Page 22 of A Resistance of Witches
The woman called Lydia looked up. “Oh. Yes. Thank you.”
Rebecca looked at David. “If they execute me, I’ll haunt you.”
He grinned. “I’m sincerely looking forward to it.”
•••
Clean morning lightwashed over the landscape as Rebecca drove toward Dordogne in her trusty Citroën. She’d changed out of her soggy trousers and into a nondescript skirt and blouse. The sea air had caused her hair to frizz, and she arranged it the best she could in her tiny compact mirror, making herself look as meek and ordinary as possible. Lydia seemed to have recovered from her journey, but still appeared anxious, fiddling with her new French clothes as she stared out the window.
“You need to relax,” Rebecca said.
Lydia looked startled.
“If you look like you’re nervous, people will wonder why. Do you know your cover?”
Lydia cleared her throat. “Chloe Moreau. Born in Quebec. Came toParis before the war to attend school. Married to Philippe Moreau, a wine merchant from Bordeaux, for two years, no children. On my way to Dordogne to see the castles, with my cousin, Rebecca Gagne.”
Rebecca kept her eyes on the road. “Good. Now say it again, but try not to sound like you’re giving an oral exam.”
Lydia opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
“Let me make something clear,” Rebecca said. “I’ve done things since the occupation that are punishable by death. I’m not talking about distributing pamphlets, although they’ll kill you for that too. I’ve been fighting these bastards tooth and nail for three years, and I’ve never been caught. And do you know why? Because I’m careful, and I’m smart, and I’m an excellent liar. You? I don’t think you’re a good liar, which means you’re going to get caught. And if you get caught, I get caught. And I have not survived this long only to die in front of a Nazi firing squad because some English tourist wants to play at being a spy.”
Rebecca drove with her knuckles white against the wheel, anger simmering just under her skin. Harlowe had put them all in danger by saddling her with this ridiculously unprepared Englishwoman, and for what? What could possibly be so important in Dordogne that it could justify the risk?
Lydia’s gaze fell to her lap, and Rebecca heard her take a shaky breath. She was just beginning to feel the slightest pang of guilt for her harshness when Lydia spoke again.
“Do you really want to know what I’m doing here?” she asked quietly. “I’m here because Philippe and I had a fight.” Rebecca glanced at her. “I suppose I’m the one who started it. I thought we were going to try for a baby. He promised we would, but now he hasn’t touched me in months.” Lydia’s lips trembled, a red flush creeping into her cheeks. Her eyes were rimmed with tears. “I finally got up the nerve to talk to him about it, and…” She shook her head. “He doesn’t want a baby. He said he did, but now he doesn’t. I think there are other women.” Lydia removed ahandkerchief from her handbag. “He doesn’t love me. And I’m just…I’m so ashamed. I needed to get away, but what to tell everyone? What to tell myparents? So I told them all I was going to Dordogne to see the châteaux. But actually, I’m running away from my marriage. Oh, Rebecca. You won’t tell anyone, will you?”
Rebecca stared at Lydia, and Lydia smirked, dabbing away the tears.
“Bien joué. That was very good. A little melodramatic, but still.”
“Thank you. I thought perhaps if I cried, it might make anyone who talks to us—”
“Want to stop talking to us as quickly as possible. Yes. Perfect. Can you do it in French?”
“But of course.” Lydia launched into her story again, in French, and this time with fewer tears. Rebecca listened carefully, then pulled the car to the side of the road and turned off the engine. Lydia looked around, confused.
“Get in the boot,” Rebecca said.
Lydia stared. “I beg your pardon?”
“The luggage compartment. I believe you British call it ‘the boot.’ You need to get in it.”
“Why?”
“Because your French is shit.”
“It is not! I was top of my class. I speak French like a native.”
“You speak French like you learned it in an English boarding school. The town up ahead is crawling with milice, and we will be stopped.”
“Milice?”
“French militia. Nazi-collaborating scum. Looking for spies and Resistance fighters, and with that accent, even an imbecile will know that you are an Englishwoman.”
“I’m not getting in the bloody boot,” Lydia said.
