“Gottlieb—”
He held up one hand. “Still, as far as I can tell, nothing is broken.”
“Thank God,” Maggie breathed.
“I thought you didn’t believe in God?”
“It’s an expression.”
“So, what happened?” He sounded exasperated.
Maggie felt a flash of annoyance. Gottlieb didn’t trust her. He didn’t think she was competent. If you were any good yourself, Schatzi, you’d at least have considered the possibility that I faked that faint. It’s not my fault you can’t think on your feet as fast as I can. And my shoes are a lot less comfortable than yours. “I did it on purpose. To get away from the crowd.”
Gottlieb’s eyebrows raised in an expression approximating respect. “Well, we now have an excuse to leave early. Do you want me to do it?”
“You’d look rather conspicuous carrying a handbag.”
Gottlieb was not amused. “I can put it in my pocket.”
Maggie wanted to show the arrogant albino that she was no rank amateur. “Really, I can do it. I want to do it.” She sat up and looked around the room. It was beautiful, with robin’s-egg-blue wallpaper and a silk coverlet. In the corner was a Victorian-looking cage holding a dove, who stared at Maggie with inquisitive eyes.
“Fine,” Gottlieb told her. “It’s your head on the block.”
There was a dressing table, with a yellowing Palm Sunday frond tucked behind the mirror, along with several photographs of Elise, Clara, and Herr Hess together—ice skating, skiing, in bathing suits by a sparkling lake. Maggie tried not to feel jealous that Elise had grown up with a mother, even a terrifying Nazi one, not to mention a father. It’s not her fault, after all.
“Here we go …” she heard Elise say as she reentered the room. She was holding a heavy silver tray, which she set down on the bed. “Just like room service! I didn’t know what you’d feel like eating, so I brought up a few different things.” Elise put her hand on Maggie’s shoulder and laid a linen napkin across her lap. The tray held a plate of hors d’oeuvres, a glass of water, and a delicate porcelain cup rimmed with swastikas, that contained steaming coffee. “Eat!” Elise urged.
Maggie was suddenly ravenous. “Thank you, Fräulein Hess,” she said, through a small cheese-filled gougère. “This is perfect.”
She patted Gottlieb’s hand. “In fact, I’m feeling much, much better now.”
“Shall we go back to the party, Schatzi?” he asked.
“Why don’t you go?” Maggie suggested, taking a sip of the coffee. After days of ersatz rationed brew, she’d never tasted anything so wonderful.
“If you’re sure …”
“I am.” Maggie nodded, then reached for another flaky gougère. “Go! Enjoy yourself!”
Gottlieb blinked. Maggie had a feeling of smug satisfaction. He finally understood what she was up to. He left.
“Herr Lehrer is quite gallant,” Elise noted, turning toward the mirror and picking up a tube of lipstick.
Maggie smiled at Elise, who was painting her mouth. “Want to try?” the other girl asked, holding out a golden tube.
Maggie blotted her lips with the napkin, set aside the tray and rose. Standing next to Elise, she applied the lipstick, which smelled of violets. The pigmented wax was still warm from Elise’s lips; the act felt dizzyingly intimate.
“Now, let’s see,” Elise said. “You’ve eaten, that’s good. You have lipstick on, excellent. Let me fix your hair.” She picked up a boar-bristle hairbrush. “Here you go,” she said, brushing the coppery strands into place. “Perfect.”
Maggie’s heart was racing. She had a sister. A sister who was sweet. A sister who was fixing her hair—a quintessentially sisterly thing to do in Maggie’s opinion, based on books and films. Her sister, who was the daughter of the traitor Clara Hess. Her sister, who was probably a Nazi, too. Maggie took a tremulous breath to clear her head. I have a mission. I will not be distracted.
She smiled at Elise. “Fräulein Hess, if you don’t think it’s too much of an imposition—especially after all of your kindnesses—I’d love to tour your beautiful home. If you don’t mind.”
“And here we have Mother’s conservatory,” Elise said, her mind on Herr Mystery. It was a huge room, with a grand piano and an oversized painting of Clara as Brünnhilde in Wagner’s Siegfried. What if his temperature’s still elevated? What if one of the maids needs something from the attic? What if he cries out and someone hears him?