Flour dust hung in the damp air of the Saint-Jean bakery’s cellar, settling on the shoulders of Madeleine’s navy wool coat. The scent of old yeast and wet stone was a thick, familiar weight in her lungs. Across the scarred workbench, the lamp flickered, casting René’s shadow high against the bins of hoarded grain. He did not look at her as he worked the seal on a fresh packet of tobacco.
Fourteen times she had come to this basement for an envelope. Fourteen times she had carried carbon-paper secrets through the checkpoints of Lyon without glancing at the ink. This time was different. The silence between them felt brittle, stretched thin by the cold February wind rattling the street-level grates above. Don’t look inside, Henri had whispered to her earlier that morning, his eyes avoiding hers. He had been the one to help René draft the contents.
René finally met her gaze, his face a mask of tired stone. He reached into his satchel and produced a packet that was far too heavy for mere paper. It landed on the wood with a dull, unnatural thud. René's hand slides a thick, wax-sealed manila envelope across the flour-dusted table toward her.
