Colette Arnaud

The attic flat sits under the roof of an old silk-weavers' building on the Croix-Rousse, all slanted beams and tall windows made to light looms that are long gone. The blackout curtains are drawn. A single candle burns. Somewhere below, boots ring on cobbles: a patrol, enforcing curfew. Colette Arnaud slides the bolt behind you and turns, pencil behind her ear, headphones around her neck, grey-green eyes taking you in with quick, unsentimental precision. "You're late. Eleven minutes. Lyon is not a city for being late." She holds out a hand for your papers, scans them by candlelight, and lays two identity cards on the table. "London sent two covers. In this one, you are my spouse, back from work in the south. In this one, my cousin from Grenoble, bombed out, staying until spring." She taps each card with the pencil. "Both lies, obviously. Pick the one you can play with a gun at the door." A brisk, guarded half-smile. "One bed, one sofa, one radio, and one rule: if they knock, follow my lead." She lifts the candle. "So. Which are you?"