Citadel by Kate Mosse

realising what a muddle it all sounded. ‘Someone else hit me.’
    ‘You’re telling me you were attacked?’ Lucie said doubtfully.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Who by?’
    ‘I don’t know.’
    Lucie was frowning. ‘Someone attacked you, then ran off, leaving you to be pulled out of the water by somebody else? Two different men.’
    ‘Yes,’ said Sandrine, though sounding less sure.
    ‘And this second man, he ran off too?’
    ‘Because he heard the car,’ Sandrine said. ‘I heard it too, the engine. Or the motorbike.’ She stopped, suddenly not sure of the order in which things had happened. ‘No, a car.’ She looked up at Lucie. ‘Your car, he heard you coming and—’
    ‘Why would he bolt unless he’d done something wrong?’
    ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I know it sounds ridiculous, but it’s what happened, I’m not making it up.’
    Lucie smiled. ‘Hey, kid, it’s not that I think you’re making it up, but you did bash your head pretty badly. Bound to be muddled.’
    Max came back. ‘There’s nothing there. I looked all around and in the water. No jacket, nothing resembling the piece of jewellery you described.’ He paused. ‘No . . . person.’
    ‘But he must be there. He was hurt, badly hurt. Unconscious, maybe . . . He wasn’t capable of going anywhere.’
    Sandrine looked at them. Max’s hawk-like face was thoughtful, calm. Lucie was concerned and sympathetic. But it was clear that neither of them believed her.
    ‘I’m not making it up,’ she said again. ‘He was unconscious, he half woke up, but then someone else came . . .’
    Lucie stood up and straightened her dress. ‘Come on, we should take you home,’ she said. ‘Get you out of those wet clothes.’
    Sandrine was sure she hadn’t imagined it, she couldn’t have. Her aching muscles were testament to that. She looked over to the glade and the willow tree. She hesitated. Had somebody hit her? She had thought so, was sure of it. But was it possible she had slipped? Her fingers stole to her lips. Sandalwood, gentle, his breath soft on her skin where he’d kissed her. She hadn’t imagined that.
    Lucie’s voice cut into her reflections. ‘Sandrine?’
    She blinked. ‘I’m sorry . . . I didn’t hear.’
    ‘I said, if we take you home, will there be someone to look after you? Patch you up?’
    Sandrine nodded, sending her head spinning again. ‘Marieta, our housekeeper.’
    Lucie held out her hand and helped Sandrine to her feet. ‘In which case, let’s get going.’ She retrieved Sandrine’s things from the edge of the water. ‘I like your socks, by the way. Unusual. Really something.’
    ‘Thanks.’ She managed a smile. ‘My father brought them back for me from Scotland. Just before he was called up. Then, of course . . .’
    Lucie’s pretty face clouded over. ‘Yes, I’m sorry. I heard he didn’t make it back.’
    ‘No.’ There wasn’t anything else she could say. ‘What about you?’
    ‘My father’s in a POW camp,’ Lucie said in a tight voice, ‘though we’re expecting him to be released any day.’
    ‘That’s good news.’
    ‘My mother says she’ll be pleased to have him back,’ she said sharply. ‘So far as I’m concerned, the Germans are welcome to him.’
    Sandrine looked at her in surprise. She waited for Lucie to say more, but she didn’t.
    ‘Marianne’s fiancé’s in a camp in Germany,’ Sandrine said to fill the silence.
    ‘Thierry, yes.’
    ‘You know him?’
    Lucie’s smile came back. ‘It was me who introduced them.’
    ‘I don’t know him awfully well. His cousin, Suzanne, is a friend of Marianne’s, but she hadn’t been seeing him long when Thierry was called up. He seems nice.’
    ‘He is nice.’
    ‘Marianne got one of those grey cards last October, saying he’d been captured. She’s not heard anything since then.’
    ‘That’s tough.’
    Max caught the end of the conversation. ‘What’s tough?’
    ‘Not knowing what the future holds,’ Lucie said, looking up