Page 49 of A Resistance of Witches

“Leave it,” Rebecca said.

Lydia closed the wound but left the scar. “How did you escape?”

Rebecca stared at the floor in front of her, never looking at Lydia. “I put on the dead woman’s jacket and walked out the front door.” She sniffed. “It was a police station. One of the policemen stopped me on my way out. I was sure I’d been caught. But he thought I washer. Turns out he wanted to take the Nazi bitch to dinner.” She made a disgusted sound. “Men. He didn’t even notice the bruises. He was too busy trying to look down my shirt.”

Lydia looked at Rebecca’s face, the way it had been morphed by grief. “I’m sorry about your friends.”

Rebecca said nothing.

“You were close?”

Rebecca nodded. “Like a family. The closest thing to a family some of us had left.” She looked down at her bloody blouse. “This belonged to Colette. She loaned it to me the last time I saw her. It was her favorite. Ruined now.” She rolled up her sleeve, revealing a long, curved scar on her right bicep. “Her boyfriend Alain stitched that himself. I have half a dozen just like it, all by him.” She laughed—a wet, sobbing sound. “Colette used to say Alain was a better seamstress than she would ever be. Roland, he once said that—” She stopped, the muscles in her throat tremoring as she pressed one hand over her mouth.

“I’m glad you survived,” Lydia said softly. “I’m…” She struggled for a moment, looking for the right words. “I’m grateful you’re here.”

“I’m not staying.” Rebecca swiped at her eyes and kept her face turned away from Lydia when she spoke, as if looking at her would tear open something newly healed. “You saved my life, so you can use my car. Once you’ve found your book, I’m leaving. Understand?”

Lydia nodded. “Where will you go?”

Rebecca did not answer.

•••

When they returnedto the car, Henry was standing by the driver’s side door.

“I’d like to drive,” he said.

Rebecca’s chin shot up. “Like hell. No one drives my car but me.”

“I understand. It’s just that if we’re stopped, they might think I’m…” He drifted off.

“What?” Lydia searched his face, confused.

Henry let out a breath. “Fraternizing. With white women.” Lydia andRebecca were silent as the implication sank in. “If you both sit in the back, you can tell them you hired me to drive.” Henry held his head high, but there was a tension in him that was new, a strain through the neck and jaw.

“Your papers are in order?” Rebecca asked.

“They say I was born in Paris, and my accent will confirm it.”

Rebecca raised an eyebrow at that.

“Je suis un excellent conducteur. Je serai très prudent.” He extended his hand, waiting.

Rebecca looked at Lydia. “You could take a lesson from him.”

“Yes, I know.”

Rebecca handed the keys to Henry, then opened the passenger side door and tossed herself onto the back seat. “Allons-y!” she shouted.

Lydia lingered for a moment with Henry. “If we do get stopped, will they really believe you’re only the driver?”

“I have no idea. Probably not.” He peered out across the hillside, never looking at her directly.

“What’s the punishment for you if they don’t?”

Henry rocked on his heels, considering. “I suppose they’ll sterilize me, if I’m lucky. Then again, they might just shoot me.”

Lydia felt slightly ill. “You don’t have to come. René would forgive you.”

---