A needle of light pricked the darkness, like the slender shaft drifting through a keyhole. Then he smelled woodsmoke mixing with the salty air.
Was another house nearby? He knew well the risks of seeking shelter, but if he didn’t try, he’d regret it.
Instead of running away from the house, he followed the trail of light and smoke.
Brigitte moaned softly, stirring in his arms. “Be still,” he whispered, so different from his commands to run.
This time she listened.
The light drew closer, but so did the dogs, the haunting sound of their hunt echoing through the trees. They had to get inside, hide from the animals and the men who hunted them.
But the light in the woods didn’t come from a house. It trickled out of a rambling structure built of towers and stone. A fortress of old.
Dietmar rapped on the massive front door, praying he would find a friend on the other side.
A man dressed in a black robe answered his knock, a lantern clutched in his hand and a silver cross dangling from his neck. He glanced down at Brigitte, then up at the flashes of torchlight in the trees.
“Quickly,” the monk commanded, ushering them into a great hall. The man shut the door behind them and slid a bolt. Nothing would keep the Nazis out, Dietmar knew, but perhaps the bolt would slow them down.
The monk lifted Brigitte from his arms.
“I won’t leave her,” Dietmar said.
The monk studied him before speaking again. “Come with me then.”
Dietmar heard a knock as they rushed through a series of stone corridors, up into a room with ten beds, six of them already filled.
There was no time to change into nightdress, but the monk took the knapsack from Dietmar’s shoulder and tucked it into a closet. Brigitte, he laid in one bed. Then Dietmar climbed into the one next to hers.
“You must listen,” the monk said in German, and Brigitte’s head turned toward him. “No matter what happens, keep the covers over your clothing and your eyes closed. The only children we house here are ones who cannot see.”
Brigitte’s eyes fluttered shut, but as the monk locked the door behind him, Dietmar glanced toward the window. Faint rays of moonlight stole into the musty space, and he saw the faces of the sleeping children around them. None but he and Brigitte were aware of the enemy downstairs.
Yet inside these formidable walls, he felt safe.
He prayed that God would bring them through this night. That He would provide food for their stomachs and nourish Brigitte’s empty soul.
When he heard footsteps outside the door, the lock clicking as it opened, he closed his eyes so he wouldn’t see the lightning stripes down the collars of men who wanted to take everything from him.
It seemed to him that the entire world was blind to the Nazis’ evil scheme.
Tonight he would pretend to be blind to their scheme as well.
CHAPTER 11
_____
A server bustled around the white-cloaked table at the restaurant, interrupting Lucas’s story. Quenby uncurled her fingers from the edge of her chair, returning to the clamor inside the dining room, the glare of streetlights filtering through the window.
In her mind, she’d been right there in the dark forest with the children, running from the Gestapo. She could hear the clicking of boots across the cold stone floor, eyes examining the face of each child, awake or asleep.
She couldn’t imagine how Brigitte and Dietmar must have felt. Two children trying to survive. Strangers in a hostile country, desperately needing a home.
“Quenby?” Lucas whispered.
She blinked. “What?”
He motioned toward the server. “This gentleman is inquiring about your meal.”
“I can return later,” the man said, clearly concerned about her mental state.
“No, I—” She scanned the menu. “I’ll have the white onion soup and pearl barley risotto.”
The server took their menus, and Quenby turned toward Lucas again. “Did the Nazis find them in Belgium?”
Lucas smiled. “I’ll finish the story after dinner.”
She leaned back in her chair. “I’m not going to leave here before I eat.”
“Still,” he said, the firelight from their candle flickering on the glass behind him. “It’s collateral.”
She sipped on mineral water as she studied the man sitting across from her, his dark-brown eyes and the shadow of a goatee around his lips. The arrogance in his gaze had been replaced by something else. Admiration, she might even think, if she wasn’t convinced he thought himself elite compared to her.
Perhaps it was still a game for him to win. Mr. Knight wanted to hire her, so Lucas needed to be cordial to her. The second she declined the work—or found Brigitte—his cold shoulder would turn her way again.
In the meantime, she’d regain her own professionalism and return his attempts at friendliness, no matter how feigned. “So you won’t tell me any more about Mr. Knight as a boy—”
“In time, Miss Vaughn.”
“How about you?” she asked.
He shook his head. “This isn’t about me.”
“What were you like as a boy?”
“Ornery,” he answered. “Inquisitive.”