and nodded his assurance. “I’ve known Isa since she was seven, Father. She’s half-American by blood, but pure Belgian by choice.”
“Ah.” He looked her over again, this time with a renewed twinkle in his eye. “You and Edward, you are friends?”
Isa smiled. “Yes, very good friends.”
Edward began opening his bulky shirt. “My mother is a servant of her parents—or used to be—”
“Edward! Your mother is no servant.”
“Well, she was practically your nanny, wasn’t she? That’s a servant.”
“My father is Belgian but my mother is American. My parents have always lived a rather . . . busy . . . lifestyle, but when they first brought me here, they stayed in Edward’s hotel, until arrangements were made for us to move into a home in Brussels. That’s how our families met. Whenever my parents were busy, off I’d go to Edward’s wonderful hotel. His mother made it like a second home to me, which is why I wouldn’t call her a servant. She’s family.”
“Uh-huh.” Edward pulled letter after letter from his ever-flattening middle and more inner pockets than Isa had ever seen in a jacket. “Just ask Isa’s mother if my mother was a servant or not, and she’ll tell you the truth.”
“Oh, Edward.”
“She paid my mother, didn’t she?”
“Why not? I ate her food; she sewed my clothes; she bought me books. Was she supposed to pay for that herself?”
The priest smiled. “I understand how you might be like siblings, then, fighting all the time.”
Isa wanted to utter a hasty denial, assure the priest that Edward was anything but a brother to her, but a single glance told her that Edward hardly cared how their relationship was defined. He’d finished removing the letters he’d carried and was rebuttoning his shirt. All that was left were the two sets of newspaper clippings, one that Edward now held and the other still beneath Isa’s skirt.
“We’ll leave the room while you get the newspaper out,” Edward said.
“No reason to leave.” She reached into the waistband of her skirt and loosened the thick yarn. The paper dropped to the floor.
Before it had a chance to cool from the warmth of her skin, Edward scooped it up and placed it, still folded, next to his own skin, replacing the letters he’d withdrawn.
“I thought you were going to leave everything here,” she said. “Didn’t you say this was as good as the secret depot I’d been instructed to use?”
“And so it is—for the letters. Father Liquori will know what to do with them.”
“What about the newspapers? Where are we taking them?”
“We are not taking them anywhere. Father Liquori is taking you upstairs to wait until I return.”
“But where are you going?”
The priest put a hand on hers. “Better not to know everything, little one. With these—” he waved his other hand over the letters—“you know enough.”
Little one? How could he call her that, especially in front of Edward?
* * *
Edward watched the merchant behind the counter wrap a hefty fish in various layers of newspapers, precious smuggled ones neatly concealed within pages of the readily available German-run La Belgique. One simple word set apart the legal paper from the one Edward worked for: La Libre Belgique. One paper inspired and approved by the Germans, the other uncensored and worth risking his life for. Libre. Free. Dedicated to the day Belgium would be free again.
With a glance rather than money exchanged between customer and fishmonger, Edward made his way out the door. A little bell jingled his exit.
The headlines Isa had smuggled still lightened his heart—at least those he’d been able to glance at before handing them over to be wrapped with the other papers. Allies Pound German Forces; Germany’s Loss Put at 300,000; British Smash 7 Miles of Foe’s Lines, Take 2,000 prisoners. Those were the kind of headlines Belgians wanted to see! Not what the Germans printed every day, about sinking British warships and claiming victory at every turn.
The late afternoon sun shone brightly in the warm weather. Edward clutched the bundle beneath his arm. The train depot was a ten-minute walk, and he would barely make the drop time if he hoped to get this unexpected gift included in the current shipment.
Edward had never met the particular messenger he’d summoned through the fishmonger, and making his face known to yet another level in the various rings of communication was a risk. But it was one Edward couldn’t help taking, with the newspaper clips so recent and encouraging.