Catching the Wind(22)

“Princess Adler,” he concurred. Then he turned rapidly away before he changed his mind.

There was a door beside the stage—a closet—and he slipped inside. In the shadows, he watched the crowd of adults dwindle in the hall. Only four children remained—Brigitte and three boys.

What would they do with the children who didn’t have a family to care for them? Brigitte would never survive in some sort of work camp or institution. She needed someone to care for her until she was strong again.

Across the room, the door opened again, and a thin woman entered the hall. The tiny brown-and-cream checks on her coat reminded Dietmar of teeth, a hundred of them snarling at him.

The woman scanned the remaining children and crossed the polished floor toward Brigitte. As she studied Brigitte’s hair and eyes, he leaned forward, straining to hear her words.

“What’s your name?” the woman asked.

Brigitte didn’t answer.

“Are your parents in London?”

Dietmar wanted to rush out and say that she was indeed from London, but if Brigitte refused to speak, perhaps the woman wouldn’t suspect she was German. Perhaps she’d think Brigitte deaf as well when she didn’t understand her words.

The woman surveyed the hall as if she were considering the options. Her gaze breezed past the remaining boys before resting back on Brigitte. “You need a bath, but I suppose you’ll do.”

The woman reached for her arm, but Brigitte didn’t move.

“Come along,” the woman prodded.

Brigitte’s head jerked to the right, her eyes searching frantically around the room. Before she turned toward him, Dietmar stepped farther into the closet, wishing he could hear what the woman was saying. Instead all he heard were raindrops pattering on the roof.

In the dark space, he clutched the toy princess in his pocket, silently chiding himself for transferring his care to a woman neither he nor Brigitte knew. But a knight must make the toughest of decisions for the good of those he must defend. He’d promised Herr Berthold that he would protect his daughter, and Brigitte’s father would want her sheltered. Fed. Dietmar wanted her sheltered and fed as well.

He’d keep his promise to Brigitte, too. When she was healthy again, when the bombs stopped falling, he would find her. Then they could walk into London hand in hand to find his aunt together.

He glanced back out the door and saw the woman with the tooth coat holding Brigitte’s arm near the front door. He slipped up beside the wall and hid behind the long drapery to watch them.

“I’ll take this one,” the woman said.

A second woman, seated at a desk, asked Brigitte for her name.

“She seems to be mute.”

The lady at the desk pushed up her glasses, nodding before scribbling something in a book.

“My name is Mrs. Terrell,” the tooth woman said.

“Where do you live, Mrs. Terrell?”

“On Mulberry Lane.”

Mrs. Terrell didn’t look at Brigitte again. If she had, she would have seen tears pouring down her cheeks, the trembling of her lips. Dietmar’s heart burned inside him, longing to rush forward and rescue her again, take her to a safe place. But he had nothing to offer her at the moment. Not even an aunt to help care for her.

Through the gray window streaks in the public hall, he watched Mrs. Terrell open the door to a black motorcar. Brigitte shook her head at the woman, refusing to get inside. His chest aching, he prayed silently that she would go with the woman. Soon they would be together again.

A man climbed out of the driver’s seat. Mr. Terrell, Dietmar assumed. He was much taller than Mrs. Terrell, his shoulders as wide as those of the men who’d hurt his mother back in Moselkern. Perhaps he could coax Brigitte into the vehicle.

But when the man stepped toward her, Brigitte backed away. He said something as he grabbed her arm, shoving her roughly into the car.

A family was supposed to feed Brigitte. Give her shelter and medicine and kindness. But this man—he wouldn’t be kind to Brigitte at all.

Dietmar spun toward the front door and raced through it, down the steps to the sidewalk.

“Brigitte!” he yelled as the car pulled away in the rain. Her nose was pressed against the back window, eyes weeping with despair. And the depth of her sorrow shot straight through his chest, piercing his heart.

He wouldn’t wait until Brigitte saw a doctor or the bombing stopped in London. Somehow he would earn enough money for medicine and food. A safe place where no one would hurt Brigitte. He would find her on Mulberry Lane before nightfall and steal her away again.

“Lad?” a man called out from the other side of the street.

Dietmar glanced both ways before realizing the police officer was speaking to him. This man’s voice was gruff, nothing like the constable who’d brought them into Tonbridge.

The man marched through the puddles, water sloshing on his blue trousers as he crossed the street. “Where’s your home?”

“London, mister.”

“You’re far from home.”

“Billeted,” he said, borrowing the word he’d learned from the constable earlier today, hoping the man would be impressed with his English.

Instead the officer latched his fingers over Dietmar’s shoulder. “Come with me.”

The moment he looked up into the officer’s eyes, he knew he wouldn’t be going to Mulberry Lane this afternoon. And perhaps not tomorrow either.