Page 2 of The Last Library of Paris

‘Frances, you’re being overly dramatic,’ my high school science teacher would say to me when I announced I didn’t understand a word of chemistry. And it was that I thought of now, as I saw the Nazis arrive in Paris. They were being overly dramatic. Arriving with tanks and flags and guns, to make a point. As though we’d not all seen this coming.

I stayed there all day, with my coffee half-drunk and cold beside me. And now it was late. Darkness was rolling in, just as the tanks had. And all across Paris, the lights were going out. Flickers at windows were hidden. Thick curtains yanked across doorways. I sat there, watching the night get darker and the lights fade, until all I could see was my own reflection in the glass.

And I wondered what on earth was going to happen now.

Chapter 1

Cassie

Lisbon

One year later

When I came out of the airport, blinking in the Portuguese sunshine, Digby was waiting for me.

The airport had been full of PVDE – the local police – while outside, a group of Nazi soldiers stood smoking beside a wall. A couple of British officers walked past them, not acknowledging their presence, and I allowed myself a small smile. Lisbon was being its usual contradictory self, and I was glad to be back.

Digby was leaning against a car, his hat tilted down to shade his face. I was absurdly pleased to him, though of course I didn’t show it.

‘Need a lift, Cassandra?’ he called.

‘I was going to get the tram.’

‘Well, if you’re sure …’ He turned away from me, opening the car door as if to get back in, and I grinned.

‘A lift would be lovely, thank you.’

I hurried across the uneven street. Digby took my suitcase from me and put it on the back seat while I got in on the passenger side.

‘Gosh, it’s warm,’ I said, fanning myself with my hand as he drove. ‘I’d forgotten.’

‘How was England?’ he asked, not looking at me, but instead concentrating on the road ahead, which I was glad about.

‘Oh, you know,’ I said. ‘London’s a mess. Huge gaps in streets where bombs have fallen. Rubble everywhere. Dust in the air. I was rather shocked.’

‘And your village?’

‘Same as always.’ Though that was a lie really. It had been very different this time, because my brother was dead and my family would never be the same again.

‘How are your parents doing?’ Digby said carefully.

I breathed in.

‘Sad,’ I said. ‘Shocked. Stoic.’

‘I can imagine.’

‘My father organised a memorial at the church,’ I said. ‘He planned to take the service himself. But when it came to the day, he couldn’t do it.’ I remembered my father’s face, drawn and grey, as he asked the local vicar to speak in his place.

‘That’s understandable,’ Digby said. ‘He’s used to being the one who takes charge, but even archbishops need help sometimes. And even in wartime no one expects to bury a child.’

‘Except we haven’t buried him, have we?’

‘No.’ Digby reached out and patted my hand briefly, which was a very un-Digby-like thing to do. I felt tears sting my eyelids at the sympathy and turned my head to look out of the window.

‘How are you?’ Digby asked.

‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘Really, I am.’