She put her hands on her hips. “You know nothing.”
“I know that you have tolerated his imprisonment for nearly a year, without once inquiring about his situation, much less demanding his freedom.”
Emma took a step backward. Should she have done so? “Of whom should I inquire?”
The Goat swept an arm toward the house, the upstairs room where Captain Thalheim slept—or more likely, at that hour, where he was shaving with his customary vanity and precision.
“You would have me indebted to that murderer?”
The Goat shrugged. “He comes to court you nearly every day. I can hear him, abusing our beautiful language for your benefit. You never exercise your power over him.”
“You sound worse than Mademoiselle Michelle.”
“I am worse than Mademoiselle Michelle. I have compromised myself far more than she. But unlike her, I have purposes greater than my own survival. I have large reasons.”
“Oh yes.” Emma rolled her eyes. “You’ll tell anyone who loans you a cup to pour your self-praise into. The Wolf is busy with all sorts of intrigue. Please spare me.”
Now he did smile, openly. “Actually, Emmanuelle, you ought to join us.”
“Fairy tales, I told you,” she scoffed. “There is no ‘us.’”
Still smiling, the Goat shook his head. A noise from the house took their attention. An upstairs window casement opened, a bare arm reached out holding a basin, and it poured soapy water out on the ground.
“Love to stay and chat,” the Goat said, “but I prefer to continue breathing.”
He ran then, rabbiting away up the trail. Emma was surprised to see how fast he could go.
Blast him, though: Emma returned to the baking shed with a head full of questions. Should she have been asking about her father? Was the captain seeking her favor? Could she manipulate him to anyone’s benefit? And how had the Goat so distracted her, that she forgot to evict him from the hog shed? Pondering, she bent to work on the kneading board—her souvenir from the tree against which Uncle Ezra had died.
An hour later Emma had made the baguettes, wet their skins, and laid them parallel in the oven like the beds in an orphanage. They were brown and ready when Thalheim presented himself at the door. “Do you have a whetstone?” he asked.
Emma was removing loaves, one in each hand. She turned, and the captain was holding an open straight razor. What was he intending? She glanced at the rolling pin, her only ready means of defense, but no match for the small sharp blade.
The soldier frowned at his razor. “If I don’t sharpen this soon, I will be slitting of my own throat.”
“No luck,” she said with relief, calming herself by laying the baguettes on the cooling rack. “We always used Uncle Ezra’s.”
The captain did not leave, however. Reaching for two more loaves, Emma studied him sidelong: uniform immaculate, so impressed with himself. She imagined snatching that razor and slashing him. But then she remembered being a little girl and watching her father shave, how casual he was with his face, how familiar with it, shaking the blade in the water before taking the next stroke, putting a dab of soap on the tip of her nose, stretching his chin to shave his throat smooth.
Damn that Goat, though. He had awakened in Emma a want, which was a feeling she had learned to distrust. Desire always led to sorrow. And now it swept over her like a breaking wave.
“I have something else for you,” she said.
“Some other kind of sharpener?”
“No.” She removed the oven mitts and lifted a baguette. “Yesterday my rations were larger than usual. So I made extra.” By one end, Emma held the bread toward him.
Thalheim’s eyebrows raised. “For me.”
She nodded, unable to speak.
“Mademoiselle, if there are errors with rations you should report them, not cook them.”
“You don’t want this? Because plenty of other people—”
“Of course I do.” He marched forward and took it from the other end. “The Kommandant’s praises have made your bread legendary. He does not sharing with junior officers.”
“I hope you enjoy it. And next time I will report the error.”
The captain seemed to freeze for a moment, still as a statue, weighing, calculating. Then he broke his pose, and for the first time in her presence, he smiled. “Or perhaps not.”
Emma felt a flush of power. His smile lasted barely a second, but she had seen. The Goat was right. She could play this man. It was an entirely new and agreeable feeling. For the moment she was immune to thoughts of danger.
“Perhaps not,” she agreed. “And in return . . .”
“Yes?”
Remembering the other loaves, she slid on mitts and bent to the oven to lift them out. “Never mind.”
“Please,” Captain Thalheim said. “Continue.”
Emma marveled at her coquettishness. She had never been anything but frank with Philippe, direct as an arrow. Where had she learned the wiles she was using now? “I don’t dare say.”
“I have made ask for you to continue. Please.”
Emma placed the last baguette on the rack. “It is about my father.” The captain stiffened, but she had embarked, and would not stop now. “I worry about his health, if he has enough to eat, whether he will ever be free.”
“It is not always so good to ask. A man overlooked may live longer.”
“It has been almost a year since his arrest,” Emma persisted. “We have had no news of any kind.”
Thalheim bowed. “I am ordered to Calais for several days. But if you insist, I will make inquire.”
“I would appreciate that . . . Captain.”
He lifted his eyes when she said his correct rank, opening his mouth, but no sound came out. He tucked the baguette under his arm.
“I hope you enjoy the bread,” she said.
Thalheim clacked his heels together, leaving without another word.
Chapter 13
One rations day—when the war was old enough that, had it been a child, it would have been walking and talking—the army uncharacteristically overlooked something of value: Emma spied a hock of ham and seized it. Reduced, it would flavor meals for weeks. A bit of meat clung to it, too, where the army’s kitchens had butchered in haste. Emma showed it to Mémé for an instant, then stuffed the hock into her bag before anyone else might see. She tugged the old woman’s elbow, drawing her back into the street, when a few steps ahead she noticed a new couple departing.
“Who is that?” she asked of the women standing in line.
“The Argents,” answered Odette, a basket on her hip. Bringing a basket for rations was the definition of optimism.
“I don’t know them,” Emma replied.
Mémé observed the couple as well. “Strangers.”
Odette cleared her throat and spat expertly. “The woman’s family owns the center villa on the bluff.”
“The big stone place? Why didn’t the army take it over, like the others?”