat, pulled on a wool cap, and slipped out the back door into the deep, bleak evening.

Even with the lamp lighting her way, it was almost impossible to see through the inky night. Still, up ahead, from the entrance to the cellars, she could see a faint wash of light, and she knew Michel was belowground. It was time to confront him face-to-face after months—no, years—of being made to feel useless.

As she descended from the silent, snow-swept world above, her footsteps landed dully against the stone. They were loud enough that Michel should have heard her coming, so she was puzzled when the light drifting out from one of the winding tunnels far ahead to the right didn’t waver. Didn’t he hear her? She almost called out, to let him know it was only her, but a small, vindictive part of her took some comfort in the idea that he might think she was a German soldier approaching. He deserved to feel ill at ease on his own turf, as she so often did.