She sat back, jaw tight, glancing from me to Zee, all the boys sitting quietly in the shadows of the room, watching us, and each other. All of them, so quiet. So solemn.
“I don’t like this arrangement,” she finally said, ignoring my question. “I tell you everything, you tell me nothing.”
I stood, dropping my spoon into the pie pan. “I’ll find out what I need on my own, then. Wearing your face should count for something, I think.”
She swore softly. “It was a tattoo. Of a rose. She brands all her…men…with them.”
“Samuel doesn’t look a day over eleven.”
Jean said nothing. She did not need to. I looked down at my gloved hands. “I need to meet this woman.”
“And do what? Kill her?”
“Whatever it takes.” My voice sounded tough, decisive. It was a good act. Good enough to fool my grandmother, who, in this place, this time, was almost ten years my junior. I was the old guard here. It gave me new respect for my mother. And for Jean, for accepting my presence as well as she had. If my own descendant showed up one day to boss me around, I think I might suffer an aneurysm.
Jean stood, utterly grim-faced. “There are circumstances—”
A crashing sound interrupted her. It was from downstairs, like a door getting kicked in. Shouts followed: a frail male voice protesting in German, swallowed by louder, guttural Japanese tones. A woman screamed. I ran for the door.
Jean got there first, blocking me. Below us, more shouts, and the crunch and crash of furniture being broken. The woman’s voice broke into a piercing wail. I could still hear the man speaking in German, but in ragged fits and gasps. The floor beneath my feet vibrated. I smelled smoke.
She grabbed my arm. “You intervene, you’ll make it worse.”
“Really,” I muttered, trying to shrug her off. “You sure about that?”
“You’ll make it worse for them,” she clarified. “And for me. I can’t afford to be noticed. Not like that, and not now.”
I leveled my gaze. “Trust me. You can take it.”
Her fingers tightened around my arm—a crushing grip. Behind me, at the door, someone knocked, but it was so faint it sounded like the scuff of a cat’s paw. Jean and I froze, and then we heard it again, followed by a whisper. I could not understand the words, but I knew the voice.
Ernie.
Jean let go before I could shove her away. Raw and Aaz were already clearing the evidence of our dinner, shoving plates beneath the couch, and silverware down their throats.
“You can’t let him see you,” Jean hissed, blocking me as I reached for the doorknob.
“Too late,” I muttered—and knocked her aside. I opened the door, saw a pale gaunt face, and in seconds dragged the kid inside—with the door shut and locked behind him. Cutting off, as I did, a rolling barrage of shouts that continued to rise through the floor in muted waves.
Ernie was dressed in limp pajamas, his chest bare. Ribs jutted, and his collarbone was so pronounced it could have doubled as a hanger. Sweat trickled down his skin. He stood, blinking at me with huge terrified eyes—as disconcerting as the violent tremors shaking his body. He snatched at his wrist, and then hugged himself convulsively, gulping down the beginnings of a tremendous, wracking sob.
I knelt, keenly aware of Jean standing in the shadows behind him. He had not yet seen her. I placed my hands lightly on his bony shoulders, and he surprised me by throwing his arms around my neck.
“I ran,” he whispered.
I looked over his shoulder at Jean, who was tight-lipped, pale. She pointed at the floor, and mouthed, “His home.”
I closed my eyes, and drew him closer. He smelled like mildew and sweat. “You did the right thing.”
“Mutter told me.” Ernie drew in a wheezing breath and began coughing. Below, the soldiers screamed in Japanese, and the answering replies in German were broken with sobs. The boy instantly slapped his hand over his mouth, cutting off both a cough and gasp, and took a broken step back to the door.
Or tried to. I refused to let go, and stood—sweeping the boy into my arms, carrying him to the couch. He weighed nothing for a kid his age. Just bone, gangly limbs, and clammy skin. He tried to protest. I ignored him, and sat down with him in my lap.
“Cover your ears if you need to,” I whispered harshly, looking across the room at Jean. “But you’re not going anywhere until those soldiers are gone.”
He did not cover his ears, but instead buried his face against my throat, holding on with all his strength. I could feel his heart pounding. Mine, too. I remembered the feel of his old-man blood on my hands, the rattle of his last breath. His eyes, searching mine, for that one last time.
Behind Ernie, well out of his sight, Zee and the boys uncoiled from the shadows like deadly blooming roses, unfurling claws and wild razor hair. But their gazes were soft as they stared at the boy. As were the gazes of their counterparts, clinging close to Jean. I met her gaze and held it. Wishing I could read her mind.
She stood rigid, pale. Below, wood cracked. More shouts. A muffled scream. Ernie flinched. So did my grandmother. I was past that. What I was feeling did not allow room for flinches. Just violence.
But it finally got quiet. Boots tramped on the stairs outside, and then faded.
Ernie stirred, and when he did, demons scattered silently into the shadows. Jean had nowhere to go, and I watched something shift in her eyes—resolve, maybe. She moved from the darkened doorway. Standing in plain sight.
She nodded at me, and I let Ernie sit up. He rubbed his eyes—turned his head, just so—and froze.
Jean did not move. She stood with her feet braced, hands loose at her sides—as though ready for a blow. Ernie was so still in my arms. And then, slowly, he tore his gaze from her to look at me.
I raised my brow. “Surprise.”
He sucked in a deep breath and scrambled off my lap, nearly falling in his rush to get away. I did not reach for him, or move. Neither did Jean, but her gaze found mine for one brief moment. Tired, angry. Resolved.
“Ernie,” she said gently. “Meet my sister.”
“Sister,” he whispered, backing up until he hit the wall. “You said you had no family.”
“I had to. Maxine was doing…sensitive work.”
“Still am,” I told the boy. “That was me you helped earlier.”
Jean gave me a sharp look. Ernie still seemed startled, but his shoulders relaxed, just a fraction. He mumbled, “Thought there was something different. In your eyes.”
“You can’t tell anyone,” Jean said. “Not Samuel or Lizbet. Not even Winifred.”
Ernie flashed her a defiant look. “You said you trusted us.”
“Not a matter of trust.” I pushed myself to the edge of the couch and leaned forward. “Safety. Anyone who knows about my presence would be at risk. Bad enough that I’m here at all.”
Ernie was a brave kid. He held my gaze with the same unwavering intensity that I would see more than sixty years from now. “Someone looking for you?”
“Not yet.” Jean stepped close. “But you’ll need to be careful.”
I finally stood from the couch. “I’d like to see your wrist, Ernie.”
Jean stiffened. So did Ernie, but he grabbed his wrist, hugging it against his gaunt stomach. I walked to him. He tried to back away, but he had no place to go.
“I have to go home,” he mumbled, ducking his gaze.
I held out my hand. Jean drew close and said, “Ernie. Samuel showed me his tattoo.”
The boy gave her a hard, despairing look. “He promised he wouldn’t.”
Jean shook her head, and I felt her helplessness. “Not an easy thing to hide, short stuff.”
He closed his eyes, banging his head lightly against the wall. “And did Lizbet and Winifred show you theirs?”