Chapter 7

February came with no relief from the cold.

The convent’s supplies were running low. Sister Marguerite met Clarice in the kitchen garden, her face drawn.

“I have little to spare this week,” the old nun said quietly. “The Germans requisitioned most of our stores. I can give you bandages, but no more willow bark. No laudanum.”

“It is enough. His shoulder heals well now.” Clarice paused. “Sister, how long can this last? The siege, I mean.”

“Until the Allies decide to take the fortress, or until Germany surrenders.” Sister Marguerite’s voice was grim. “Either way, it could be months yet. Can you manage that long?”

Clarice thought of the dwindling food supplies, the constant fear, the impossible secrecy of three daily visits.

She thought of Scotty’s smile in the lamplight.

“I will manage,” she said.

The morning visits became lessons.

“Teach me French,” Scotty said one dawn, after she’d brought him porridge made from the last of the oats. “Real French, not just ‘merci’ and ‘bonjour.’ I want to be able to talk to you properly.”

So she taught him. Simple phrases at first.

“Comment allez-vous?” How are you?

“J’ai faim.” I am hungry.

“Il fait froid.” It is cold.

He was a quick study, though his accent made her bite back smiles.

“No, no,” she corrected, when he mangled the word for cheese. “Fromage. From the throat, not the nose.”

“Frrrromage,” he tried again, rolling the R dramatically.

She laughed—actually laughed—for the first time in months.

He grinned, clearly pleased with himself. “There it is. I was starting to think you’d forgotten how.”

“How to what?”

“Laugh.” His expression softened. “You should do it more often. It suits you.”

The warmth crept up her neck again. She looked away. “We are practicing French, not flirting.”

“Was I flirting?” His voice was innocent, but his eyes were dancing. “My apologies, madame. I’ll focus on my conjugations.”

But the next morning, he greeted her with, “Bonjour, belle Clarice,” and the smile he wore said he knew exactly what he was doing.

The midday visits became stories.

She would bring water and whatever small thing she could spare—a bit of hard cheese, an apple from the root cellar—and he would tell her about Michigan.

“Winters there are brutal,” he said one afternoon. “Lake-effect snow, we call it. Some years we’d get snowed in for days. My brothers and I would build forts in the drifts, have snowball fights that turned into full-scale wars.”

“You have two brothers?”

“Three. I’m the second oldest. Joe’s running the farm now—he’s the responsible one. Michael’s in the Pacific, last I heard. And Danny...” His face clouded. “Danny’s sixteen. Too young for this mess, thank God.”