The snow, once a pristine blanket that lent Cambridge a fleeting touch of elegance, had morphed into a filthy and treacherous quagmire. Its streets were lined with piles of brownish, half-melted snow, the kind that lurked on every corner, waiting to soak through boots and cling to clothing. Each step Astrid took felt like wading through quicksand, her own inadequate footwear sinking into the gritty sludge that clung to the roads, her feet growing colder and wetter with every movement.
The air, bitter and unforgiving, bit at her face, her breath billowing out in visible clouds as she trudged onward. There was nothing picturesque or romantic about this winter wonderland; it was an endless, oppressive obstacle, a reminder that beauty could be fleeting, but hardship endured. She muttered under her breath, a quote from Nietzsche echoing in her mind: “Zu leben heißt zu leiden, zu überleben heißt, im Leiden einen Sinn zu finden.” To live is to suffer, to survive is to find some meaning in the suffering. Unfortunately, she was still wading through filth, trying to endure in a world that had no place for dreamers.
She tugged her Burberry coat tighter against the biting cold, its once-pristine cashmere now frayed at the edges, a relic of a life that no longer existed. The coat had been a status symbol, a piece of Cambridge’s upper crust, but now it was just a reminder of how little that world mattered. She could pretend it was practical, but the truth was, it’d always been about appearances—another way to signal belonging to the right circles, to show that her family was still keeping up with the Joneses or, more accurately, the Cabots and Lowells. But now, trudging through the gritty sludge of the occupied streets, the coat felt like a weight, dragging her down into the muck of a world where privilege had no meaning. Nietzsche might’ve had grand ideas about suffering, but Astrid was living it, and all she could think was how little comfort those ideas offered when she was knee-deep in slush and those who’d served her once upon a time were now just as likely to step over her as to help.
Even though she’d committed the sin last October, she still remembered the gnawing feeling of guilt as she’d bought herself a ticket to Clerks. Movie tickets represented money she couldn’t afford to waste, not when the cabinets were bare, but she’d been desperate for a few hours’ escape. And she’d felt ridiculous, alone in the darkened theater, laughing at Randal’s rant about independent contractors on the Death Star. But that tiny reprieve had reminded her that she could laugh.
Emerging to a Harvard Square filled with soldiers, it’d struck her how suffering could strip people of their empathy. The world narrowed to just the next step, the next meal, the next breath—and for what? Keep her head down, guard her meager resources with the utmost care, and a bombing run might still wipe out Genzyme and kill her mother. “A construction job of that magnitude would require a helluva lot more manpower than the Imperial army had to offer,” Randal had observed. “I’ll bet there were independent contractors working on that thing: plumbers, aluminum siders, roofers.” The little guy was always overlooked, always collateral damage in someone else’s power play…and now she was the little guy, too.
Nietzsche could pontificate all he wanted, but what meaning was there in watching people turn on each other, lose themselves in their own misery? That idiot, who also talked a lot about Superman, must’ve spent as much time flexing in the mirror as he did missing the point. The real challenge was dealing with a ten-year-old who thought a homemade stink bomb was the perfect antidote to a boring history lesson. “Making history more interesting” was Thad’s excuse, but Astrid had to explain—again—why chemical warfare wasn’t a solution to boredom.
As she approached Craigie Prep, the imposing building that’d once symbolized security and privilege now felt like a ticking time bomb. Each step closer was a reminder that Thad’s education, once as guaranteed as the sunrise, was now hanging by a thread. The scholarship had been a godsend, but lingering goodwill wasn’t enough to guarantee his place, not with how things were going. His behavior—always a little too spirited, a little too defiant—had taken a darker turn. What’d started out as harmless pranks and cheeky backtalk had escalated into something more troubling, something verging on destructive…and the school was running out of patience. One more fight, one more reckless stunt, and they could lose everything.
If only he cared.
She used to tease him, back when things were different, about how easy he had it compared to her. How their mother had spoiled him, letting him get away with things she’d never have tolerated from Astrid. But with their mother gone, the responsibility of those small daily tasks—packing his lunch, making sure he did his homework, listening to him prattle on about the latest Spider-Man comic or his favorite player’s stats—fell squarely on her shoulders. She didn’t mind, not really. Thad was her baby brother, after all. Then she’d get a call about another glue incident.
Thad wasn’t a bad kid. He was smart, maybe too smart for his own good, and she loved him more than life itself. But as desperate as she was for him to succeed, he seemed equally desperate to fail. He was only ten, she reminded herself; caught in that strange, liminal space between adulthood and childhood, the remnants of innocence still clung to him like the worn edges of a beloved comic book. And he clung to his childhood with a kind of desperation, as though afraid that fully letting go would mean embracing the harsh, unforgiving reality that awaited him. But even as he spoke of Peter Parker’s latest exploits or complained about homework, there was a sharpness to his words, an edge that hinted at the anger and confusion roiling just beneath the surface.
His eyes, once bright with the unfiltered curiosity of youth, now held a flicker of something darker—an awareness that life was neither fair nor kind. And so he rebelled—not out of malice, but out of fear and frustration, a misguided attempt to reclaim some sense of control. He was caught in that no man’s land between being a child and an adult, where every decision felt monumental, where every action carried consequences far too heavy for his small shoulders.
Her hand on the school’s wrought iron gate, she drew a deep breath.
The brilliant daughter of a world-renowned classics professor, she’d joined her father at Harvard when her friends were still in high school. Announcing that she planned to pursue medieval studies, everyone except that great man had asked why. Her older brother, Nestor, had suggested studying physics first so she could build a time machine. He’d been a first year resident at Massachusetts General Hospital when he died, but back when she’d announced that her PhD would be in magic he’d laughed his head off. The historical context of medieval alchemical practices, she’d argued seriously, as understood through the lens of illuminated manuscripts. Her mother, without missing a beat, had asked if basket weaving was unavailable.
But with the universities still closed, her future was as murky as the slush beneath her boots. And she was late, again, arriving to find the school already deserted, the usual laughter and shouts replaced by an unnerving stillness. As she pushed open the gate, it creaked loudly, the sound echoing in the empty space. The playground equipment, rimed with ice, cast long, eerie shadows. The swings swayed slightly in the wind, the chains clinking together like ghostly whispers.
Stopping to catch her breath, she looked around. The austere Gothic revival pile loomed above her, its darkened windows staring down at her like unblinking eyes, full of silent rebuke. She shivered, not just from the cold but from the unsettling sensation of being watched.
Where was Thad?
Her boots crunched over the frozen ground as she made her way to the steps, her heart racing. She strained her ears, hoping to hear something—anything—that would tell her where he was. But there was nothing. Just the wind and the distant hum of traffic. Then, suddenly, the front door flew open, crashing against the wall with a loud bang that echoed in the preternatural quiet. Thad came barreling out, his cheeks flushed from the cold, a grin on his face as he skidded down the steps.
Relief washed over her like a warm wave, quickly followed by a sharp stab of exasperation. “Thad!” she called, waving. He didn’t stop running until he reached her, his smile widening as he regarded her with a mix of mischief and innocence. “Forget something?” she asked, trying to keep her tone light despite the lingering tension in her chest. “Your backpack?”
Thad’s grin faltered for a moment before he shrugged, clearly unbothered by the oversight. “I’ll get it tomorrow,” he replied breezily.
She arched an eyebrow.
He deflated a little. “Fine,” he mumbled, turning around.
Tapping her foot as the minutes dragged on, she was about to go in after him when the door swung open and Mrs. Marsh emerged, like a kraken from the shadows. The teacher’s eyes, round and calculating, zeroed in on Astrid. She descended the steps with deliberate care, her heels clicking against the concrete. Astrid could almost feel the disapproval radiating toward her, as the squat older woman approached. “I need to speak with you,” she intoned, her lips pressed into a thin line of discontent. “Thad has once again demonstrated an…alarming lack of discipline.”
Astrid nearly stepped back, Mrs. Marsh’s gaze was so withering. “Oh?” she managed, her voice tight.
The teacher’s glare somehow intensified, her eyes narrowing into slits. “He flushed Roger’s head in the toilet!”
Astrid’s lips twitched, fighting the inappropriate urge to laugh. “I’m sure it was an accident,” she replied.
Mrs. Marsh’s eyebrows shot up in astonishment. “An accident?” Her tone dripped with incredulity, as though she couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
“He’s had a tough time.” Astrid fought to keep her voice even, although defensiveness was worming in.
Crossing her arms, Mrs. Marsh demonstrated what she thought of that excuse. “So have all the other children,” she retorted, her tone tart and dismissive. “They know how to behave.”
“They haven’t lost their mothers!” Astrid shot back, her voice rising.
Patting the hateful Brillo pad helmet that she called hair, Mrs. Marsh sniffed. “Roger isn’t responsible.”
“No one said he was,” Astrid countered, her tone clipped, struggling to keep her composure as she fantasized about sinking her fingers into Mrs. Marsh’s wealth of doughy chins.
“Scholarships to this school, Ms. Cavendish, do not grow on trees.” Mrs. Marsh’s voice oozed condescension, as she issued this pronouncement. “Although….” Pressing a fingertip to her lip, she tilted her chin up. “It’s no wonder Thad is acting out, considering how little supervision he seems to have. After all, how can a girl who’s barely out of school herself raise a boy into a man?”
Astrid reminded herself again that violence was wrong. “I’m twenty-three.”
“It’s unfortunate that Thad’s father is so unavailable,” Mrs. Marsh continued, ignoring her. “I’m sure he’d provide the firm hand that’s so clearly lacking in your household.” Pausing to savor the effect of her words, she favored Astrid with an unctuous smile. “One does have to wonder, though, if your father’s absence is why you’re struggling so much with Thad. Maybe if he took more of an interest in his children, both of his children, we wouldn’t be having these issues.”
It was all Astrid could do, in that moment, not to plant her boot squarely in the meddling bat’s behind. Luckily, Thad reappeared, holding his backpack aloft like a victorious knight raising his sword after a hard-won battle. She watched him with a mixture of exasperation and love so fierce it stole the breath from her lungs, grateful at least that his appearance saved her from having to explain—again—that some people’s parents had to work. In fact, she was already late to collect her father from the job that the Reich, in its abundant wisdom, had assigned to him. Because, naturally, it made perfect sense that a sixty-three-year-old man should labor on a road crew.
As Thad waved cheerfully to Mrs. Marsh, Astrid took his hand, the sting of the exchange clinging to her like a bitter aftertaste. The further they walked, the more the cold began to creep into her bones, echoing the harshness of that supercilious vulture’s words. The oppressive silence between them was broken only by the sound of their boots crunching through the dirty slush as they made their way to pick up their father. She was furious—furious at Mrs. Marsh, at the Reich, at the whole rotten mess of it all. But beneath the anger lay something far more troubling: guilt.
She felt guilty for being angry with Thad, for expecting him to adapt to a world that’d been stripped of its innocence. He was just a child, caught in a nightmare of grown-up horrors, and yet she was constantly pushing him to be more—more responsible, more adaptable, more like the boy he used to be. The snow began to fall again, soft, silent flakes that quickly turned to mush upon hitting the ground. It was a bleak, endless winter, as relentless as the occupation itself. She felt the weight of it bearing down on her, making her steps heavier, her heart sink deeper into her chest.
“It’s January tenth,” she remarked finally. “You’ve been back in school for a week, and you’re already in trouble. Again. Welcome to 1995, I guess.” She didn’t have the energy to scold him properly, not when she could barely muster the strength to keep her own head above water.
Thad’s shoulders sagged. “Are you upset?” he asked, his voice small.
She shot him a look, a mixture of frustration and exhaustion etched into her features. “What do you think?”
“It wasn’t me,” Thad insisted, his voice trembling. “Roger flushed my head in the toilet.”
She closed her eyes briefly, trying to push away the image of her little brother being bullied, humiliated. “Whose hair was wet?” she asked, already knowing the answer but needing to hear it from him.
“Both of ours,” Thad admitted, his tone tinged with defiance.
She didn’t want to know how. She really didn’t. “His father is important,” she reminded him, trying to impress upon him the importance of picking his battles. “You have to learn to get along.”
“No, I don’t!” Thad shouted, stopping dead in his tracks. “Roger Morrison is a liar and, even worse, he’s stupid.”
The snow was falling faster now, the world around them disappearing in a flurry of white. A car shot by, spraying them both with dirty slush. Thad froze, then crumpled in on himself, his thin frame heaving with silent sobs. The sight of him, so frail and vulnerable, broke something inside her. She knelt down next to him, ignoring the cold, wet ground, and pulled him against her in a tight hug. He didn’t respond at first, but then she felt his answering arms. “I love you, nugget,” she whispered, her voice choked with emotion. “And we’re going to get through this. I promise.”
They turned the corner onto Garden Street a minute later, the dilapidated façade of the Longy School of Music coming into view. The building, once a beacon of culture and education, stood gutted and charred, its windows shattered and boarded up, with only a few walls standing defiantly against the encroaching gloom. A casualty of the early bombings, it’d been essential enough to destroy but not essential enough to repair, left to rot while the Reich focused its efforts elsewhere. But now that the Reichsminister of Public Enlightenment and Propaganda was selling New England as a new settlement area, a lot of things were getting makeovers.
Covering the ground like ants, men in ill-fitting work clothes and tattered coats toiled under the watchful eyes of armed guards. The once-ornate sidewalks were now uneven, covered in piles of debris that the workers were slowly, methodically, clearing away. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and the acrid tang of burnt wood, mingling with the metallic odor of cold, rusting tools.
Astrid’s eyes searched the crowd until they landed on a familiar figure. Tall and spare, Ashleigh Du Pont Cavendish cut a patrician figure that seemed almost absurdly out of place amidst the grime and rubble. He was leaning on his shovel, the metal gleaming from disuse, as he animatedly lectured his fellow unfortunates. His expression softened as he caught sight of his daughter and son, though the sharp, critical gleam in his eyes—once so formidable in the classroom—remained unchanged. “Behold the use they find for a man of letters,” he declared, his voice ringing with the confidence of a seasoned orator. “Victi, vincimus! Conquered, we conquer.”
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The other workers, worn down by the day’s labor and the strain of their own troubles, barely acknowledged the professor’s outburst. Their sergeant, overseeing the operation with a bored expression, shot Ashleigh a look of mingled irritation and resignation, having heard this speech before. “You can go, Herr Professor,” he announced flatly, his voice devoid of enthusiasm.
Ashleigh waved him off. “Unteroffizier Persson, at least, respects me.”
“No, I don’t.” But Persson’s voice lacked heat.
Inclining his head formally, Ashleigh touched the brim of his hat. “Until the morning, then.”
Persson took the shovel. “I can’t wait,” he deadpanned.
As they continued down the street, Astrid pulled Thad to the side, just in time to avoid a group of soldiers marching in close formation. Their boots struck the pavement with a steady, mechanical rhythm, the sound echoing off the buildings like the relentless ticking of a clock. Their eyes fixed straight ahead, they seemed to all wear the identical expression as they pushed past. She held her breath, her heart hammering with each synchronized step, until the last man was behind them.
Her father turned to watch them disappear down Concord Avenue, a pained expression tightening his features. “I have lived to see my Rome overrun by Visigoths,” he murmured, his voice tinged with bitter resignation. Then, collecting himself, he forced what passed for a smile. “Plautus had a great deal to say about human cruelty, and in the 2,179 years since his death, I’m discouraged to report that not much has changed.” A sigh escaped him, his shoulders sagging under the burden of his disillusionment. “Homo homini lupus, my dear. It seems even the most learned among us are reduced to mere beasts in the eyes of our conquerors.”
Thad, who had been listening, pointed in the direction the soldiers had gone. “Those guys were Heer, right?”
Ashleigh nodded, his scholarly tone returning as he slipped back into a familiar role. “A word,” he informed his son, “which in German means ‘army group.’ Then, making up the rest of the Wehrmacht, we have the air force, or Luftwaffe, and the Kriegsmarine, the navy. I suppose the best translation of the last,” he mused, “would be ‘war on water.’ Luftwaffe, on the other hand, means ‘air weapon.’” His chuckle held a caustic edge. “German is not, shall we say, the most poetic of languages.”
“You’re forgetting the SS,” Thad pointed out, his young voice serious.
“The Wehrmacht,” Ashleigh explained, his tone growing slightly more guarded, “considers them to be poor soldiers.”
A crease appeared on Thad’s forehead. “They’re not part of the—whatever it is?”
Ashleigh shook his head. “No, much to at least Unteroffizier Persson’s everlasting delight. The SS is the Reich’s paramilitary wing and, fortunately for us all, they’re consigned to the ground. Then again, an aviation force might prove challenging as I doubt most of them know how to look up. Or, indeed,” he added wryly, “possess the capacity to learn.”
“Can they swim?” Thad asked, his tone skeptical.
Ashleigh hesitated, a little thrown by the question. “Possibly,” he allowed, after a moment’s contemplation. “If doing so were necessary to rescue a copy of Mein Kampf.”
Thad still looked doubtful. “So why do they think they’re so cool, then?”
Astrid cut in, her voice sharper than she intended, the day’s frustrations taking their toll. “Because they’re fanatical, suicidal, and indoctrinated.”
“The word for which you search, Optima Filia, is ‘cult.’” Ashleigh’s tone was still mild, although his eyes held a shadow of something darker.
Thad tugged on Astrid’s sleeve. “What’s a cult?”
Astrid looked down at him. “People with no regard for human life.”
Thad’s grimace was a sight to behold. “Then Roger’s in a cult.”
Astrid walked slightly ahead of her father and brother, half-listening as they turned onto Hilliard Street. Thad was complaining about Roger, again—and her father, as always, was dispensing advice with the lofty detachment of someone whose world had once made sense. “As difficult as this is,” he counseled, “you must rise above it.” Thad pointed out that Roger didn’t, Ashleigh assured him that no one wanted to be more like Roger, and Astrid felt the first creeping tendril of unease.
This neighborhood, once so recognizable and comforting, strangely felt alien. Familiar landmarks stared back at her like hostile strangers, their façades changed not by any visible alteration but by the horror of what they’d witnessed. Her childhood home, with its mansard roof and the large lawn surrounded by trees, loomed ahead. The house stood unscathed, a relic of a time that felt impossibly distant. She’d lived here since she was a small child, planting the garden with her mother, a garden that’d helped them survive in the eighteen months since the blockade began.
“I’m going to Josh’s,” Thad announced, already half-turned towards the house across the street.
“You have to finish your reading.” Astrid knew she sounded feeble, even to herself.
“The books Mrs. Marsh assigns are boring,” Thad shot back, not slowing down.
“Be back in time for dinner,” she called after him, defeated.
Her father offered her a wan grin in reassurance. She tried to return it, but it felt forced, stretched too thin across a growing unease she couldn’t explain. Pulling out her keys, she approached their front porch, the oppressive silence of the street suffocating. The key turned with a metallic scrape and she almost jumped out of her skin before pushing the door open and stepping inside. But the moment she crossed the threshold, something shifted—an instinctive, primal warning of wrong. The front hall, usually a sanctuary of familiarity, felt foreign. The air was different, as if it held a presence that didn’t belong. Every shadow seemed too dark, every creak too loud. She hesitated, her hand tightening around the keys, acutely aware of how loud her breathing was.
Their house had been built along classical lines, the front hall opening directly into the living room, where sunlight usually danced through the windows. But now, those same windows seemed to cast a thin, sterile light, bathing the room in overlapping shadows. Even so, it only took her a minute to see the stranger sitting on their sofa, watching her expectantly.
She trailed behind her father, who moved into the normally cheerful room with the same dignified pace he always carried. But she couldn’t muster his composure. Her heart was racing, her every nerve attuned to the danger that’d materialized in the form of this invader—this occupier—inside their home.
His posture, meanwhile, was almost insultingly casual. He lounged on the antique sofa as if he belonged there, one leg draped lazily over the other, a hand resting on the ornately carved back. His uniform was a deep, impenetrable black, a stark contrast to his pale skin and sharp, angular features. The only break in the monochrome of his attire was his crisp white shirt and the ominous band encircling his left arm. Even his tie was black, completing the ensemble of darkness that seemed to swallow the room’s remaining light.
His cap, with its gleaming skull and crossbones insignia, was casually placed on a nearby throw pillow, its sinister emblem facing them as if to mock the normalcy of this domestic scene. But as her mind took in the tableau, she noticed that he wasn’t alone. Positioned on either side of the door, just out of sight, two more men in uniform watched her. A cold realization settled in her gut: there was no escape. Thank God for Josh, came the disjointed response; at least Thad was safe.
She took a deep breath, steeling herself as the stranger’s cold, calculating gaze locked onto hers. His eyes held a glimmer of amusement, the faintest hint of satisfaction at her arrival. The spider, she thought, at the center of his web. He’d set his trap, and now the fly had landed right where he wanted her. The corners of his mouth twitched in something resembling a smile, though it lacked any warmth—just a predator's acknowledgment that his prey would make a lovely meal.
“Good afternoon.” He greeted them with a smooth, almost mocking politeness, although his voice held a hard edge. “Please, join me. And your charming daughter, as well.” There was a pause, as though he were sifting through a mental dossier. “Herr Professor Cavendish of Harvard University, isn’t it? And Fraulein Cavendish, also of that same fine institution.”
Her father’s face remained composed, his emotions hidden beneath his well-practiced civility. “Yes,” he replied evenly, though his eyes glinted with suppressed rage. “But I’d appreciate knowing the name of the man enjoying my hospitality, if it’s not too much trouble.”
The stranger’s polite veneer cracked; he was, quite obviously, used to being obeyed. “I am Sturmbannführer Voight.” He jabbed a finger at the nearest wing chair, his expression souring. “Sit.”
Ashleigh complied, his movements stiff and controlled, a man determined to maintain his dignity in the face of the enemy. Astrid hesitated, the tension in the room coiling tighter around her. Each second felt like an eternity, the sound of her own heartbeat pounding in her ears. Finally, she sat, placing her hands carefully on her knees, trying to steady herself.
Voight’s gaze lingered on her for a moment longer than was comfortable, his eyes cold and assessing. Every fiber of her being was focused on staying composed, on keeping the mask in place. Her hands, still resting on her knees, gripped the fabric of her skirt just enough to keep them from trembling. She stole a glance at her father, swallowing the lump in her throat. Not even he knew that she’d joined the resistance. If he had, he wouldn’t have tolerated it—he would’ve tried to protect her and, worse, he wouldn’t have been able to keep it a secret. But this sneering shadow knew; there was no other reason for him to be here.
The Sturmbannführer’s lips curved into a faint, almost imperceptible smirk, as if he could sense her internal struggle, feeding off her unease. His gaze held her captive for another moment before he leaned back, unhurried, savoring the power he wielded over her. Slowly, he produced a heavily engraved, expensive-looking case from his pocket. With a practiced flick, he opened it, removed a cigarette, and placed it between his lips. “Mind if I smoke?”
Ashleigh’s own lips pressed into a thin line. “Go ahead.”
Voight thumbed open his lighter, making a small noise of satisfaction as he lit the cigarette and exhaled a plume of smoke into the room. “Ashleigh—may I call you Ashleigh?” He didn’t wait for a response, his gaze taking in his surroundings with apparent appreciation. “You have a lovely home, though I must admit, I was expecting your return an hour ago.” He let the thought dissolve into silence, before abruptly switching gears. “Tell me about your PhD.”
Her father’s tone was clipped, his patience thinning. “It’s in Greek literature of the Roman Empire. Tell me about yours.”
“I never finished it,” Voight replied, indifferent. “Something for retirement.” He leaned forward, casually flicking ash into one of her mother’s Royal Doulton teacups that’d mysteriously appeared on the coffee table. His gaze sharpened, locking onto Ashleigh with a malicious intensity. “Herr Professor, during the war, did you hope for an American victory?”
Ashleigh tensed. “Yes.”
Voight’s eyes narrowed. “And did the siege affect the health of you and your family?”
“Yes,” Ashleigh admitted again, his voice steady as he met Voight’s gaze head-on. “But we’re not political.”
“I see.” Voight took a long, slow drag from his cigarette. His demeanor was a study in contrasts. His black uniform, meticulously pressed and immaculately fitted, accentuated his lean frame, while his pale skin seemed almost translucent under the harsh lighting. Yet, beneath this polished exterior, there was something feral, something just barely contained. His eyes—sharp and calculating—never quite matched the polite smile that played on his lips.
Every fiber of Astrid’s being was on high alert, waiting for the inevitable moment when his veneer of civility would shatter entirely, revealing the predator beneath. She was sure of it—any second now, he’d drop the pretense and call in his lackeys, snapping the jaws of his trap shut around them. Her heart pounded in her chest, every beat echoing with the dread of what was to come.
But instead of the expected arrest, Voight simply tapped his fingers lazily on the back of the couch. “Your son was. Nestor, I believe? He died in the Battle of Boston Harbor. While manning an anti-aircraft gun, covering the evacuation of the wounded.” His voice was soft, almost gentle, although detached. “Before, alas, succumbing to what I’m told were grievous injuries.”
Unable to voice his acknowledgment, Ashleigh only nodded.
“Brave boy,” Voight remarked. “And your wife?”
“She died last March.” Ashleigh’s tone turned accusing. “To what do I owe a visit from the Gestapo?”
Voight leaned back, a thin smile playing on his lips as he extinguished the cigarette in the delicate china cup. “I took the liberty of reading your last published paper, Herr Professor,” he began, his tone deceptively light. “An eloquent argument for academic freedom, as I recall, a spirited defense of the right to explore and express ideas without the constraints imposed by…outside forces.” He paused, letting the words hang in the air, his eyes glinting with suspicion. “I couldn’t help but wonder, however, how such ideals must feel now, in the wake of such loss.”
“I think,” Ashleigh replied carefully, “that I am but a common laborer.”
Voight’s gaze hardened; he didn’t like being balked. “One who, like his son, clings to a world that no longer exists?” Before her father could respond, the Sturmbannführer held up his hand. “I suppose we’ll find out, won’t we, when you resume your teaching duties in the fall.”
“I might not be invited back,” her father stated blandly. “Or even wish to resume such an onerous set of duties. Digging ditches turns out to be quite refreshing.”
“Are you aware,” Voight asked, “that there’s been another fire? Not as devastating as the first, but inconvenient to us nonetheless. I believe that the saboteur, or saboteurs, responsible meant to blow the arsenal. Instead, he—or she—only destroyed several barracks. Sad.”
“I don’t condone violence.” Ashleigh’s voice was sharp.
Voight crossed one leg over the other. “Even to avenge your son?”
“No,” Ashleigh began. “We’re peaceful people here, and I didn’t agree with—
Voight’s gaze switched to Astrid. “Fraulein Cavendish. Astrid. Your fiancé, one Casper Thomas Hall, is currently being held at a prisoner of war camp in Oregon.” His tone was measured, almost casual, as though he were discussing the weather rather than a man’s life. “He enlisted in the American Air Force immediately upon graduation from Harvard Law School and, eighteen months ago, left to fight for his country. Before that, he clerked for the regrettably late Herr Richter Blackburn.” He tilted his head. “Blackburn, as you no doubt know, greatly admired Ted Hood.”
Astrid felt the ground lurch beneath her feet, a cold wave of dread crashing over her. Casper. Hearing his name from this arrogant weasel’s lips was like a punch to the gut; the image of him trapped in some distant, desolate hellhole flashing through her mind. She’d spent countless nights worrying about him, imagining all the horrors he might be enduring, but hearing Voight speak of him so casually, so intimately, made it all too real. The room seemed to close in around her, the air thickening as she struggled to keep her composure. “Casper isn’t responsible for anything,” she assured him quickly, though her voice faltered.
Behind that impassive mask, Voight’s eyes flashed. “Are you?”
“No!” she insisted, the word escaping her lips almost involuntarily.
“Someone who can restore documents would be useful,” the Sturmbannführer countered, his voice smooth, almost coaxing. “Extremely useful, in certain circles.”
“I’m a codicologist,” Astrid informed him, fighting to keep the tremor from her voice. “Not some cloak-and-dagger operative. I restore illuminated manuscripts, I don’t overthrow regimes.”
Ashleigh, summoning himself, spoke. “Sturmbannführer, do you have a family?”
Voight studied him for a long moment. “Yes.”
Ashleigh was clasping his hands so tightly together that his knuckles were white. “Then you understand that I would never do anything to jeopardize mine.”
The silence stretched until, coming to some internal decision, Voight stood. “Thaddeus,” he announced. “Thad, isn’t it? Your youngest, the one currently playing pirates in the street with his friend. Is he enrolled in the Hitlerjugend?” His tone was light again, almost pleasant.
“No.” Her father almost spat the word.
Voight, unmoved, produced a card. “An oversight, no doubt.”
Then, handing it to her father, he signaled to his men and strode out.
Astrid didn’t move, couldn’t move, as the front door clicked shut behind them. The room was eerily silent, the tension still hanging thick in the air. She felt like she was floating, detached from reality, as if the world had tilted on its axis and she was struggling to find her balance again. All she could do was breathe, in and out, and cling to the fact that, for now, they were safe.
But for how long?