Catching the Wind(27)

She would be nearby, looking for food or a place to sleep. She would never leave him.

Daniel blinked, saying her name again as the rain splashed his face, but this time it was just a whisper. He was back on the island, in the forest near his home.

There was no Brigitte, of course. Hadn’t been in a long time.

It wasn’t just the walls of the castle that were closing in on his mind. Now the trees seemed to be fogging it as well.

If he didn’t find Brigitte soon, he feared he might not remember her at all.

When he emerged on the other side of the forest, Jack was waiting for him.

His driver opened the car door. “You ready to go home, Mr. Knight?”

He nodded slowly. “I believe I am.”

“Eileen has a nice cuppa waiting for you.”

Daniel closed his eyes in the backseat of the car, trying to think about the tea, but her eyes emerged in his mind again, the vibrant blue of them staring back at him.

Somewhere, Brigitte was waiting for him too.





Chapter 15




Mulberry Lane, December 1940

Brigitte’s back was crushed against the closet door, her hands pressed against her ears, but she couldn’t block out the yelling. It grew louder and louder in the kitchen below her room.

She didn’t understand much English, but the Terrells said one word over and over that she knew well now.

Girl.

They always seemed to be fighting about her.

If only Dietmar were here. He could tell her what else the Terrells were saying. He knew all the English words.

Herr Terrell would leave soon. And perhaps Frau Terrell would as well. Then they’d be gone for hours. Sometimes Herr Terrell didn’t return until late at night. Then the fighting would start again.

She reached up and touched her shoulder, her long hair sheared by Frau Terrell’s scissors the night she’d arrived. The cuts made by Frau Terrell’s nails had healed weeks ago, but they’d left behind stripes on her skin.

Herr Terrell hated her—she didn’t need the words of English to understand that. Frau Terrell tolerated her as long as she did the chores assigned her. The woman would point at the broom and say, “Sweep.” Or at the dishes and say, “Wash.” So she swept or washed or whatever Frau Terrell asked of her. Just like Aschenputtel—Cinderella—from the Brothers Grimm.

She didn’t mind the chores. They kept her from thinking about her sweet papa back in Germany. And about her best friend.

Closing her eyes, she pretended that Dietmar was waiting for her below the window, ready to rescue her like he’d done at home. It had all been play back then in the tree house, at least until the enemy really had come and taken her papa away.

Now she needed Dietmar to charge this tower. Climb the vines that led up to her room. Take her with him.

He’d promised her that he would come. A thousand times.

Oh, why had he left her, back when all those people were looking at the children? Why hadn’t he stopped the Terrells before they drove out of town?

She’d seen him standing on the curb, his hands to his sides. And she’d thought—hoped—that he saw her in the car. That he would find this house and steal her away.

Weeks had passed—perhaps even a month or two—but still each morning she awoke fresh to the hope that Dietmar would surely come today.

Had Hitler’s men found him in England? Had they taken him back to Germany?

The knight clutched in her hand, she looked down at the gardens below the window, as if Dietmar might be rushing toward her. The vegetable garden reminded her of the one at Dietmar’s house, except almost everything was brown, dead now that winter had come.

One day she and Dietmar would find each other. One day soon, she prayed.

She wanted to sing softly, invite music into her tiny room to ease the aching in her heart, but she would have to wait until the Terrells were gone. They thought her stupid, and she preferred it that way. Instead of talking to them, she reserved her voice for the privacy of this space where they’d set up a cot for her, the day after a woman visited them and apparently said they should.

When Herr and Frau Terrell were gone, for hours and hours at a time, she’d sing songs that Mama taught her long ago. At night, after her chores were done, she’d sit on her cot and gaze out at the moon over the gardens and trees, hoping that Dietmar could see it wherever he was as well. Hoping that perhaps he was sleeping in the forest beyond the cottage.

She never slept on the cot. Each night, she’d crinkle up her blanket on the rug and sleep with her head under the canvas, between the wooden legs. It reminded her of a canopy made for a princess.

There was a knock on her door, jostling of the knob. “Open it, girl!” Frau Terrell called.

Brigitte crept out of the closet and turned the lock.

The woman barged inside, pointing at the door handle. “No. Lock.”

She kept her eyes focused on the frayed edges of the rug.

“Come along,” Frau Terrell barked, reaching for her wrist. Then she yanked her forward. Brigitte followed, afraid the woman would drag her down the steps if she didn’t comply.

Downstairs, Frau Terrell pointed at two eggs in a yellow-and-blue bowl on the counter before handing her a woven basket and scooting her toward the door. As if Brigitte should know where to find the eggs.

She waited another moment for the woman to point her toward the henhouse, but Frau Terrell had returned to washing potatoes in the sink. Brigitte slipped out the door, grateful for the opportunity to roam outside.