“Murderer,” Estanguet said.
Agnes darted around the tapestry screen. At the far end of the room, Frédéric Estanguet pinned Arsov against the deep bed. The old man’s face was pale gray and his eyes were closed. Agnes saw the glint of a long knife in Estanguet’s hand and she leapt forward. He saw her and flicked the blade toward Arsov’s throat. She halted, the element of surprise lost.
“He killed my sister,” Estanguet said. “Took the last family I had.”
The tiniest thread of blood appeared on the pale blue silk of Arsov’s pajamas. Agnes watched in horror as it blossomed across his chest. Agnes knew there was no time to reason with Estanguet. Arsov was too weak. She grabbed an antique bronze inkwell, took aim, and threw it. The metal struck Estanguet’s head, knocking him to the floor. The dagger flew from his hand. Seizing the opportunity, she lunged, but Estanguet scrambled to find his weapon and Agnes felt his hand come in contact with her ankle. Pain seared her leg and she was thrown off balance. Blood sprayed the floor and she realized he had sliced her calf. With her other foot, she stepped on his wrist, but he was strong despite his age and pulled free, throwing her against a table. Glass shattered.
Lying on her back, scrambling to avoid Estanguet, she searched for a weapon. Anything heavy or sharp. Estanguet laughed, a sickening sound of hysteria, and slashed at her chest with the dagger. She kicked him away and pain shot up her injured leg like fire. She clambered to her feet, her head reeling. “Your sister wouldn’t want you to do this. This doesn’t honor Anne-Marie’s memory.”
“You don’t know what he did to me. Sent me to live with those terrible people. I heard my sister cry, she didn’t want to send me away and he took me. Then he made me an orphan.”
“War is terrible. Many children lost their parents. No one wanted this to happen to you. Anne-Marie cried because she knew she would miss you, but she knew it was for the best. A new family. A safe family. You were safer away from Resistance operations.”
She sensed that Estanguet was torn between targets. His eyes darted between her and Arsov. She gripped the side of a table for balance.
“He sent me away to be a slave. Those people. The Estanguets,” he spat, “they made me work for every scrap of food. I slept in an attic, did the hardest farm chores. The other kids beat me up. He did this to me.”
The red stain on Arsov’s chest expanded, no longer a blossoming flower but a river. “Your sister loved Monsieur Arsov,” Agnes said. “They tried to do what was right for you. It was wartime, there were no perfect solutions, particularly for innocent children. They thought the family would take care of you. Treat you like the son they had lost.”
Estanguet lunged for her. She moved quickly, dodging his blade and sidestepping the table, practically falling onto Arsov’s bed. The old man’s eyes fluttered.
“Anne-Marie?” he said weakly. “Frédéric?”
“Yes, me,” Estanguet said. “The little boy you sent away. The little boy who had to change his name—”
“Frédéric?” Arsov repeated.
Agnes pulled her scarf off and pressed it to Arsov’s side, trying to staunch the blood that now dripped from his chest to his legs. “He thought he was saving you,” she said. “The invasion threatened.”
“What do you know?” Estanguet raged. “Those people were not my parents and they never let me forget it. Their oldest son threatened to hand me over to the Nazis and they didn’t stop him taunting me. Every day I lived in fear. I knew what the monster Nazis were and every day I thought I would be sent to them. To be tortured and killed. Even after the war, when the boys at school mocked me for being circumcised, they did nothing to protect me. And when my false parents died, they left me with nothing. A teenage boy with no name of his own and no family. They made me take their name and I had nothing left. I was no longer Frédéric Faivre. What boy understands this? Why should this be forgiven? Why should this man live to be old, rich, doing whatever pleases him, when she is dead and I am alone? I was alone my entire life. He took everything from me. My name, my family. The life that should have been mine.”
Agnes felt woozy and understood that blood was pooling in her shoe. The cut to her leg was deep. Estanguet had lost touch with reality overnight. His eyes were no longer those of an elderly villager, they were crazed.
“I took what he loves,” he said. “Let’s see how he feels when Mimi is never found. I was never found. No one ever came for me. No family claimed me after the war. She will die and he will always know that he killed her. He won’t know where she is but he will know she is dead. This is my revenge. He came here with his trucks of antiques and here, in Switzerland, I will have revenge for what happened all those years ago.”