Page 78 of Across Eternity

Though the holiday is not Charlotte’s and Lucien’s, they are part of our family now, so we get them a few gifts we managed to scrounge up, resolving to teach them about their own traditions when the war has passed and it’s safe again.

It's a struggle to remain cheerful all day, however. Tomorrow, Henri will leave for this mission of Roche’s. I can’t stop wondering if this might be the last Christmas we share, but I don’t want to ruin our time together with my sad thoughts.

Once the children are in bed, I curl up against him. Don’t talk about tomorrow. Don’t ruin this. “Tell me about our honeymoon,” I say.

“We’ll go to Greece,” he says. “After the war, when the world is finally safe again.”

“Will we take the children?” I ask.

He smirks. “Is that a serious question? Absolutely not. Think how awkward that would be, with you in bed the whole time.”

“The whole time?”

“Don’t worry,” he says, twisting a strand of my hair around his finger. “I’ll make sure you still have a lovely view of the sea from our room.”

“Ah, so only I will remain in bed?”

He laughs low. “I plan to exhaust you to the point that you won’t be able to leave. I’ll venture out to get you food and perhaps take a quick dip in the water, but nothing more.”

I grin. “Maybe I want to be the one to venture out for the food while you remain in bed.”

He pulls me above him. “Are you offering to do all the work, little thief?” he asks, his voice dropping an octave, smooth as silk. “I’m happy to agree. But first, perhaps, you should show me what that entails.”

I try to smile but it falters. “Please don’t do anything stupid on this mission.”

“Everything I do is brilliant,” he says with a cheeky grin, trying to make me laugh.

His ploy works but the laugh catches in my throat and becomes a sob. I am already thinking of last summer, of those months when I didn’t know if he was alive, the terror of them. We got lucky once. Will we get lucky again?

His lips press to my head. “Don’t cry. In two months, we’ll be sitting at our cottage in the British countryside and this will all be behind us. Have faith, little thief. I have a feeling our story isn’t over just yet.”

39

HENRI

I head to Paris on foot, through the woods. I’m provided directions to the safe houses along the way by Roche’s contact before I’m led to the airmen I’ll be guiding.

Any optimism I felt diminishes once we meet. One of the two Brits, Reginald Price, is shifty-eyed and sullen. Nothing about him engenders trust. The other, Thomas Stevens, is quite ill, struggling with a foot he thinks he may have broken upon landing. He’s not willing to remain behind, but a journey like this is taxing on even the strongest of men, and I don’t see him making it through Pyrenees without assistance. The American, Michael Quinn, is neither ill nor untrustworthy, but he’s brash and loud and behaves as if this is some kind of lark, which leaves him, in my estimation, the most likely to get us all killed.

We sneak out of Paris by the skin of our teeth, one block at a time, hiding in the shadows the whole way. We walk all night and most of the day, making our way through the woods instead of using main roads. Our progress is slowed significantly by Stevens, who is dragging his foot like a heavy bag behind him.

“He’s slowing us down,” Price says under his breath. “We need to leave him behind.”

My lip curls. They’re not just countrymen—they flew together and were the only two of their crew to survive. I don’t trust any man with so little loyalty to a soldier he’s fought beside. “No one’s getting left behind.”

“It’s your funeral,” Price mutters.

Our funeral, I long to correct, but say nothing. Fighting will only delay getting them to the final safe house, which will delay the one thing I want right now: to get home.

“You got a girl, Durand?” asks Quinn as we settle into the first safe house, which is little more than a shack and provides no protection from the elements.

My eyes are closed. I don’t want to talk right now. I want to picture Sarah waiting in bed for me or the smile on her face when I walk through the door. I want to think of the way she looks as she sits with Cece in the rocking chair or brushes Charlotte’s hair. I still don’t understand how she could have thought I’d want her to leave, but I suppose being raised by a woman who hates you is hard to shake.

“Yes,” I reply. “Amelie. You?”

He shrugs. “I did have one, before the war started. When I volunteered, she found herself some college boy who didn’t enlist. You got a photo?”

Reluctantly, I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out a copy of her passport photo, taken just before she was held captive. She’s in the blue dress, though it simply looks gray in the picture, and she smiles at the camera with a certain look in her eyes—the kind that promises all sorts of delights once I’ve put the camera away. Only a few days have passed, but I miss her badly.