Elise watched from the window as Madame Roche emerged from the house and strode toward the approaching vehicle, scanning the horizon all around to make sure that no one was watching. The farmhouse was situated in the perfect place for clandestine comings and goings, for the land around sloped gradually down, leveling out into fields and, in the distance, trees lining the road toward town. There was only one way to approach by vehicle, and it was easy to see for several kilometers in each direction, so one would spot a surprise visitor many minutes before he arrived at the door.
The truck squealed to a halt in front of the house and Monsieur Léandre alighted and exchanged a few words with Madame Roche before crossing to the bed of the truck and lifting a large blanket, which he’d held in place with a few barrels. He said something, and from beneath the cover scrambled four children, two boys and two girls, who looked quizzically up at Monsieur Léandre. He gestured to Madame Roche and said something else, and nodding, the children followed, the tallest boy leading the way. Elise couldn’t see their faces from the window, but they all looked healthy and well-fed, which was a relief. In the half year she’d been here, only two of the children had arrived ill or terribly malnourished, but both had been difficult to nurse back to health.
She turned back to the stew, tasting it for seasoning—it was predictably, unavoidably bland—and began to ladle servings into dishes. The children would be hungry, and welcoming them with food would go a little way toward indicating that this was a home where they’d be cared for. It was a crucial first step to building trust.
The front door opened and closed, and she could hear Madame Roche’s voice, as devoid of warmth as always, and the children’s timid footsteps as they all approached the kitchen. “Madame Denaes,” Madame Roche said, and Elise turned with a welcoming smile, holding a steaming helping of stew, as though filling their bellies could erase the loneliness that came from leaving home, the fear that came from not knowing where they were headed next.
Later, in the attic, with Madame Roche in the barn speaking to Bernard about something, Elise was helping the children prepare their makeshift beds when the older girl, who went by the name Thérèse, reached out to touch her cheek, as if afraid she wasn’t real. “How many children have come through here, Madame Denaes?”
Elise wasn’t supposed to discuss the specifics with any of them, for if they were captured, any information they possessed could be used against them, and against the network. “Too many,” she said.
“How long do they stay?” the smallest boy, who went by Roland, asked. “Will we be here for a long while?”
“I don’t know,” Elise answered honestly as she turned to help him tuck his sheets in around the corners of his straw mattress. “You’ll be moved as soon as the network can get you out safely.”
“Where will we go?” Thérèse asked.
“I don’t know that, either. But you will be safe.”
“How can you promise that?” Thérèse’s eyes filled with tears. “My mother promised it, too—that we would be safe. That our family would be all right as long as we followed the rules. She was nearly first in line to pick up our stars. And then she was one of the first the police came for.”
Elise blinked back tears. “I’m so sorry, Thérèse.”
“That’s not my name,” the girl said. “That’s just the name they call me. It cannot erase who I am, though. I won’t let it.”
“No one wants to erase you, dear girl,” Elise said instantly. “But we’re not our names. We are who we are in the core of our beings. And God will always know you, wherever you go.” She thought fleetingly of Mathilde, living with a name that wasn’t entirely hers, with parents she didn’t belong to, and she cleared her throat before she could burst into tears, which would only frighten the children.
“I want to stay here for a long time,” little Roland murmured as he climbed into his bed with a yawn.
“Get some sleep,” Elise said. “I am not going anywhere tonight, and neither are you. You are safe here, all of you.”
That night in her own room, she lit a candle and added a sweep of white clouds to her ceiling, along with four new stars, twinkling among the masses. Then she lay on her back and stared up at the darkness, imagining that she and Mathilde were together, gazing at the same sky, waiting for exhaustion to overtake them.
It took hours for her to fall asleep, but when she did, she dreamed of Mathilde, floating in the sky above Paris, as ephemeral as a wisp of smoke. “Mathilde!” she called to her daughter, as loudly as she could, desperate to bring her back to earth. But Mathilde just smiled and tilted her head heavenward, floating away until she disappeared entirely, leaving Elise screaming below her on the ground.
* * *
A week later, the children were gone, and the house was empty again. Madame Roche had gone into town, and when she heard a truck rumbling up the drive, she went to the window to peer out. It was Monsieur Léandre, the butcher, and as he drew closer, she could see from the window that Bernard was in the passenger seat. Were there more children coming without warning?
She walked to the front door and let herself out, just as the truck pulled to a stop and Bernard hopped down. “Everything all right?” she called, her stomach swimming uneasily.
“Just a delivery,” he replied, crossing to the back of the truck.
She took a few steps forward, expecting a few children to tumble down from the truck bed, in need of shelter. Her mind was already spinning with thoughts of what she could prepare for dinner with so little notice and almost no supplies.
But instead of children, Bernard began unloading big, thick hunks of wood, pieces of tree trunks that had been cut into neat logs three feet high. “Where would you like them?” he shouted to her.
“What is all this?” she asked.
“It’s wood,” he told her, unnecessarily.
“Are you building something?” she asked, still confused.
He stopped and squinted at her. “No, you are. Madame Roche didn’t tell you?”
“About what?”
“She asked me to go out into the woods and find you some wood suitable to work with. Something about your being a carver? I’ve brought some tools for you, too—Madame Noirot ordered them.”
Elise’s mouth fell open as she stared at him. “Madame Roche and Madame Noirot did that? For me?”
He shrugged. “I hope walnut will do. I’ll bring them to the barn.”
Stunned, she followed behind him. Once he’d set down the first pile of logs, he straightened and pulled a fabric roll from his back pocket. “Chisels,” he said. “Madame Noirot gave me a sharpening stone for you, too. It’s in the truck.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
Bernard shrugged. He didn’t seem to have a response either. “What are you going to make?” he asked, nodding at the raw wood.
Elise stared down at it. She had worked mostly in limewood; walnut would be a new beast to tame. But the familiar energy sizzled through her fingers now, and she felt drawn to it. She bent and stroked it along its rough edges, feeling the heat radiate from it, the potential. “My daughter.”
Bernard nodded like he understood, and then he was walking away, toward the truck to bring the rest of the materials in. Elise turned back to the logs in awe, already imagining Mathilde’s face in the swirls and knots, already planning how she would coax her daughter from the wood, which would have to be enough until the stars led her home.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The world swam into gradual focus, dust hanging in the air like a fog, the acrid smell of smoke tickling Juliette’s nose as she forced her eyes open. Where was she? All around her, the world was broken and gray, and her head throbbed. From far away, she could hear shouts, sirens, wailing, but in this space, the silence was a wool blanket, muffling everything else.
Her whole body hurt, and there was something heavy on her left leg. She sat up to push it aside but realized that she could barely move it. She blinked into the darkness, her eyes burning with the smoke, until she could see the outlines of the room. Where had all the light gone? Where were the windows? Where was the store?
That’s when she realized that the heavy object weighing on her leg was a bookcase that had somehow fallen over backward on her, the shelves faceup, still holding their books, as though the world had simply tilted sideways. None of it made any sense.
“Paul!” she called, choking on dust and smoke as she took a great gulp of air. She clawed at the books in the case, flinging them out, trying to make the heavy piece of furniture light enough to move. “Paul, what has happened?”
But there was no answer. Where was Paul? Her head throbbed and her vision swam as she tried desperately to put the pieces together. Just before the world had gone black, she had been in the children’s section, just about to grab the boys. Suddenly, her heart skipped a beat, then two. Surely Paul wasn’t answering because he had reached the children, had gotten them to safety in the cellar, right?