I recognized the retreat listed. Papa used to sell his wine there, before they closed after the armistice. ‘The Sleeping Lady Retreat.’
He grabbed my shoulders. ‘You know where this is?’
I nodded, knowing what he was going to ask next, but I wasn’t sure if I could do it, with Gérard probably on his way there. I told myself Hedgehog had managed to tip them off, that she wasn’t back because of some other reason. Lies, all lies. I’d have to go. I’d have to.
‘I need you to go,’ he said, though I couldn’t take the car, I’d have to take my bicycle, but it wasn’t a far ride. He gave me a shake. ‘Many people are staying there. Lieutenants, agents from the Alliance—résistants, some of the bravest.’ His voice lowered, and his eyes squinted into tiny slits. ‘Someone you know.’
‘Luc?’
He nodded slowly, and I felt my lips pinch, but not because I was mad. I felt something different bubbling inside of me—I wasn’t sure what to call it—as I faced an entirely different situation. Luc.
‘Are you going or not?’ His brow furrowed, his breath blowing a cloud of white into the cold.
I wadded up the paper and threw it at his chest, running for my bicycle.
19
I rode faster than I’d ever ridden in my life, only to slow down once I made it to the retreat. I pedalled up the long gravel road, looking around cautiously. I hadn’t been up that way for many years, and I was surprised to see how similar it looked to Papa’s vineyard. Overgrown bushes in need of a trim crowded the roadway from many months of vacancy. Plaster crumbled from the nineteenth-century chateau, and half the gardens looked dead.
I got off my bicycle in the main courtyard, listening for a sound, any sound, other than the whirl of the river not that far away. Shutters hung from corners, and a dead cat lay flattened near the front steps, which made the place even more unsettling. My hands shook a little, thinking the police could show up any minute. I walked up to the front, trying to get a peek through the window, but then the door opened suddenly and I was yanked inside.
‘Marguerite!’
‘Adèle!’ Her face dropped. ‘What are you doing here?’ She looked out the only window without boards nailed to it.
‘You must leave!’ Words shot from my mouth. ‘A raid! Hurry—’
She moved quickly, slinging guns that had been resting against the wall over her shoulder, yelling for others to get up and move. Men and women of all ages flooded down the stairs and out of every room. The parquet floor shook as they plodded through the corridors, grabbing crates and carrying them down to the basement. People folded up maps and threw papers into the fire. I called out for Luc, but my voice was one of many shouting for someone. Then everything got very quiet and still. Incredibly still.
‘In the basement there’s a passageway that leads into the hills. Someone has to close it from the outside.’ Marguerite touched my arm and her voice turned soft. ‘You understand, Adèle. Don’t you?’
I swallowed. ‘I can’t go with you.’
‘If the police are waiting outside then…’
‘Go, Marguerite… Go!’ I said.
I followed her down a long but wide marble staircase that led into a room that smelled of salt and looked like it had once been a place for the baths. A round mosaic of nymphs set in the wall was actually a door. Marguerite was the last one to go through it.
‘It’s heavy. Push it until it clicks.’
I got ready to push when Marguerite reached for my hand. She opened her mouth, about to say something.
‘You’re welcome,’ I said. ‘But next time you’re pushing the door.’ Her hand slid from mine, and I gave the door a good shove, but then panicked because the door was much heavier than I thought, and by now everyone had fled into the dark tunnel. I was all alone, pushing and grunting and sweating, feet slipping, trying to get the door to shut. ‘Ack—’ I screamed, face beet red, eyes bulging, and then it closed.
I tore out of there panting, racing up the stairs and out the front door. I grabbed my bicycle and ducked behind the chateau, riding through a field of thicket and overgrown brush crawling with mice in a frantic rush to get as far away as possible.
The sound of rapid gunfire kicked me off my bicycle into the thorns. ‘BRAAAP! BRAAAP!’