Chapter 4
Claire knew almost nothing.
That was why Isabella trusted her.
I questioned her in the sitting room while Lily stayed beside my mother.
Claire sat stiffly, hands folded in her lap.
“The shoes?”
She looked down.
“Mrs. Moretti gave them to me two weeks ago.”
“Why?”
“She said Helena checks pockets.”
I frowned.
“Shoes were safer.”
Claire nodded.
“She told me if anyone recognized them, I shouldn’t lie.”
That mattered.
Isabella had not randomly given away an heirloom.
She had sent a signal.
My daughter caught it.
Not me.
Lily remembered a photograph.
I had walked past Claire for months without noticing.
That hurt.
“Did you know who she was?”
“Not at first.”
“When did you realize?”
Claire swallowed.
“She told me after I started bringing laundry downstairs.”
“Who asked you to do that?”
“Samuel.”
I looked toward him.
He stood by the fireplace.
His face changed.
Claire continued.
“He told me there was an elderly relative who couldn’t be seen by guests.”
Samuel closed his eyes.
I stared.
“You fed my mother.”
“Sometimes.”
“While knowing who she was?”
“After three months.”
I stood.
Samuel did not move.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
His answer came quietly.
“Because Helena said she would move her again.”
I laughed without humor.
“And you believed that justified silence.”
“No.”
He looked at me.
“I believed it kept Isabella where I could at least see her.”
That was better than an excuse.
Still not enough.
Claire spoke again.
“Your mother told me Samuel brought books.”
I looked at her.
“He did?”
“Yes.”
Samuel looked embarrassed now.
Strange.
Compassion can become shame when someone knows it was too little.
“I couldn’t get her out,” he said.
“So you brought novels.”
“Yes.”
I stared at him.
“You had men.”
“Not enough.”
“You had access to me.”
He looked away.
There.
Fear.
Not of Helena physically.
Of losing position.
Of being exposed as complicit.
He had chosen small kindness inside a large betrayal because small kindness let him live with himself.
My mother had spent six years surrounded by people doing just enough good to avoid seeing what their silence meant.
Claire reached into her apron.
“I have something.”
She placed a small black thread bundle on the table.
Inside was a piece of dark metal.
Half of the black seal.
I stared.
“Isabella gave it to you?”
Claire nodded.
“She said if the shoes worked, give this only to you.”
I picked it up.
My father’s crest was engraved across one side.
May you like
On the other:
THE OTHER HALF KNOWS THE TRAITOR.
