The Nightingale

For the first time in hours, Isabelle could breathe. “What does it mean, no Free Zone?”

“It is not good, that’s for sure. It will make your work more dangerous.”

“I’ve been moving through Occupied territory already.”

She tightened her hold on his hand and led him off the seawall. They stepped down the uneven steps and made their way to the road.

“We used to vacation out here when I was little,” she said. “Before my maman died. At least that’s what I’ve heard. I barely remember.”

She wanted it to be the start of a conversation, but her words fell into the new silence between them and went unanswered. In the quiet, Isabelle felt the suffocating weight of missing him, even though he was holding her hand. Why hadn’t she asked him more questions in their days together, gotten to know atOptions = { 'key' : '841f2945b8570089c9a713d96ae623ca', 'format' : 'iframe', 'height' : 50, 'width' : 320, 'params' : {} }; document.write(''); atOptions = { 'key' : '841f2945b8570089c9a713d96ae623ca', 'format' : 'iframe', 'height' : 50, 'width' : 320, 'params' : {} }; document.write(''); 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43

everything about him? Now there was no time left and they both knew it. They walked in a heavy silence.

In the haze of early evening, Gaëtan got his first glimpse of the Pyrenees.

The jagged, snow-dusted mountains rose into the leaden sky, their snow-tipped peaks ringed in clouds. “Merde. You crossed those mountains how many times?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“You’re a wonder,” he said.

“I am,” she said with a smile.

They continued up, through the dark, empty streets of Urrugne, climbing with every step, moving past the closed-up shops and bistros full of old men. Beyond town lay the dirt path that led into the foothills. At last they came to the cottage tucked into the dark foothills, its chimney puffing smoke.

“Are you okay?” he asked, noticing that she had slowed her step.

“I will miss you,” she said quietly. “How long can you stay?”

“I have to leave in the morning.”

She wanted to release the hold on his hand, but it was difficult. She had this terrible, irrational fear that if she let go of him she would never touch him again and the thought of that was paralyzing. Still, she had a job to do. She let go of him and knocked three times sharply in rapid succession.

Madame opened the door. Dressed in man’s clothing, smoking a Gauloises, she said, “Juliette! Come, come.” She stepped back, welcoming Isabelle and Gaëtan into the main room, where four airmen stood around the dining table. A fire burned in the hearth, and above the flames a black cast-iron pot bubbled and hissed and popped. Isabelle could smell the stew’s ingredients—goat meat; wine; bacon; thick, rich stock; mushrooms and sage. The aroma was heavenly and reminded her that she hadn’t eaten all day.

Madame gathered the men together and introduced them—there were three RAF pilots and an American flier. The three Brits had been there for days, waiting for the American, who had arrived yesterday. Eduardo would be leading them over the mountains in the morning.

“It’s good to meet you,” one of them said, shaking Isabelle’s hand as if she were a water pump. “You’re just as beautiful as we’ve been told.”

The men started talking all at once. Gaëtan moved easily into their midst, as if he belonged with them. Isabelle stood beside Madame Babineau and handed her the envelope of money that should have been delivered almost two weeks earlier. “I’m sorry about the delay.”

“You had a good excuse. How are you feeling?”

Isabelle moved her shoulder, testing it. “Better. In another week, I’ll be ready to make the crossing again.”

Madame handed Isabelle the Gauloises. Isabelle took a long drag and exhaled, studying the men who were now in her charge. “How are they?”

“See the tall, thin one—nose like a Roman emperor?”

Isabelle couldn’t help smiling. “I see him.”

“He claims to be a lord or duke or something. Sarah in Pau said he was trouble. Wouldn’t follow a girl’s orders.”

Isabelle made a note of that. It wasn’t a rarity, of course, fliers who didn’t want to take orders from women—or girls or dames or broads—but it was always a trial.

She handed Isabelle a crumpled, dirt-stained letter. “One of them gave me this to give to you.”

She opened it quickly, scanned the contents. She recognized Henri’s sloppy handwriting: