“Céline?” Theo eventually broke the silence. “When did you stop believing in me?”

She opened her eyes. “Pardon?” But she’d heard him.

“I’m your husband. You should trust me to fight for you.”

“I know.” But how could she explain it? There hadn’t been a single moment that her feelings toward him had changed. It had been a slow, steady slide. “It’s not that I don’t believe in you, Theo. It’s that I fear you don’t really understand what we’re fighting for.”

“What? Of course I do.”

“But you’ve been so immersed in your job that you’ve barely looked up to see the world crumbling around you.”

“You would fault me for working diligently?”

“No,” Céline replied. “It is just that in times like these, champagne production is not the most important thing.”

“So we should all just stop working? Let society collapse?”

“Hasn’t it already?”

“But if we just keep holding on a little longer . . .”

“Then what?” Céline demanded, sitting up in bed. She suddenly felt furious. “What happens if we hold on, Theo? No one is coming to rescue France. And what happens when the Germans have finally purged all the foreign-born Jews? Who do you think will be next? You’ve seen the signs around town. They’re not going to stop! How can you suggest that holding on will be an answer to anything?”

“You are too emotional.” Theo sat up beside her and grasped her hand. “Céline, I know you’re worried about your father and grandparents, but—”

“But what?” She pulled away from him. “Don’t you understand that with every day that passes with no word from them, I imagine the worst?” She felt powerless, frightened, and angry at people like Theo—people who were willing to sit back and let it all happen, because it wasn’t happening to them.

“You are worried, Céline, and that’s reasonable. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

“Oh, Theo.” Céline threw the sheets off and got out of bed. “Don’t you see? You’ll never be ahead of anything, for you’re content merely to follow.”

? ? ?

The next day, Theo had disappeared by the time Céline awoke on the couch. He’d left a short note asking her to get started with the riddling while he inspected a vineyard with Michel. We will be back before noon, he’d added. The words were as cold and detached as he himself had become.

Céline dressed quickly in a cotton dress and her wooden-soled shoes and headed for the cellars, longing for their chill. The July day was already shimmering with heat, the air oppressive. As she descended the stone steps, she exhaled and then filled her lungs with the subterranean coolness, tinged with the sweet, familiar scent of minerals married to yeast.

“Céline? Is that you?” Inès’s voice came from somewhere deep in the cellars, shattering Céline’s sense of calm.

“Hello, Inès!” Céline called back, her voice full of as much faux friendliness as she could muster.

“Oh good! I could use your help!”

Inès emerged from one of the caves ahead and waved cheerfully as she waited for Céline to approach. “Hello,” Inès said brightly. “You’re looking well this morning.”

“Um, thank you,” Céline said, confused by Inès’s good cheer. “You look well, too.” It was true, Céline realized; Inès appeared reinvigorated; her cheeks were pink, her smile broad. “What are you doing?”

“Michel asked before he left if I could pull ten or twelve barrels so we can begin scrubbing them out this afternoon. But I can’t quite reach them, and I was wondering if you could possibly support me as I climb up, just so I don’t fall.”

“Yes, of course.”

Céline grasped Inès’s arm and helped her up onto a large overturned barrel so she could reach a bit higher. Inès stood on tiptoe and pulled an empty barrel down from the shelf, grunting with the effort. “Here,” Céline said, reaching for the barrel, “give it to me.”

In fifteen minutes, they had pulled down the dozen barrels Michel had requested, stacking them at the entrance to the cave. “Thank you,” Inès said, her cheeks flushed. “I couldn’t have done that alone.”

Céline smiled. “You’re stronger than I realized.”

“I think that living here has forced me to develop muscles I did not know I had.” Inès held up a narrow arm and flexed a nearly nonexistent bicep. “Heavyweight champion of the world!”

The two women giggled, and Céline felt a rare sense of camaraderie between them. Where had this version of Inès been hiding?

“Céline?” Inès asked after they had sobered. “Are you worried?”

“Worried about what?”

“Michel.” The mirth was gone from Inès’s face now, replaced by something unfamiliar. Was it sadness? Fear? Inès appeared suddenly vulnerable, almost childlike.

“What do you mean?” Céline asked carefully.

“He said that he told you about the guns. Whatever he’s doing, Céline”—she gestured into the depths of the tunnels—“it’s dangerous, isn’t it? I think he’s making a mistake, don’t you?”