A fairy-tale castle on an island, in the middle of a man-made lake, surrounded by wildflowers, where Max would teach their children to swim. Aurélie felt dizzy, lost between worlds. I’ll come for you at the Ritz, Max had said. At the Ritz. And surely he would. Not now perhaps, but in a month, in a year, when the war was over. If it would ever be over.
“Come, I’ll have Marie draw a bath for you immediately.” Her mother was shepherding her to her dressing table, easing her down into a chair, unpinning the soiled hat from her soiled hair. “My dear, your hair.”
“The dye will wear out.” Suzanne had told her that a lifetime ago, as she had steeped walnut hulls in a basin in the kitchen at Courcelles.
“It already is,” said her mother, unpinning the dirty coils of hair on top of Aurélie’s head, fanning them out. “You’re piebald, my darling.”
It was so very strange, sitting in this familiar chair, in front of her old mirror. But the face in the mirror was nearly unrecognizable. It wasn’t just the hair dye, or the grime. The old Aurélie had been different. So sure of herself. So impatient. So young. “I had to travel incognito. I’m a widow. Jeanne Deschamps.”
In the mirror, she saw her mother press her eyes tightly shut, letting out a breath. “That explains it.”
“Explains what?”
“The clothes,” her mother said, a little too quickly. “Relax, relax, don’t try to get up. You look dead on your feet, my poor girl. Marie! Make up Miss Aurélie’s bed. Would you like me to ring for anything? Chocolate? Coffee?”
Luxuries. They hadn’t had coffee at Courcelles since the fall; chocolate had been an unknown quantity. It made Aurélie think of Max, delivering chocolate on Christmas Eve to the children of the village.
Aurélie turned in the chair to face her mother, away from her own unfamiliar face. “I scarcely know what those are anymore. We had strict rationing at Courcelles. The Germans took anything edible for themselves.”
Her mother’s hands rested briefly on her shoulders. “That must be why you’re all skin and bone. My poor girl. I’ll have Marie make up a tisane for you. Something strengthening. Let’s get you out of those hideous clothes and into one of your own nightdresses. Marie!”
Aurélie’s hands clamped down on her bulky skirt. “There are messages for you. In the seams of my petticoat. From my father. They shot the pigeons. I’d forgot . . .”
“There’s no rush.” Her mother stopped her as she started to wiggle frantically out of her petticoat, trying to get to the messages. “I’ll read them in a bit. After I get you settled. You need your rest.”
It had been different when she was traveling, suspended between worlds, but now that she was here, it all seemed real again, the flames, the clamor. There were no more pigeons. But somehow . . . she had to know what had happened. She had to let them know she was safe.
Her mother had Aurélie’s dirty petticoat draped over her arm. “I’ll just tell Marie to run your bath.”
“Wait.” Aurélie put a hand on her mother’s arm. She’d forgotten how fine-boned she was, how small, how Aurélie felt like a giantess beside her. “Is there any way to get a message to Courcelles? To my father?”
Her mother said nothing, but Aurélie could see her knuckles go white against the coarse cloth. “Shortly. Later.”
“What is it?” Fear gripped Aurélie. This wasn’t like her mother. Not at all. “Do you have news from Courcelles?”
Her mother looked at her, and, beneath her carefully applied makeup, her face was that of a much older woman. “Courcelles is gone. It burned.” Tentatively, she reached out a finger and touched Aurélie’s cheek, as if testing that she was real. “I was told you had burned with it.”
“M—someone got me out.”
Go, Max had said, and she had gone, running to the chapel to grab her carpetbag, barely stopping, even with the roar of the fire behind her, running, running. He would get her father out, Max had said, and she had believed him, because he said it with such assurance, because he loved her.
Aurélie didn’t remember sitting again, but she was. Her knees must have folded. She looked anxiously up at her mother. “My father?”
“I’m sorry.” Her mother put her arms around Aurélie, drew Aurélie’s head to her breast. Aurélie couldn’t remember the last time they had embraced like this, the last time she had let her mother hold her. “I would have let you rest at least before telling you.”