Catching the Wind(56)
Brigitte was twelve now, and when Frau let her wander, she searched for a town, for someone like the Belgian monks who could help her escape her prison cell, but it seemed the buildings she saw when they first arrived were all a mirage. Or perhaps it had been a dream. She’d ask the postman, but Frau locked her door whenever he knocked and her window to the outside was still jammed.
She was going to fix the window, so she could breathe in river and pine. And so one day she could run back to Dietmar.
Since there was no place for her to run now, she closed her eyes on these cold evenings and began to dream. Behind the veil of darkness, she could imagine anything. The taste of roast duck and potato dumplings. Gingerbread and Glühwein. The sound of singing that poured from the churches. The lights of the Christmas markets at night.
Any light at all.
Stille Nacht! Heilige Nacht!
All is calm, all is bright.
Brigitte sang the words in her head so no one could hear. Inviting the peace birthed that night to settle into her room as well.
CHAPTER 33
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Lucas sprayed pink soap out of the wand, covering his Range Rover with foam in the self-service bay. Thankfully, mud seemed to be the only damage done to his vehicle, and the soap and water drained that away.
The wand in hand, Lucas rounded the car a second time, holding it like he was some sort of commander blasting a machine gun. He was still fuming, it seemed, about Kyle Logan’s bravado when he helped them extricate the car. The man had embraced his role as rescuer and rural transportation expert, dispensing tip after tip about driving on back roads and how to remove oneself from the clutches of mud.
Lucas was not impressed.
Pink globs bounced off the oversoaped car, landing on Quenby’s sleeve streaked with mud from her fall. She flicked them off. “It’s already clean,” she said from behind him.
Lucas sprayed another round across the hood—or bonnet, as the British called it. “He forced us off the road just so he could talk to you.”
“Oh, please.”
“Seriously, he couldn’t stop flirting with you. Didn’t even care that I was with you—”
“Technically, you’re not with me, Lucas.”
“Of course not, but the man doesn’t know that,” he growled. “What if I was with you?”
“Then you’d have the right to be offended.”
He flicked the switch on the wall, and a stream of water sprayed from the wand. “I reserve the right to be offended either way.”
She crossed her arms. “The right to expunge records. The right to be offended. I need to become a lawyer.” When he turned, a plume of water sprayed over her shoulder, sprinkling down on her clothes. “Lucas!”
He turned back toward the SUV, but not before she saw the smirk on his face. “My apologies.”
“Not accepted,” she said, trying to shake the water off her blouse. “You were the one who asked me to drive.”
He released the trigger, the wand dropping to his side. “I’m not mad at you, Quenby. The guy is an idiot. He could have hurt both of us, fanning his tail like that to get your attention.”
She laughed at the image of Kyle as a peacock. “I’m glad there’s no damage, unless you count my pride.”
Then again, her pride had been compromised—completely decimated, actually—when she met Lucas at her door a week ago in ratty shorts and a T-shirt, void of any sort of plumage. Not to mention her bragging earlier in the forest, right before she tripped and landed in the mud.
“I still want to teach you how to drive,” he said, sliding the wand into its holder.
“Are you serious?”
“Completely.”
“But I ran your car off the road.”
“Much better than running into that guy, though I think he would have preferred you left a dent or two in his tractor. Then you’d have to contact him again.”
“I’m not the least bit interested in Kyle Logan.”
“Glad to hear it. You deserve a man who respects you.”
Her face warmed. “Thank you.”
He pointed toward the car. “Should we try for lunch again?”
“As long as you drive.”
“Fair enough.”
They found a café up on Castle Hill, overlooking the English Channel. Lucas ordered two egg and cress sandwiches along with a bottle of San Pellegrino to share. Quenby drank half the bottle of bubbly water before she started thinking clearly again.
Strange that Lucas would trust her to drive after she’d almost wrecked his vehicle. And even stranger that he’d been so ruffled by Kyle’s display of feathers this afternoon.
After they finished their sandwiches, and the server brought coffee, Quenby set the tin of letters on the wooden slats of the table. The proprietor had told them they could sit outside all afternoon if they wanted, and it might take them that long to translate the rest of Brigitte’s words.
She was anxious to find out what happened to Brigitte, of course, but the anxiety warred with a feeling of dread. What if the remaining letters were more dismal than the others? Their search could end here, in this café, at the base of this tin.
She took out the old wooden princess that Mr. Knight had given her and placed it on the table beside her, as if Brigitte were here with them as well. Then she opened the January 1942 letter again.