“Yes?”
“You are you,” he said to her, as she had said to him what felt a very long time ago. “You are remarkable just as you are. There is no one else in the world like you and there is no one else for me. And I don’t care if you’ve read Plato or Kant or last week’s Paris-Midi.”
“I haven’t got last week’s Paris-Midi. Or last month’s. And half the time I didn’t bother to read it, anyway.”
“You see?” said Max, and she could hear the tenderness in his voice. “You are the most honest person I know. The most honest and the most honorable.”
Except when she wasn’t.
She could feel the talisman between them, as if it were there. She had lied to him about the talisman; she had lied to him about everything. Except what had happened between them in this bed. That much was true.
“But I’m not.” Aurélie drew back a bit, determined to disabuse him. “I was meant to beguile you, you know. To rifle your conversation for spare bits of intelligence.”
“It’s just as well I haven’t any, then,” said Max, but when she didn’t smile at it, he drew her closer. “My heart, don’t you think I know? You were never subtle about it.”
“I wasn’t?” Aurélie wasn’t sure whether she ought to be offended.
Max affected a falsetto. “‘Goodness, it’s cold for November, isn’t it, and by the way, have you heard anything about an offensive?’”
Aurélie pushed against his chest with both hands. “I never sounded like that.”
“I paraphrased,” said Max, unabashed, and Aurélie wrinkled her nose at him, even though she wasn’t quite sure he could see it in the darkness. His voice changed, grew serious. “I have heard one thing, though.”
“Are you really sure you should be telling me? I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”
“You really aren’t very good at being a spy, are you?” said Max tenderly.
“No,” Aurélie agreed glumly. “I’d make a much better general.”
“So you should. I shouldn’t want to stand against you. But this isn’t like that. Everyone will know soon enough.”
“What?” There was something about his tone that made her very nervous.
Max stared up at the ceiling, choosing his words carefully. “The High Command has decided there are too many mouths to feed in the occupied territories. They have decided to allow a select number of people to leave. Women and children and men too old to till the fields,” he specified.
“Leave for where?” Too many people had already been sent to work camps in Germany.
“To France—the other parts of France, that is. The convoy will travel first to Switzerland, and from there, back into France. They mean not to tell anyone until a few days before, so that people won’t have much time to prepare. The first convoy will leave in June.” There was a moment of silence, before Max said, “I should like you to be in it.”
Aurélie sat up, accidentally elbowing him in the chest. “Me?”
Max looked at her gravely. “You. I would feel better knowing that you were safely in Paris.”
Aurélie pleated the sheet with her fingers, trying to make sense of what he was saying. “But . . . what about my people?”
“They have your father to look after them. Isn’t that what you said?”
Yes, when he wasn’t risking his own skin playing with pigeons. Aurélie shoved her tousled hair away from her face. “But Hoffmeister would never let me go.”
“No. But if you were to acquire forged papers, you could be gone before he realized. You would have to cover your hair. You’re too recognizable as you are. But it could be done.”
Aurélie stared at the outlines of his face, wishing she dared light the lamp. “You’ve thought of this before.”
“As soon as I heard about the evacuations.” They were only centimeters apart, but Max suddenly felt very far away. Quietly, he said, “If you go, I’ll go.”
Aurélie bristled. “That’s not fair. You can’t tie your survival to my desertion!”
“Aren’t you asking me to do the same? To desert to save myself?”
He didn’t need to sound so damnably reasonable. “I’m not telling you to desert! Only to get yourself reassigned.”
“And is that not the same as what I ask of you?” Max took her limp hands in his, chafing them gently to warm them. “Aurélie, I don’t know what plots and intrigues you’ve embroiled yourself in. I don’t want to know. All I ask is that you conduct them from Paris, not here.”