During the day hours, they rested in some sort of hiding place. A cave or abandoned barn or—like today—a grove of trees. As the weeks passed, they found more country homes empty, more gardens overgrown. Had the Gestapo whisked those residents away as well?
He didn’t mention his thoughts to Brigitte. She’d grown even quieter since autumn had settled upon them, and he feared she was slipping away in her sadness. Desperate, he tried to make her laugh again, tried to rescue her from her sorrow before she drowned in it. But no matter how hard he tried, he seemed to be failing her.
“Brigitte,” he whispered, nudging her wet shoulder. “It’s time to go.”
She moaned again. “Mama?”
He reached for her, pulling her to him like he could be both mother and father, protect and care for her. When she shook him away, he felt her forehead, the back of his hand resting on her skin. It was a fire ablaze. An inferno.
When had she caught fever?
In the distance, beyond the trees, he heard a noise. Then the sound he feared most—barking dogs. His heart started to race.
Brigitte collapsed back into the wet leaves. The darkness. “I’m staying here,” she said. “Forever.”
He knelt beside her. “We have to go a little farther, Brigitte. Until we reach the channel.”
Her eyes closed. “Mama and Papa are waiting for me.”
“No,” he replied, his heart stricken at the mention of her mother. “They are waiting for us on the other side of the water.”
When she shook her head, he tugged on her arm, repeating their mantra. “We must run.”
“We’ve run and run,” she whispered. “Yet we never get anywhere.” Her body stilled, limp on the ground, an edifice of grief when they both needed wings.
The dogs weren’t far now. Their howls resonated through the forest, echoed between the trees.
Was the Gestapo tracking them?
“Please, Brigitte,” he begged. They couldn’t stop running now.
When she didn’t answer, he strung his knapsack over his shoulder and lifted her in his arms.
If she couldn’t run, he would carry her.
CHAPTER 8
_____
While Lucas met privately with Mr. Knight inside, Quenby stepped out onto the back patio of the castle, overlooking the white froth of sea. On a terrace below, deck chairs surrounded a tropical swimming pool.
Her hands shook slightly after her conversation with the man inside. A dozen questions sprouted in her mind and then tangled together like the shoots of vine running over the trellis on the patio, blocking the sunlight.
Mr. Knight had told her the story of his childhood, about fleeing from Germany in 1940 and traveling through Belgium with Brigitte. The country was about the size of Maryland—a journey that would take three hours by car today—but he said they’d spent almost two months dodging both Germans and Belgians who feared their occupiers more than they wanted to help two German kids.
He hadn’t told her yet how he and Brigitte had been separated. Nor what information his investigators had discovered when they’d searched for her.
If his detectives could find out about Quenby’s mother, why couldn’t they find Brigitte?
Perhaps she’d gotten cynical during her four years as a journalist, but she’d talked to plenty of people willing to make up a story—embellish a few facts even—to see their names in print. If he didn’t seem so averse to the spotlight, she’d suspect that Mr. Knight might be making up a story, seeking attention in his last years.
Then again, Brigitte might be a means to some sort of end she wasn’t privy to. Or Mr. Knight’s memories of this journey could have altered over the years.
He said he would hand over the file he had on Brigitte and the Ricker family after she decided to search for Brigitte. Other questions she had were for the girl that he’d lost, the most pressing one being, if she was still alive, where had she been hiding for the past seventy-five years?
Maybe Brigitte didn’t know that Mr. Knight was searching for her. Or maybe—like Quenby’s mother—she didn’t want to be found.
Quenby’s fingers twitched again at her side, and she lifted her face to bask in the glorious sunshine, something that had evaded London for weeks.
Mr. Knight was correct—the yellow-and-pink strands of a sunrise were her favorite colors this time of year—but how did he know that? How did he know the name of the man she’d dated last year? And most disconcerting—how did he know her mother had abandoned her? She’d thought that story had been buried two decades ago. Never to be exhumed.
In spite of the warm air, she shivered at the memories.
Impossible to love—that’s what Brandon had said about her when he’d ended their short-lived dating relationship. And he’d been frustrated with her obsession for work. She might physically leave the office at night, but her mind was always churning, putting together the pieces of a story. Chewing was what he’d called it their last time together. Chewing the cud.