Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Five

Spurred on by the sounds of the fire and shrieks and shouts and a distant popping that was almost certainly gunfire, Genevieve made it to her room and shut the door. Shaky with fear and reaction, knowing she needed to hurry, she followed the plan and did what she was supposed to do. Whipping off the frothy red skirt she’d been wearing over a black bodysuit, she jerked on trousers, pulled on socks and thrust her feet into sturdy shoes: they would be escaping in the open air, and the night was cold. She grabbed her sweater as well as the coats for herself, Emmy, Lillian and Berthe that had been tucked into her luggage. Arms loaded, she was just straightening when the door to her room, which she’d discovered upon arrival didn’t lock, raising questions in her mind about Wagner’s intentions upon assigning her the room, burst open.

Whirling, she found Emmy lurching through the door with her arm around a wilting figure that bore no resemblance to the mother she remembered. She was staggered by the visible injuries, by the frail and ragged form. But even as Emmy nudged the door shut behind them, an unerring recognition sent some primal piece of Genevieve’s soul flying toward her mother as unerringly as a homing pigeon. It was as if the seven years they’d been apart vanished just that fast. The connection was still there, unbroken, she discovered, and she was reminded of the revelation she’d had after her abortive visit to Anna: the tie that bound mothers and daughters was like no other. It was eternal, stronger than any separation, stronger even than death.

So it was with her own mother. She felt a wave of such shattering love and connection that her heart shook.

“Maman.” Dropping the coats, she instantly ran across the room. “Thank God!”

“Genevra.” Lillian wrapped her in a fierce embrace. “I’m so glad to see you.” Lillian’s voice throbbed with emotion. Genevieve could feel her mother trembling. “I’m so sorry I sent you away. I’m so sorry I never got to know my grandchild. I was wrong to care what people thought, wrong to care about anything except you and your daughter. I regret it so much. I beg you, please forgive me.”

As she registered the emotion in Lillian’s voice, the part of her that had blamed Lillian for Vivi’s death, the hard, cold knot that had lived inside her for seven years, seemed to melt. Now she saw that it had formed because in her deepest heart of hearts she really blamed herself—if she hadn’t gone out that afternoon, if she’d taken Vivi with her—and the burden of that had been too great to bear. She had shifted it onto her mother in order to survive.

“I forgive you,” she said, and at the same time she found the distance and perspective to forgive herself, too. “None of that matters now. Maman, you’re hurt.” Wrapped in her arms, Lillian felt fragile enough to break. Genevieve found herself wishing with all her heart that she could heal the injuries and take the pain away and make her mother whole again. She felt so fiercely protective that it was almost as if their roles were reversed, and she was the mother and Lillian the daughter.

“It’s not that bad.”

At Lillian’s answer, Genevieve’s mind spun back through the years—that was her mother, always trying to reassure her. But now, as an adult, she knew better. Lillian’s voice was a croak, hardly recognizable. Her face—her beautiful, fine-boned face—was hideously damaged, with one eye swollen shut and her skin marred by livid stripes. She was bone thin, unsteady on her feet and filthy. What Genevieve could see of her body in the ragged brown dress that was all she wore was black and blue with bruises and marked with other injuries.

“It looks bad.” Even as she bled inside for Lillian’s suffering, Genevieve was overwhelmed with love and regret. “I’m so sorry this happened to you. I’m so sorry I stayed away so long. I should have come home sooner. I love you, Maman.”

“I love you, too, Genevra, my dear one. How I have missed you.” She pressed a kiss to Genevieve’s cheek.

“I’ve missed you, too.” She’d just now realized how much. The first time she’d performed in Paris, she’d almost gone down to Rocheford to see her parents, but the thought of Vivi and then the Nazi invasion had kept her from following through. Now her heart ached with remorse. Tears stung her eyes. “Papa—”

“He loved you. You loved him. That’s all that’s important.” Lillian’s voice was firm.

There was more, much more that needed to be said on that and other subjects, but now was not the moment, Genevieve knew. There was no time.

“Maman, sit for a minute. We have to get ready to go. And you need warm clothes.”

“How are we going to get out of here?” Lillian’s voice shook, and Genevieve felt her heart turn over at the fear in it.

“Don’t worry, Maman,” Genevieve said.

“We have a plan,” Emmy added.

“You shouldn’t have come for me, you girls. You’re in terrible danger here. I’ve put you in terrible danger.”

“Of course we came for you.” Genevieve kept her arm around her mother’s waist as she led her toward the fainting couch. Emmy, she saw, had crossed the room and was leaning against the wardrobe. By now she should at least be putting on her coat. “And you don’t have to worry about Emmy and me.”

“I always worry about the two of you,” Lillian said with conviction. “I always will.”

“Get the knife away from her,” Emmy warned as Genevieve helped Lillian sit down.

Genevieve realized that her mother was indeed clutching a wicked-looking knife in her fist. The cheerful yellow hilt belied the businesslike length of the blade. Gingerly she took it and laid it down on the small table next to the fainting couch.

Then she grabbed up the sweater she’d been planning to wear with the intention of putting it on her mother.

“Genny, do you have something I can tie this up with?” The strain in Emmy’s voice caused both Genevieve and Lillian to look at her.

Still leaning against the wardrobe, Emmy was holding up the hem of her dark sweater—she’d changed into it and trousers in the anteroom before going after Lillian—and looking ruefully down at a long gash just above her waist on the right side. Blood poured from it in a steady stream.

“Emmanuelle, my God, what happened?”

“Emmy! Maman, don’t move.” Genevieve snatched up the skirt, a cascade of multicolor silk ruffles, she’d so recently discarded and rushed to her sister. “Are you shot?”

“A little bit, it seems.” Grimacing, Emmy rested against the wardrobe as Genevieve pressed the wadded-up skirt to her side.

“How bad is it?” Lillian sounded terrified.

“Not bad.” Emmy’s tone was reassuring, which, Genevieve knew, was largely for their mother’s benefit. Like Lillian, Emmy was making light of her injuries so as not to alarm someone she loved. “Not much more than a scratch. The bullet just gouged out some flesh as it passed right through. But it’s bleeding like the devil.”

“Hold this.” Genevieve caught her sister’s hand, placed it over the makeshift bandage, then grabbed a long woolen scarf out of the pocket of her coat. “What happened?”

“The soldiers all left the dungeon when the bomb went off, but then some of them came back. There was gunfire. I got hit. Right when I thought we’d gotten away clean, too.” Emmy’s shrug tried to dismiss it.

“You didn’t say anything,” Lillian said.

“Because it’s nothing,” Emmy replied.

“Where’s Max?” Trying not to think terrifying thoughts, wanting to distract their mother, Genevieve asked what she suddenly badly wanted to know while she wrapped the scarf around her sister’s waist and knotted it in such a way as to apply pressure to the wound. “And Berthe?”

“Max stayed to hold off the soldiers while Berthe and I got Maman away, and then Berthe went back to help him.” She took one look at Genevieve’s face and added, “Don’t worry. Last time I saw him, your Max was fine. I know he said to wait for him here. But I’m starting to feel a little weak and—I think we should go on to Otto.”

“I do, too.” Knowing that both her mother and sister were injured with only her to help them was terrifying. What would happen if...

“The blood! It leads this way!”

The shout in a harsh male voice was muffled, but the fact that they could hear it galvanized all of them: it almost certainly belonged to a soldier, and it wasn’t far away.

“God in heaven, I’ve left a trail.” Emmy stared in horror at the floor. Genevieve followed suit. Drops of blood, gleaming crimson, led from the door to where Emmy stood. Undoubtedly there was more outside.

Lillian tried to rise from the couch. “You girls—” her voice shook “—stay here. I will go out there, give myself up.”

“Maman, stop. No. You and Emmy have to hide. In the wardrobe, quick.” Genevieve grabbed Lillian, hustled her toward the wardrobe where Emmy was already squeezing inside. She practically shoved Lillian in, too, as more shouts punctuated the sound of numerous boots on stone pounding toward them.

Emmy said urgently, “Genny, the blood—”

“Shh. I’ll deal with it. Just stay in there and stay quiet.” She shut the door, then turned wide-eyed toward the hall. She looked at the blood on the floor: there was a lot, with no time to wipe it all up. But if she didn’t, and the soldiers saw, they would be caught, the three of them. They would be arrested. They would be killed. Unless—

Quick as the thought, she snatched up the knife her mother had carried in and sliced her own arm. Blood welled up, flowed. The sting of the cut made her eyes water. She dropped the knife as dizziness assailed her. Staring down at the blood running down her arm, then dripping to the floor, she had to sit abruptly on the fainting couch.

She’d no sooner done so than the door was thrown open with such force that it bounced back on its hinges.

Wagner stood in the doorway at the head of what seemed to be a gaggle of soldiers, staring at her as she sat there looking back at him while she clutched her bleeding arm.

Her heart almost stopped. The hair stood up on the back of her neck. It was all she could do to keep the shock, horror, fear out of her face.

She wasn’t sure she succeeded.

“Genevieve,” he said. She could read nothing, nothing at all, in his tone.

He looked just as he had before the bomb went off. Not so much as a hair was out of place. He’d been inside the Knight’s Hall; she’d seen him as she left.

How had he escaped? Had something gone wrong? Were they all alive? Had the mission failed?

Whatever the answers, she had to work now to save herself and her mother and sister.

Act, she told herself. Act like you’ve never acted before.

“Claus.” Her voice quavered pathetically. She looked—she hoped—thankful to see him. “Oh, Claus. I’m hurt, can you help me?”

His eyes ran over her. The rapid progression of expressions on his face—concern for her, surprise, doubt—had her stomach twisting in fear.

“The blood’s a false scent,” he said over his shoulder to his men. “Go back to the east turret and help them battle the fire. Save what you can.”

“Jawohl.” The smartly snapped-off rejoinder was followed by the disappearance of the soldiers and the sound of multiple sets of boots retreating.

Wagner came in and closed the door. “Let me bind up your arm,” he said almost tenderly, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket as he came toward her. “How did you hurt it?”

“The explosion.” She took care not to call it a bomb—because how could she know it was a bomb?—as he dropped to one knee in front of her, took hold of her bleeding arm and started to wrap the handkerchief around it. “I was knocked to the ground. I—cut it on something.”

“This happened while you were changing your costume?” He tied a knot to secure the makeshift bandage, then applied pressure with his hand on top of the handkerchief. The force of it made the cut throb rather than sting, which was worse.

“Yes.” She would be relieved he wasn’t hurt, wouldn’t she? “I’m so happy you weren’t injured. What happened?”

“A bomb was set off in the Knight’s Hall. By traitors who will, when we catch them, pay a terrible price. I regret to inform you that everyone who was in the hall at the time—your audience—is dead. My schloss is burning as we speak. Fortunately it is stone, and the fire can be contained.”

“Oh!” He pressed on her cut with such force that she cried out and reflexively tried to jerk her arm away. He held her fast. His fingers dug into her flesh. Her eyes flew to his face. He suspected: there was no mistaking the import of that grip. Or the look in his eyes.

He smiled at her. The dimples that made his smile so outwardly charming appeared.

Cold fear twisted her stomach, dried her mouth. Her heart pounded so loudly she feared he would hear it.

She was looking into the face of evil.

“It might interest you to know that I thought you appeared pale during your last song.” His voice was silky. “When you took your bow and left, I followed you to see if you were all right. I went into that small room where you change your clothes. You weren’t there, but the door at the other end of the room was just closing. I thought you must have gone out through it, so I followed again. That’s when the bomb went off.”

His free hand caught her chin, held it while he examined her face.

“Who do you work for?” He hurled the question at her.

Terror swirled in an icy tide inside her. She had to fight to keep it at bay.

“What? No one! What are you talking about?” She looked pleadingly at him. “Claus—”

“It’s you and Bonet, and that man of his—it’s all of you, isn’t it? Even the pretty blonde.” He came up off his knee, releasing her cut arm, looming over her, pushing his face so close to hers that she could feel his hot breath. “Who sent you to—” He broke off, staring at her. “Mein Gott, the eyes.”

“Claus, you’re wrong, I’ve done nothing—”

“What a fool I’ve been. How could I have been so blind? You’ve been tricking me all along, haven’t you? You’re a dirty bitch of a spy. Those are Lillian de Rocheford’s eyes.”

That last was a howl of pure rage. He throttled her before she could react, wrapping both hands around her neck, pushing her down on the fainting couch, looming above her, squeezing, squeezing...

Wildly she kicked and fought and clawed at his hands and gasped for air.

There was none. No air to be had. He was too strong. She wheezed, bucked, struggled, beat at him with her fists. His face, the room, everything started to blur.

He wouldn’t let go. She couldn’t make him let go. He was crushing her windpipe, choking the life out of her.

“You will tell me—ah!”

He gave a short, pained cry. His face contorted as he released her neck at last. Even as she sucked in a great, shuddering, life-saving breath he tried to straighten and reached a clawing hand behind his back.

Then he pitched forward to lie motionless beside her. A knife—the knife—stuck out of his back. She stared in shock at the bright yellow handle quivering between his shoulder blades.

Lillian stood over him, her poor injured face alight with hatred.

“Bastard,” she said, and spat on the corpse.

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