“The demoiselle?”
“Yes. The daughter of the family. She was the last of the line, you see. She had no brothers or sisters. So after she was gone, there was no one.”
I translated for Drew, who nodded with interest, his attention focused on the stained glass in the alcove. “Ask him if he knows why Joan of Arc is featured in the window—if there’s any significance there.”
“Oui.” Monsieur le Curé nodded sagely after I’d asked the question. “The comtesse was blessed by Saint Jeanne herself and when the saint was martyred, the comtesse obtained a relic of cloth dipped in the blood of the blessed saint and made it into a talisman. The talisman is very powerful, but only if held in the hands of the demoiselle. The legend dictates that it can only be passed down by females in the de Courcelles family, and that France will never fall as long as the demoiselle holds the talisman.”
Drew’s eyes narrowed as I translated. “Ask him where the talisman is now.”
The curate waited for me to speak, then slowly shook his head. “It disappeared sometime in the last war. No one knows what happened to it.”
Drew and I were silent for a moment, digesting this news, wondering how it all fit together. “One last question, if you don’t mind,” I said. “Have you ever heard of a connection between the famous spy of the French Resistance, La Fleur, and the Courcelles?”
His eyes widened in shock. “No, madame. And I would know, having been intimately acquainted with the family for so many years. I never met La Fleur. I would have known her if I had. It is said her eyes could kill a man with their intensity, and that she spit fire from her mouth.” He made the sign of the cross. “It can’t be blasphemy, as she was on God’s side.”
“Of course not.” A loud rumble of hunger pains came from Drew, who was busily studying the ceiling. After a quick glance in his direction, I said, “Merci, Monsieur le Curé. You have been most helpful.”
“Thank you for visiting. Please come back.” He looked so singular and lonely that I almost promised that I would.
Instead I thanked him again then waited for Drew to say his goodbyes before we exited the chapel together, the bright sun nearly blinding us. His stomach let out another loud rumble.
“So,” I said. “What do you think?”
“I think I’m hungry,” he said. “And I can’t think on an empty stomach. Let’s go eat.”
“But we just ate,” I protested, following him back toward the path. “How can you possibly be hungry again?”
He stopped to grin at me, making something in my chest flutter. “Well, Babs, that’s something you should know about me. I’m always hungry.”
There was something in the way he’d said it that made the blood rush to my face. I quickly ducked my head, then led the way to the path, ignoring him until he reached for my hand, bringing me to a halt. I looked up into his eyes, wondering—or hoping—for something I could not name.
“It will be more slippery on the way down. Hold my hand so if you slide, I’ll be there to keep you upright.”
Too embarrassed to speak, I allowed him to wrap his large hand around mine and hold it until we’d reached the bottom of the path and entered the clearing, not daring to look at him until both of his hands were firmly on the steering wheel of the car, and we were headed to a café en route to Paris.
Chapter Seventeen
Aurélie
The Chateau de Courcelles
Picardy, France
December 1914
It would have been unthinkable in Paris, kissing Maximilian von Sternburg in a graveyard, at the dead of night. Kissing Maximilian von Sternburg anywhere, really. Not just because she was a well brought up young lady—well, somewhat well brought up—but because he was Herr von Sternburg, polite, attentive, reserved.
He wasn’t reserved now.
Maybe it was because the rest of the world had been stripped away. Maybe it was because it was Christmas Eve, and a time for magic. Maybe it had always been there and she just hadn’t seen it. He kissed her the way she drove a car, with complete assurance and more than a little recklessness. Aurélie found herself clinging to his shoulders, feeling as though they were careening down a mountain road, screeching along the corners, the wind in her hair and the world blurring around her, her pulse leaping, feeling alive, so very alive, dizzy and excited and drunk on it all.
He smelled of violets, like springtime in the midst of winter. His hair was surprisingly soft beneath her fingers, not slicked back and stiff with cream the way some men wore it. The ends tickled her palm.