the night.
“You’re back sooner than I expected,” Saint-Germain said, with an inquiring lift to his brows.
“I had an unexpected opportunity,” was the answer. “Just as well, too, because there are Resistance fighters gathering further down the mountain, and they do not take kindly to travelers.”
“I see,” Saint-Germain responded.
“A number of them wished to … detain Madame Kunst, hearing her speak … and …” Roger chose his words carefully.
“I am Austrian,” the woman announced, a bit too loudly. “I am. I fled.” Without warning, she started to cry with the hopelessness of an abandoned child. “They took my mother and my father and shot them,” she said through her tears. “And then they killed my uncle and his three children. They wanted me, but I was shopping. A neighbor warned me. It wasn’t enough that Gunther died for defending his friends, oh, no.”
Saint-Germain motioned Roger aside, then held out his small, beautiful hand to Madame Kunst. “Come inside, Madame Kunst. There is a fire and food.”
She sat passively while her tears stopped, then obediently took his hand, and for the first time looked into Saint-Germain’s penetrating eyes. “Danke, Mein Herr.”
“It would be wiser to say merci, here,” Saint-Germain reminded her kindly. “My experience with the Resistance in this area says they are not very forgiving.”
“Yes. I was stupid,” she said as she got out of the Bugatti and allowed Saint-Germain to close the door. In an effort to recapture her poise, she said, “Your manservant made a request of me as he brought me here.”
Roger and Saint-Germain exchanged quick glances, and Saint-Germain hesitated before saying, “You must understand, this is not precisely the situation I had anticipated. Did my manservant explain the situation to you clearly? I do not want to ask you to do anything you think you would not wish to do.”
She shrugged, shaking her head once or twice. “It doesn’t matter to me. Or it does, but it makes no sense.”
“How do you mean?” Saint-Germain had seen this lethargic shock many times in the past, but long familiarity did not make it easier to bear. He would have to make other arrangements for James, he thought: this woman clearly needed quiet and time to restore herself. She had had more than enough impositions on her.
“It’s all so …” She sighed as Saint-Germain opened the side door for her and indicated the way into the chateau. “No man has touched me since Gunther, and I was content to be in my father’s house, where the worst seemed so far away. When I thought those men might force me, I screamed, but there was no reason for it any more.”
“You have nothing to fear from anyone at Montalia,” Saint-Germain told her quietly.
She nodded and let Roger escort her into the breakfast room off the kitchen. There was a low fire in the grate and though the striped wallpaper was faded, in the flickering light it was pleasant and cozy. As Saint-Germain closed the door, she sat in the chair Roger held for her and folded her hands in her lap. Her age was no more than thirty, but the gesture was that of a much younger person. “Gunther died six months ago. I didn’t find out about it at first. They don’t tell you what’s happened. The SS comes and people go out with them and don’t come home again, and no one dares ask where they have gone, or when they will return, or then the SS might return. It was the local judge who told me, and he was drunk when he did.”
Roger bowed and excused himself to prepare a simple meal for Madame Kunst.
“When did you leave Austria, Madame?” Saint-Germain asked her as he added another log to the fire.
“Not many days ago. Eight or nine, I think. It could be ten.” She yawned and apologized.
“There is no need,” Saint-Germain assured her. “The fare here is adequate but not luxurious. If you are able to wait half an hour, there will be soup and cheese and sausage. Perhaps you would like to nap in the meantime?”
She thought about this, then shook her head. “I would sleep like the dead. I must stay awake. There are too many dead already.” She fiddled with the fold of her skirt across her lap, but her mind was most certainly drifting. “I ate yesterday.”
Saint-Germain said nothing but he could not repress an ironic smile, and was relieved that he had attended to his own hunger a few days before. The matter