France

1940

2:00 a.m.

Since you’ve been gone; I have no more summer, only the worst of winter…

Drake surged through the door to the grand lobby to see Irene Irons sitting on a ledge from the west balcony. Her legs dangled over oblivion like resting on a swing. Godfrey and the other servants gathered beneath her, shouting, pleading for her to abandon such a foolish act. But their words fell on deaf ears and instead, Irene took a generous gulp from her wine glass and dropped it.

Godfrey and the others dispersed as it shattered into a thousand pieces. Irene guffawed and in that instant, her body scooted further from the ledge. She hummed to herself and rocked her arms as if cradling an infant, though she held nothing but air. When Drake saw her, he froze.

She ensnared him with her violet eyes and smiled, kicking off her heels and undoing the choker around her neck.

Godfrey ran to Drake’s side. “We’ve been begging her to stop, but she won’t listen. Do something!”

Drake stepped past Godfrey, standing beneath Irene some twenty-feet below. The broken glass crunched under his shoes, and a servant took his hat and coat.

“Irene, why are you doing this — ?”

Irene placed a finger on her soft, full lips. “Be quiet or you’ll wake the baby,” she said, hushed.

Drake gritted and squeezed his fist, fighting back tears. “Irene! Our baby is gone! Adriel is gone, and he’s not coming back!”

She shook her head, already on the precipice of insanity. “No, that’s not true. He’s right here. He needs his father…”

Drake gasped. He shared a glance with Godfrey who remained just as stupefied. The midwife who once assisted Irene in childbirth stifled a scream. Irene’s lullaby filled the room’s silence. She continued muttering to herself. The group turned to Drake, to include Godfrey, staring solemnly.

“I’ll handle this,” Drake said.

“Drake!”

Irene stood on the ledge, feet losing their grip on the surface. Yet she held onto the false child like both their lives depended on it. Hushed gasps filled the group, maids and groundskeepers covering their mouths.

“Godfrey, get them out of here…”

Godfrey nodded.

The butler wasted no time scattering the group, reinforcing them to return to their chores. They obeyed, but a few maids glanced over their shoulders before being shoved through the door by Godfrey.

“I know!” Irene shouted in a mirthful voice. “If I jump then that means I’ll go back! Then you’ll have to jump too, Drake! We can be a family again-!”

She spread her arms like wings, closed her eyes, and fell forward.

“IRENE NO! NO! NO!” Drake took off in a sprint, tears flying behind him.

She hit the ground face first, and the haunting crack of her skull filled the lobby. Godfrey shuddered as blood filled the cracks in the tiles, flowing as if going in some predetermined path. Drake fell to his knees, blood soaking his trousers. His hands hovered over her corpse, still unable to accept her death.

And he wailed like a wounded animal.

The radio broke Drake’s trance as the squadron leader spoke. He opened his eyes, seeing nothing but total darkness save for strobe lights from other aircraft. He thanked the leader in silence; since Irene’s death, flying was never the same. He hated it; it gave him too much time to ruminate — too much time to remind him of her. The cockpit fogged, turning his field of vision into one narrow tunnel forward. The chatter continued as the squadron leader instructed them to descend.

The other Lysanders started their descent, and Drake followed. As he descended, he could see the dark outline of the forest canopy and rolling hills. The fog covering the cockpit dissipated, and he set eyes on a small clearing in the forest. He watched the altitude on the altimeter steadily drop and the aircraft made a low droning sound as he pushed down the joystick. A resistance fighter waving two yellow wands directed them to the field, and the Lysanders started their supply run.

He watched the Lysanders unfold their wheels as they landed, dropping cargo from their pregnant bellies. Drake was last. He flicked a switch to lower the wheels and as his aircraft landed he pulled another lever that released the cargo beneath his plane.

The Lysander lost speed, cutting through the grass leaving noticeable tracks in its wake. Resistance fighters swarmed the cargo and covered the tracks with leaves and branches in an instant. Drake cut the engine, and the propeller came to a slow stop. He slid open the cockpit, removed his cumbersome gear, and jumped down.

He met a group of fighters struggling to open a crate. Drake gripped the edge and with one tug, ripped open the lid. The fighters made a face, dumbstruck, before turning their concern to the cornucopia of weapons, ammo, and grenades before them. They distributed the weapons amongst each other, ignoring Drake in favor of these contributions, which included tobacco and brandy.

He approached a fighter, a vigorous Frenchman wearing a flat cap and a brown jacket with a red band on its sleeve. “I’m looking for Charon Dubois — !”

Aircraft engines engulfed his words as the other Lysanders prepared for take off. The Frenchman tilted his head and tapped his ear. Another man stepped between them, heavy gusts making him blanch away.

The man hid his face within his jacket. “He cannot hear,” he said, “went deaf when a German grenade exploded near his ear!” The man imitated an explosion with his hands.

Drake leaned closer. “Charon Dubois! Is he here?”

His eyes brightened. “Charon?”

“Yes!”

The man grimaced, looked back to his fellow fighters and turned to Drake. “He was captured a few days ago. He’s being held at a jail in this town by German loyalists!”

He pointed towards a gap in the woods where a few fighters stood watch with rifles. Drake grabbed a fistful of his hair and squeezed. He screamed and pounded a few dents into the frame of his aircraft. His breathing was labored and when he composed himself, he straightened his jacket collar.

“How far is the town?” Drake asked.

“Not far.”

Drake reached into a crate armed himself with a Sten Mk 2 (a popular submachine gun used for special operations) and a pistol. He chambered a round in each and slung the Sten on the shoulder, marching towards the gap in the tree line.

“You’re going alone?”

Without looking back or turning, Drake answered: “If I have to, yes.”

The man sighed, slung his rifle and gestured towards Drake. Then the other resistance fighters followed him into the woods.