the arrangements immediately, and you can be in Holland by tomorrow morning.”
But his mother wasn’t listening to him, not a single word. She was already on her feet, dishing out the eggs.
“Surely you can stay long enough to eat a little? Real food for once, and not from the food lines?”
With the plate in front of him and the smell so enticing, he could barely hang on to his refusal. He must go, find out if anyone else he could trust remained free. He shouldn’t have come here at all, except that he’d wanted to see his mother and Jonah, even Isa, as much as he wanted—no, needed—them to go.
He swallowed hard, his mouth watering.
“Sit, Edward.”
And then he did because the eggs were just beneath his nose now, and he knew he could do nothing for anyone else. He would eat, he would convince his mother and Isa to leave, and then he would find out who was left.
To his own shame he enjoyed the eggs more than he should have allowed. He’d forgotten when food stopped being something to look forward to but rather something to be endured in order to keep going. Meatless broth, dark bread, or hard cheese, and no variety. When the committee for relief did have shipments—soup or real flour for better bread—Edward, unwilling to have his false identity scrutinized too closely, rarely took advantage of what they had to offer. Instead he relied on the generosity of the church, the affection of Rosalie, or benefactors surrounding La Libre Belgique.
But the taste of the food couldn’t quite overcome his shame; he was free while others were in danger. . . .
He swallowed hard, but just then Isa smiled at him and everything else, even the taste of the eggs, faded away. She looked so like the portrait he’d once seen of her in this very mansion, done when she’d turned thirteen by Frans van Holder, who painted all the rich, upcoming debutantes in Belgium. At the time, Edward thought the artist had made her look too old, too grown-up. But now he saw what the artist must have seen. Isa had grown into the promise of that portrait.
He’d always thought her lovely. Now her light hair was gathered back in an informal braid, and despite the shawl she wore to keep away the early morning chill, he could see the curve of her neck and shadows along the rest of her that hadn’t been there the last time he’d seen her dressed to her station in life, things only hinted at in the portrait.
He wanted that beauty to disappear, the blue glow of her eyes to dull, that welcoming smile to dim, the tilt of her chin to look proud instead of happy, the gold in her hair and the redefined lines of her body to be forgotten.
Imagining her as she used to be, always above him, with parents and a brother who lived as if the world had been created solely for them, always above even the clientele of his father’s elite inn, Edward was reminded of all the resentment.
“You’ll be staying here with us, won’t you, Edward?” Isa asked. “There’s plenty of room, and the Major told Clara he doesn’t want to see us any more than we want to see him. There is so much more space here than with Viole, and I think perhaps Albert might welcome it if you didn’t come around.”
“You should stay,” his mother put in.
But he was already shaking his head, pushing away the eggs altogether, what little was left. He wouldn’t eat another thing until they agreed to go. “Neither of you listened to what I came here to tell you. You must leave, both of you and Jonah, at once. I can make the arrangements and—”
“Why should we leave now, when I’ve been given back my home? And I have legitimate papers, too, that match my passport.”
His mother, next to him, put her hand over his. “You could easily stay here, Edward.”
“As what? Your fifty-year-old son, when you’re not yet forty-five? You know I can’t.”
“Perhaps as my brother, then.”
“No, Mother. This disguise only works because I’ve never been taken note of by anyone who matters, never looked at too closely. I can’t live under the same roof as a German who might get a good look at me. Day after day.”
“Then perhaps you should come up with some other identity,” Isa suggested. “Someone your own age, but unfit for service.”