The Darkest Hour(6)

“May God have mercy on your soul, Sister Marchand. Or whatever your true name may be.” He shuts the door and locks it in place.

That’s my cue to run. I fly through the maze of empty Parisian streets, the buildings around me blurring into one gray mass. With every step I take, Father Benoit’s words ring in my ears: Whatever your true name may be.

My skirt whooshes around my ankles and I think, My name is Lucienne Blaise.

I’m sixteen years old. I’m Théodore Blaise’s little sister. And I’m certainly not a nun.

What I am is the newest agent in Covert Ops.





I flee across the streets of the Marais like the mice hiding in my family’s apartment back home, bolting from the Nazis’ sharp claws. For the first time since I parachuted into France, I’m grateful for the blackouts that strangle the country. There are no streetlights, no lamplights, not even a beam of moonlight to guide the Germans on my back—and I’ll need every shadow I can get to shake them off my trail.

I dart across rue de Rivoli, right under the enormous swastika banners that hang six stories tall, and I turn onto a side street, ducking behind a shuttered boulangerie. As I catch my breath, I notice the bread counters inside, long covered in dust. They remind me of the counters at Pascal’s, the bakery where my family has worked for over ten years. Six days a week, my parents minded the storefront and cash register, while Theo and I prepared baguette dough in the back, kneading and folding to the satisfaction of Mr. Richards, the owner. That was our whole existence for years: homework, bread, and earning pennies that Papa would take from us to buy more wine. The girl I was then couldn’t have fathomed what I’ve become now.

I peel off my veil and habit, revealing the street clothes I’ve worn underneath, and shove them both through a hole in the glass. All the while I keep my ears peeled for the soldiers, but it’s another voice that catches up with me instead.

Please, Sister, have mercy on me!

Despite the summer warmth, my fingers grow cold. Travert.

Tilly warned me that this might happen, because the same thing happened to her. Sometimes she’ll get a haunted look on her face, and I know that she’s thinking about the bomb that she planted in her first target’s pied-à-terre. This is something that Covert Ops hasn’t trained us for. They may have taught us how to kill—and how to do it well—but they never told us how to forget about our victims’ last words. But I can’t let myself regret what I’ve done tonight, not after the crimes that Travert committed. What if Theo had been one of those airmen who he betrayed? This is the thought I cling to as I hurry homeward.

I follow the map of Paris that I’ve stored in my mind, crossing over Pont Saint-Michel and entering the city’s 6th district, or arrondissement. A left here and a right there and it isn’t long until I reach the bookshop Shakespeare and Company. I enter through the tucked-away side door and lock it fast behind me, stepping into the dusty air. The store has been closed for months, ever since its owner was arrested for handing out illegal leaflets, but the place still buzzes with activity—if you know where to look.

Tiptoeing into the Middle Ages section, my fingers nudge aside a book about medieval clothing (too dry a subject for Nazi tastes) and curl around a hidden latch, which allows me to swing the bookcase forward to reveal a tiny room that’s lined with banned books. But that’s not all this room is hiding. I kick aside a well-worn rug to reveal a wooden hatch underneath. Covert Ops’ front door.

I knock against the hatch five times, our signal that I’m a friendly, and I wait a second before unlocking it and heaving it open. A face stares up at me in the darkness.

“Sabine!” I gasp. It’s a good thing I’m not holding my pistol because I might’ve fired off a round. “What’re you doing here?”

Sabine pops her head out but doesn’t ask me if I’m all right. Candlelight trickles up from the hatch, illuminating her pretty heart-shaped face. Well, pretty is too mild a word for her. Sabine is beautiful through and through, with Hollywood looks and flawless bronze skin. Even though it’s the end of the day, there isn’t a single black hair askew on her head. She might as well have stepped off the cover of Glamour magazine.

“Major Harken asked me to wait for you,” says Sabine in French. “I’ve been sitting for over half an hour.”

“Don’t flip your wig. I’m here now, aren’t I?”

“Wig?” She frowns. “I’m not wearing a wig.”

“Never mind. It’s something we say back home.”

“I see.” She sniffs.

I despise when Sabine does that. When I slurp my water? Sniff. Or mispronounce French slang? Sniff. Or roll my eyes at Major Harken? Sniff, sniff. After what I’ve gone through tonight, I’m ready to elbow her in that perfectly pointed nose of hers, but Harken would be livid if I ruined the face of his most prized protégé. He tapped her to become one of the first agents of Covert Ops thanks to her exploits in Paris as part of the homegrown French Resistance. Covert Ops may be an American organization, but half of our agents are French-born. Sabine is one of them: half French, on her father’s side; half Algerian, on her mother’s—and a thorn in my side in her entirety.

As she always does, Sabine gets straight to the point. “Did you kill the traitor or not?”