Maggie exhaled in relief, then followed the groom the opposite way down the carpeted hallway. He turned a ceramic knob, opening the door. “Welcome to the Ritz, mademoiselle,” he intoned, bowing, then handing her the iron key. “Do you need help unpacking? I can send one of the maids up to assist.”
“No.” Maggie wanted nothing more than to close the door and find solitude. But she forced herself to smile. “No, thank you.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a few coins, which she pressed into his gloved palm.
He bowed low. “Thank you, mademoiselle. We hope you enjoy your stay.”
She closed the door, locked it, took a breath of potpourri-scented air, then looked around.
As André had warned, the room was tiny, with a low, slanted ceiling, a small fireplace, and dormer windows. It was furnished simply, with a brass bed covered by a silk duvet and knife-edge pillows, a diminutive walnut desk and chair, and a cloisonné armoire. There was a vase of red roses on the bedside table and a few prints of exotic birds dotted the walls, as well as a gilt-framed reproduction of Gilbert’s La Belle au bois dormant. Above the mantel, a Swiss carriage clock ticked, cutting through the luxurious silence.
Maggie dropped her handbag on the bed, slipped off her shoes, and unpinned and took off her hat. Outside, a sun shower was beginning. The drops thrummed against the windowpanes, though the sky above was blue.
She let out a long, shuddering sigh, finally able to unclench—at least a bit—and to process what she had seen and experienced since leaving the Charcots’ house.
The murder.
She went into the bathroom and ran both the sink’s taps, scrubbing flecks of blood off her hands with a fresh cake of hyacinth-scented soap.
Then she went back to her handbag and took out the bloody gloves, and brought them back to the bathroom. She put in the sink stop, ran cold water, and dropped them in to soak, the water turning a rusty red. The German’s blood, she thought. But he, at least, will be fine—while the Frenchman on the bicycle is dead. Does his family know yet? What lies will they be told?
She considered her reflection in the beveled mirror, seeing the remnants of the panic and horror she’d concealed at the time of the murder. She released her hair from its pins and clips. What am I even doing here? she thought, wiping at her ashen face with a damp washcloth, inspecting it for any traces of blood.
Her decision to come to Paris had been so fast—rash, even—and then, after flying in, she’d been so focused on her mission, on getting her identity papers, then finding Erica Calvert and Elise, that she’d never questioned anything. But now, finally, at her destination in her new persona, she was furious with herself. Why did I ever think I could find not one but two missing women in an occupied city? She refused to entertain the possibility that both Erica and Elise might be dead. And why did I think I could make it out alive myself?
Still, she was here for a mission, and that was what she would do. The first order of business was to settle in. She unpacked, starting with her toiletries case: Cadum tooth powder and toothbrush, Occupation-regulated shampoo, French-brand sanitary towels. An almost empty bottle of Joy perfume, memories wafting from it.
As she hung up her clothes, she heard a church bell strike the false Berlin time. She went to the window and opened it. The rain had stopped; the sun was shining unimpeded. Looking down at the Rue Cambon, she could see a line of men in suits and hats on the wet cobblestone pavement, still holding up black umbrellas. Hastily, she stepped back from the window frame and checked to see if she was visible from any sight lines, if anyone was looking.
When she realized what she was doing instinctively, she felt an almost overwhelming loneliness. She was an agent now. A spy. She hadn’t talked to anyone for weeks besides Jacques, the Charcots, and then a few words with the agent who’d just arrived. The last time she’d seen her Aunt Edith was in Washington, D.C., and only for a scant day, fraught with frustrations and misunderstandings. Her father was dead, and her mother most likely was, too. It had been weeks since she’d been with her friends, the people who were her true family—David, Freddie, and Chuck. And even though her fellow agents Sarah and Hugh were also in Paris, it would be far too dangerous to make any contact with them.
As for her romantic life…John was courting divorcées in Los Angeles, Hugh was in love with Sarah, and she’d had only the occasional letter from the American soldier Tom O’Brian at Fort Bragg. And as for Detective Chief Inspector James Durgin…Well, they hadn’t even had a proper date, only a brief connection while catching a Jack-the-Ripper-inspired killer. What kind of relationship did that portend? Not to mention he was older, divorced, a recovering alcoholic….
Maggie was twenty-seven now, a veritable old maid. So what’s wrong with me? She’d panicked when John had asked her to marry him nearly two years before. She’d run to Hugh when she thought John had died—only to leave him. And then, when she and John had had another chance in Washington, she’d panicked again. Tom—well, that was easy—he was leaving. And then with Durgin…Well, nothing had really happened; there had been no time after the case closed and she’d left for France. Jacques was safe—off-limits—besides, she’d probably never even see him again.
Basically, I have no problem parachuting out of a plane or fighting Nazis, but I can’t seem to fall—no, stay—in love.
Her Aunt Edith had raised her to be strong, self-sufficient, and independent. And she was. Except whenever she was with a man, part of her was always terrified. She couldn’t be weak, couldn’t be vulnerable, couldn’t be out of control. She loved mathematics partly for its cold beauty, its lack of emotion. In math, either you were right, or you were wrong. Math couldn’t hurt you, abandon you, leave you, damage you.
Freud would have a field day. Wasn’t that what had led her to sabotage things with John in America? If she were honest with herself, she had to admit she didn’t really think he was with a divorcée. Picking a fight with him had been easier than maybe moving to Los Angeles, getting engaged, starting a new life. Because what if she needed him? Would he run away and leave her, like her father did?
Her heart hurt, literally hurt, and she pressed her hands to her chest, as though to postpone its breaking. I need to forgive my father for not being the man I needed him to be. She put her arms around herself. Maybe someday.
No wonder finding her sister—her half sister—felt so important. She tried to picture Elise Hess, whom she’d met on her mission to Berlin over a year ago, and failed miserably, evoking only blond hair and the ghost of a sweet smile. I don’t even remember what she looks like. How am I going to find her?
She ran the taps in the claw-foot tub and began to undress. Pull it together, Hope. All she wanted to do was get into a bath and wash away the horror of the day.
She threw in a generous handful of bath salts, then slipped under the surface of the hot water—courtesy of the Nazis, she realized; no one else in Paris had hot water. For a moment, she was able to lean back, relax the muscles in her neck and shoulders, and clear her mind.
But not for long. As she breathed in the fragrant air, she was startled by a knock.
“Who is it?” she called, heart racing. She stepped out of the tub and grabbed a peach-colored towel. Had she been found out? What could have given her away?
“It’s Coco,” came the hard-edged voice.
Maggie found a bathrobe and cracked open the door, flustered and dripping. Chanel didn’t seem to notice. “Do you enjoy the ballet?” the couturiere asked without preamble.
“Er…yes?”
“I seem to have an extra ticket for tonight. The Paris Opéra Ballet,” Chanel explained, as if Maggie were a slow child, “at the Palais Garnier. Would you like to join me?”