“She’s as well as ever,” said Von Sternburg. “It’s your husband.”
For an instant, a terrible hope took hold of Daisy’s heart. “What’s happened?” she demanded. “Is he dead?”
“Not dead. I’m afraid I’ve heard word that he’s shortly going to be arrested.” Von Sternburg glanced at Kit, and then back at Daisy. “For crimes against the German state.”
Though the Ritz was only a few minutes’ walk away, Von Sternburg did not accompany her. “I have another urgent errand,” he said, glancing away, “and besides, it is perhaps best if we are not seen together, at the present time.”
So Daisy continued on to rue Cambon, while Von Sternburg hurried around the corner and out of sight. The streets were cold and bare, the few pedestrians hunched over with hunger and anxiety. When she reached the warmth of the lobby, Daisy drew in a long, relieved breath. Surely nothing terrible could happen here, inside the Ritz.
Upstairs, however, her confidence drained away. Grandmère paced across the rug in her kaftan of emerald silk, pausing only to add another splash of cognac into the glass she clutched in her hand. Daisy folded her arms. “Should you be drinking at a time like this?”
“At a time like this, absolutely,” said Grandmère. “Did your German friend explain the situation?”
“He’s not my friend,” said Daisy. “But yes, he did tell me something interesting. Pierre’s to be arrested, no?”
“Within the day, according to Von Sternburg.”
“And you believe him?”
“About this?” Grandmère set down the glass on the sofa table. “I do.”
“I don’t understand why you trust him. Mon Dieu, he’s a German officer! It might be a trap. Probably it is a trap. And now he knows about the bookshop, about Kit, about the hidden room—”
“My dear, don’t you realize? He’s always known. All this time, all these months, Lieutenant Colonel von Sternburg has been your truest friend. Why do you think you haven’t been discovered? Arrested, like all the others? Do you think it’s because you’re such a very clever spy?”
Daisy stared at her grandmother across the yards of soft, pastel carpet, the fragrant Ritz air. As always, Grandmère sparkled with jewels, on her earlobes and neck and tiny, pale fingers. She was like one of those delicate figures inside a music box, so crusted over by paste you almost couldn’t see where the fakery ended and the reality began. But her face. Oh, that was genuine, all right. Her eyes glared at Daisy, fringed by overlong, overthick, bristle-black eyelashes.
“That’s ridiculous,” said Daisy. “Why would such a man protect me? I don’t even know him.”
Grandmère gave her a worldly look and turned away to stride across the room, toward the curio case. “Regardless. The game’s up. They’ve intercepted some intelligence that could only have originated with Pierre—some report of yours—and now they’re just waiting for the proper warrant to come through. Even the Gestapo, it seems, must follow certain protocols where French officials are concerned. So it gives us a little time.”
“Time for what? There’s nothing we can do. If we try to save Pierre, they’ll only discover what’s really going on.”
Grandmère bent over the case and reached underneath for the latch. “It’s already too late. They’ll be searching your apartment—”
“The apartment’s clean. They won’t find anything.” Daisy said it desperately, trying to hold on to some hope, some possibility of reprieve. “I know what to say. They think I’m just some empty-headed housewife—”
“Daisy.” Grandmère turned to face her. “It’s time to go. You and the children, you’ve got to flee.”
“I—I can’t. We can’t. There’s still so much work to do, and the network needs agents and money. I can’t abandon them now. And Kit . . . and the children . . .”
“Daisy, the game’s up. You’re finished, at least for now. Legrand will be reassigned elsewhere, and you and I—”
“No!”
“—you and I will find some place to regroup, to see the children safe.” Her voice turned soft. “Oh, Daisy, my darling, I understand. I can see you’re in love. But it’s war, and such things cannot be allowed to compromise the safety of others. Do you want Legrand to be captured?”