Paris, 1942. Elise Fournier adjusted her apron and tied the last ribbon on the bouquet. Roses, lilies, and sprigs of lavender. It would go to the governor’s wife. A routine delivery. A cover.

Beneath the lilies, sewn into the stem wrap, was a strip of photographic film. Proof of German troop movements outside Caen.

Her brother Pierre had disappeared two months ago. The Resistance told her he was dead. But yesterday, a coded broadcast on the BBC used his phrase: “The nightingale sings at dawn.” It meant someone was alive. Maybe even him.

She took the bouquet and walked toward the courtyard, where two SS soldiers smoked near her bicycle. She smiled politely. One of them tipped his hat.

Just flowers, she told herself. Just another delivery.

But then the younger soldier glanced at the bouquet and said, “You know, lilies mean mourning. Let’s hope that’s not a sign.”

Elise felt her heartbeat in her throat. She smiled again, thinner now.

“Let’s hope not,” she replied, and pedaled into the streets where every window could be a watcher—or an ally.