Gretchen giggled, her voice tinged with mockery. “Do you even know what they make you do at bride school?”

Fritz shrugged, looking bemused. “Um, bride things?”

She glanced at him, grimacing. He reminded her of brothers, bothersome ones at that, always underfoot but somehow endearing. Leni was a lucky girl to have him; he was loyal, good-hearted, and always willing to help—even if he did complain now and then. He’d gone with her to pick up the strudel, and deliver it to Zelda’s house, but even more welcome than a strong arm was some friendly company in an increasingly terrifying world.

Not that she planned on telling him anything of the sort. Too much praise wasn’t good for a person, just ask her father. The nincompoop, as she thought of him privately, was an endless suck-up. He was always trying to impress Adolf, which she found both baffling and infuriating. She couldn’t understand why he lavished so much attention on a man who barely noticed his existence, while she felt starved for any kind of acknowledgment. The only time her parents seemed to notice her was when she was in trouble, so she made sure to cause plenty of it.

After the attack, Gretchen had been too scared to leave her room but did her father care? No! To him, Charlotte being in the hospital was just one more opportunity. Having run out of ways to impress Adolf directly, he’d pester Adolf’s presumable future family with pastry and she’d damn well help him. Fritz wasn’t exactly having the time of his life either, but he didn’t really seem to mind. Maybe he didn’t understand how exhausting it was to be constantly overlooked—or grounded. She sighed inwardly, feeling a familiar mix of resentment and longing. “Has anyone in your family ever gone?” she asked, her tone curious. “To bride school?”

Fritz frowned, confusion etching his features. “No one in my family was ever important enough.”

They turned onto Ash Street, a surprisingly quiet and sylvan stretch right outside of Harvard Square. Unlike the rest of the area, the houses here were mostly clapboard and shingle, making her feel like she’d stepped back in time. Lush greenery spilled over the fences, where bees droned lazily amidst cascades of blooms. Tall, leafy trees cast dappled shadows on the brick sidewalk, and the air was filled with the heady perfume of late summer.

“Leni will have to go,” she confided, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Now that you’ve joined the Reich’s weirdest.”

“Hey!” Fritz wrinkled his nose in mock offense. “I was weird before.”

She snorted. “Oh, sure. But now you’re officially weird. I mean, the SS? It’s like the Boy Scouts but with more satanic rituals. My dad was in it, too, back when he was young and thought it made him special. All those self-important losers prancing around in the woods, and—

“Moritz might be the devil,” Fritz cut in, “no one’s entirely sure, but satanic is a little strong. And it’s not all marching around with torches, we do learn things. There are trainings all the time and—

“Not in bride school!” she wailed. “They make you wash clothes.”

“Well, washing clothes is important,” Fritz reminded her. “Underpants aren’t, like, disposable.”

“And ironing!” She threw her hands up in exasperation. “Like there’s some special way to press a uniform.”

“There is, actually.” Fritz sounded concerned. “But it’s not just that. Bride school is supposed to teach useful stuff, like how to care for babies, cook decent food, and budget. You know, things that make a house run. It sounds kind of stupid but, if you think about it, a lot of folks could probably use more training on practical stuff like that.”

“Spoken like someone who isn’t forced to churn butter,” she shot back.

“Husbands and wives are supposed to be partners.” Fritz’s tone carried the faintest rebuke. “And I spent six hours in a training last week learning that those nice men at car dealerships don’t have my best interests at heart. Anyway,” he added, “Leni says you learn to throw a cocktail party.”

She arched an eyebrow. “You’re planning on having a lot of those, at the farm?”

Fritz laughed, the sound echoing softly in the leafy stillness. “Maybe!” he replied, grinning. “Imagine it—cocktail parties in the barn, pigs in bow ties, and cows serving hors d’oeuvres.”

She kicked at a stray pebble, feeling the sun’s warmth on her back. She wanted Fritz to be wrong, but he wasn’t; if raising children were that easy, after all, the world wouldn’t be such a cesspit. But better than forcing all women into some domestic goddess mold would be letting them choose not to have families in the first place. If she’d been born a man, she could’ve gone to law school—and would’ve been praised for her ambition! Instead, she’d spent a lifetime hearing that there was something wrong with her, because she didn’t thrill to embroidering tablecloths.

The house came into view, a squat little colonial set back from the road amidst a riot of unkempt garden. Bessie had mostly eaten through it, the miniature fairy forest having quickly become a testament to neglect. With Charlotte still at MGH and Zelda either working nonstop or there, with her, no one had kept Bessie in check—although Constance, Gretchen noted sourly, could’ve done something. Faltering to a stop, she felt a frisson of unease. The house was in shadow, huge sycamore trees spreading their branches overhead, enhancing the sense of this being an oasis. Everything looked so peaceful…but something was off.

Bessie ambled up, nudging Fritz’s leg.

Watching Fritz explain that strudel wasn’t for pigs, a small sigh escaped her lips. He’d make a better woman than she would. Turning, she frowned at the Excelsior Estate. Charlotte’s attack meant that Adolf and Ingrid had postponed their departure, instead joining Klaus at the old pile. That Klaus couldn’t fend for himself didn’t surprise her; most men couldn’t. His idea of fascinating conversation also put her to sleep, but she’d set her cap for him just the same. A girl could tolerate a lot for a fortune like his. Wealth bought gorgeous mansions, but it also bought freedom. Klaus’s wife wouldn’t have to do anything she didn’t want to.

Klaus also terrified her father.

She gestured at the soldier guarding his gate, who watched her glumly. “Fred’s all about rounding up the queers,” she remarked, “but he’d kneel down on the sidewalk right there and suck Adolf’s cock if he thought it’d get him another promotion.”

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Fritz’s mouth dropped open, his face flushing with shock. “Gretchen!”

She rolled her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest. “Keep your panties on, Fritz.” “You can’t talk about the Reichsminister like that!” he protested, his voice rising in alarm. “Or your father!”

She smirked, leaning in slightly. “Are you suggesting that Adolf doesn’t get freaky?”

They resumed their trip up the drive, the gravel crunching under their feet. Fritz stared down at the box in his hands, resigned. “I’m too young for this conversation.”

“Don’t tell me you and Leni never…?” She stared at him, processing the idea. Built like Thor and with the coloring to match, Fritz was a ten next to anyone. But an astonishing number of people seemed mortifyingly backwards. “There must be a reason Leni’s father hates you so much,” she probed. “You already have a little Fritz at home, or what?”

His jaw set in determination, he pretended that she was invisible.

Savoring his mortification, she considered adding to it by flashing the guard. But her gnawing sense of unease squashed her good humor. “All I’m saying,” she continued, talking to cover it, “is that between the dusting and polishing and—oh my God, my vagina is drying out as we speak.” Her mother comparing bride school to summer camp also wasn’t exactly a turn-on. Then again, her mother’s idea of fun was touching herself to Mein Kampf. Which, admittedly, did sound like more fun than touching her father. Mood thoroughly ruined now, she took the porch steps two at a time and banged her fist against the door.

“Can your mother make strudel?” Fritz’s tone was deceptively innocent.

“No, you wand.” She leaned against the railing. “That’s why we stopped at the bakery.”

His frown deepened. “Which, I wanted to mention, their prices—

She made an exasperated noise. “You’re not paying.”

“You know,” he mused, “Leni already knows how to take care of herself.”

She shot him a look. “All girls do.”

“I don’t want her to be obedient, though.” He sounded worried. “She’s the smart one.”

At that, Gretchen couldn’t help but smile. “Spoken like a true man.” Now, if only she could get her mother to agree. That majestic woman’s sole use for a husband was wishing he’d leave her alone, and she wanted to sell the idea that marriage was some fairy tale? Maybe things had been different, decades ago, but the Reich had a way of chewing people up and spitting them out, shaping them into obedient automatons—or getting rid of them altogether. Fritz’s concern seemed almost naïve in comparison, but she appreciated his sentiment.

He took a turn knocking.

When no one appeared, she scowled. “Do you have any friends?”

Knitting his eyebrows together, he scanned their surroundings. “Yes, actually.”

“You need to set me up with one,” she advised. “My father just loves the idea of my seeing Heinz, so that’s off the table. Besides, I didn’t want to see him. I mean, I did, but only part of him.” Moreover, Heinz had rejected her even more roundly than Klaus. At least Klaus had had the good grace to pretend he didn’t notice her advances; the Obersturmführer had flatly told her that he was no one’s second choice, even his best friend’s.

“Maybe,” Fritz ventured, “Constance isn’t home.”

“Where else would she be?” Gretchen demanded.

“She might be visiting someone,” Fritz worried at his lower lip, plainly distressed. “She should. She’s been upset.”

“She should consult a medium,” Gretchen grumbled, “to resurrect her sense of humor. Zelda’s always nice about her, but I can tell that Constance hurts her feelings. Everything is morals this, morals that, nobody in the world’s got any morals but Constance. I hate morals!” She stomped her foot for emphasis. “Wait until Little Miss Convent hears about Zelda and the Sturmbannführer.”

“That’s a rumor,” Fritz warned her, the flush returning to his cheeks. “We’re together and we’re not, like, together.”

And no one gossiped about them, she wanted to snap. Zelda and her boss, on the other hand, were all anyone in the mail room talked about. They acted so professional around each other, that in and of itself was suspicious! They jumped apart whenever anyone came into his office, and Voight really did stare at Zelda like a cat hunched at a mouse hole.

Frustrated, Gretchen pushed past Fritz as she turned. “Wherever Constance went,” she snapped, “I’m not waiting for her to come back.” She stepped onto the blood stain, the dark, dried mark a stark contrast against the otherwise pristine gravel. Realizing what she was doing, a wave of nausea hit her, and she almost vomited. The peculiar scent of old crime scene lingered in the air, like whispers in a haunted house. “Why hasn’t the moralizing bitch cleaned this up?” she muttered. Constance was supposed to be Charlotte’s best friend—not that she seemed to remember that.

The atmosphere was surreal, the stillness of the place clashing with the violent reminder underfoot. Her unease returned in full force, making the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. The house loomed behind her, shadows from the sycamore trees stretching down the driveway like dark fingers. Everything seemed too still, too quiet, as if the house itself was holding its breath. She glanced back at Fritz, still standing on the porch, suddenly glad that she wasn’t alone—and that he wasn’t. His discomfort mirrored her own, the gravity of the situation settling over them both like a shroud. This wasn’t just another prank or rebellion—it was real, and it was dangerous.

The waiting was also unbearable; she needed to act, to do something to end this awful suspense.

“Gretchen,” Fritz shouted, “where are you going?”

“To force a window,” she called, striding around to the back of the house.

Ignoring Fritz’s protestations that this was a bad idea, she headed toward the garden. The overgrown foliage brushed against her legs, and the scent of damp earth filled her nostrils. Fritz could boost her up and then, once she was inside, pass her the strudel. They’d leave it on the kitchen table with a note and if her father didn’t like that, he could bite her. She was still imagining that delightful image when she reached the dining room window—and noticed that part of the fence was missing. Bessie had apparently knocked it over before moving on to explore the neighbor’s garden. Didn’t Constance care about this place at all?

Then, peering through the glass, she understood.

She must’ve screamed, because Fritz dropped the box and drew his gun. Appearing by her side, he swore under his breath. Constance was on the floor—or, at least, what she thought was Constance. There wasn’t much left of the woman’s face and, even worse, the past few days had been hot. The room smelled of decay, the heat having accelerated the process. Constance looked like she’d died making a snow angel, her arms and legs splayed out in a grotesque parody of innocence.

The room was as eerily still as the garden, the only sound the distant buzzing of flies. Gretchen’s stomach churned as she stumbled back, the full horror of the scene sinking in. Fritz’s face was pale, his grip on the gun tightening. But the only threat here was one he couldn’t shoot—the insidious rot that was consuming them all from the inside.