“Certainly,” Michel replied evenly. “Might I ask what you’re looking for?”

“You may not.”

Michel and Theo exchanged looks, and then Michel stood back, ushering the soldiers inside as if they were honored guests. He led them through the house and out the back door, and it was only then that Céline realized that the small secondary entrance to the cellars, the one Michel’s great-grandfather had installed in the kitchen in case the family needed a quick route to the cellars, had been hidden behind a large armoire. Instead, Michel—with Theo a few steps behind him—seemed to be taking the soldiers to the main entrance in the stone wall that separated their garden from the vineyards beyond. When Michel’s great-great-grandfather had constructed the elaborate tunnels to rival the crayères of the larger champagne houses, he had also installed an imposing entryway made of stone, closed off by an ornately carved wooden door so it looked as grand as possible. “Stay here,” Michel warned over his shoulder, looking first at Inès and then at Céline.

But the officer placed a firm hand on Michel’s forearm and glanced back at the women. He smiled, and there was something about the expression—cold and lupine—that chilled Céline to the bone. “No,” he said, “I think the women will come with us, too.”

Céline didn’t resist when Inès grabbed her hand, lacing her tiny, childlike fingers through Céline’s longer, narrower ones. Together they followed their husbands through the imposing cellar door and down the narrow steps, their hurried footsteps clicking on the stone like the insistent tap of woodpeckers. One of the soldiers whistled in appreciation as the first cave full of bottles came into view, but the man behind him nudged him and said in German, “Oh, come on now, this is nothing compared to Veuve Clicquot Ponsardin.”

Céline understood, because her mother, who had grown up near the German border, had taught her German at home when she was a girl. But she played dumb, keeping her eyes wide and her expression neutral. She knew that she was at an advantage, however little it might be worth, if the Germans felt they could speak openly in front of her.

“Well? Where are your 1928s?” the officer asked, looking around suspiciously. “And your thirty-fours?”

“We have only a hundred odd bottles left of each vintage.” Michel met the officer’s gaze. “But if you’ll follow me, they’re just this way.”

The officer narrowed his eyes, but he allowed Michel to lead the group down the main tunnel to a cave on the left, where Céline knew Michel had deliberately left out a few racks of the best wines. A total absence would be suspicious; a shortage could be explained by saying that the remaining bottles had sold. “Here we are,” Michel said, waving his arm toward the room. “Just on the floor there to the right.”

“Hmph.” The officer beckoned one of his men, and together they lifted up one of the crates and pulled a bottle out. It was indeed a twenty-eight, one of the most valuable of their collection. Behind the Virgin Mary nestled into the curve of the hall, its sisters lay silently in wait. “Where are the rest?” the officer asked, turning to Michel, his expression hard, his right hand drifting toward his pistol again.

“Oh, we’ve been nearly sold out for a long time. Twenty-eight was a very good year, you know. Very in demand. Thirty-four, too.” Michel furrowed his brow. He was a far better actor than Céline had realized. “Please. Take what we have. You’ll have no quarrel from me.”

The officer gestured to two of his men, who scrambled to begin grabbing bottles. “That will do. Now leave us to it.”

“Certainly.” Michel took Inès’s hand and began to walk briskly back toward the stairs. Céline and Theo followed. The four of them were silent until they’d made their way back upstairs, across the back garden, and into the kitchen of the main house.

“Michel, you practically thanked them for looting our cellars!” Inès cried as soon as they were alone.

“What is it I should have done, Inès?” Michel sounded weary. “It’s anarchy out there. We have to plan for the future, and if they think we’re hiding something, they’ll tear our caves apart.”

“But did you have to be so . . . submissive?” Inès demanded, her voice raising an octave in indignation. “This is our property!”

“Inès!” It was the first time Céline had heard Michel raise his voice. He raked his hand through his hair as Inès blinked at him like a wounded doe. “Darling,” he said more calmly. “This is the worst of it. We wait out this storm, and the German authorities will be in control of their men in a few days. Until then, we just have to survive.”

Inès opened her mouth to reply, but she was interrupted by a voice behind them. “It seems you French are wiser than you look.” They all whirled around and saw the German officer framed in the sunlit back doorway, a cigarette in his hand trailing a sinewy ribbon of smoke. “Your only job now is to get by. Verstanden?”

No one answered, so after the silence had ticked on for too long, Céline replied for all of them. “Yes, sir. We understand. You’ll have no trouble from us.”

The officer smiled slightly, which made him look even more dangerous, more sinister. Or maybe it was just the way he was suddenly studying her that was so unsettling; it was as if he was noticing her for the first time. His gaze lingered on the top buttons of her blouse. She resisted the urge to flinch, to cower, and finally, his eyes traveled back up to her face. “I’m glad to hear it,” he said.