The Room on Rue Amélie(59)
“I can hear you in there, you know,” he said through the door. His accent was most definitely French, and his voice was deeper than she’d expected. “I mean you no harm. I have a delivery for Fleur.”
Ruby’s code name. Charlotte knew that much from the eavesdropping she’d shamelessly done on her neighbor over the last several months. So was this boy a part of the escape line?
“Please just let me deliver my package, and I’ll be on my way,” he said when she hadn’t moved.
Charlotte still wasn’t certain that it was the right thing to do, but she suddenly had a desperate urge to be face-to-face with this stranger. She took a deep breath and opened the door.
For a moment, they just stared at each other. She could see the questions in his green eyes. He was wondering who she was and what she was doing here. But was he searching for something else in her face too? She found that once she had locked gazes with him, she couldn’t look away; he had the kind of eyes that looked too bright for his face—for any face, in fact.
“Good day,” he said, breaking the silence. “I’m looking for Madame Fleur.”
“She’s not here. But she’s my cousin.” Charlotte could scarcely believe she’d just said that. It was part of her new cover, of course, but it felt like a betrayal of Maman and Papa. “I can take a message, if you like.”
The boy studied her, one corner of his mouth curling up slightly. “I see. Well, then, please tell your cousin that I’ve delivered your papers. Forged them myself.” He held up an envelope.
Charlotte’s cheeks grew hot. He knew she’d just lied to him. “You forged them?” she asked.
He shrugged. “It was nothing.”
“But how old are you?” Charlotte realized right away that it hadn’t been a polite question.
“Fifteen.”
“Oh.” She felt silly for asking and didn’t know what to say next.
“I learned to forge from my dad,” he said finally. “But he’s dead now, so I had to take over. I’m pretty good. Take a look.”
Charlotte took the envelope from him and slipped the papers out. She didn’t know what birth certificates and adoption papers were supposed to look like, but these appeared very official, with stamps and seals and everything. “Nice work,” she said, trying to sound like she knew what she was talking about.
His smile widened a bit. “Thank you.”
“Maybe—maybe I could help too.”
He looked confused. “You want to forge papers?”
“No. I mean, maybe, though I don’t know that I’d be any good at it. But I want to do something. I’m tired of just watching things get worse and worse and not doing anything.” If Ruby wouldn’t let her help, maybe this mysterious boy would.
He studied her for a minute. “How old are you?”
She drew herself up to her full height. “Nearly fourteen.”
“Are you brave?”
“Oh yes.” She wanted to believe it was true. After all, she hadn’t broken yet.
The boy searched her face again. “Well, I suppose you could be useful. Let me talk to some of the people I work with. I’ll be in touch.”
“Really?” She could scarcely believe it.
“Why not?” He shrugged, then turned to go.
“Wait!” she called after him. “You didn’t tell me your name.”
“It’s Lucien.” He held her gaze for a moment. “The papers say you’re named Hélène. But who are you really?”
She hesitated. “Charlotte. But I’m not sure I’ll ever be her again.”
“Charlotte’s a beautiful name. But so is Hélène. Whoever you decide to be, I’m glad to know you. I’ll see you again.”
And then he was gone. Charlotte stared after him as he disappeared down the stairs of their building, confused by the way her heart was still pounding and the fact that her face felt like it was on fire.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
July 1942
News of the massive roundups in Paris had reached England, and Thomas was worried. He knew how much Ruby cared for the girl who lived next door, and every time he closed his eyes, he imagined Ruby throwing herself between the child and the barrel of a Nazi soldier’s gun. Ruby wouldn’t let something happen to Charlotte without putting up a fight, but what did that mean? And what guarantee was there that either of them was still alive anyhow?
He knew he should be worrying only about his own missions, but each spare minute somehow belonged to her. He had signed up for this fight, had even derived some enjoyment from his time in the cockpit. Ruby, on the other hand, hadn’t asked for any of this; she’d fallen in love with the wrong person and had found herself in the middle of a war. He wondered if she had continued to harbor pilots after he’d gone, but no other pilots from his squadron had returned after being shot down, so there was no one to ask.
Today, he was returning from a mission over eastern France after escorting a fleet of bombers. He let down his guard for a second, just as they passed Dunkirk, and thought about how Paris lay almost directly to the south, just over 150 miles away. It was a distance he could cover quickly in his Spitfire. What would happen if he made a ninety-degree turn to the south and simply disappeared over the horizon? It was a nice fantasy, but of course he knew exactly how it would end; he’d get shot at as he approached Paris and probably die in a fiery explosion in the sky. No thank you.