4 April, 1940 - Grasse, France
Danielle glanced outside the laboratory window. Beyond the bougainvillea’s ruby flush, she could see wisteria vines laden with violet-hued blossoms. Like the wisteria, she had also grown heavy with the springtime’s promise. According to her calculations, the baby was due in two weeks.
The farm was in full operation and Philippe rose early to oversee the work, even though he worked late every evening, relaying vital information over his shortwave radio. Danielle often listened, learning all that she could. If she didn’t hear from Max soon, she had a plan of her own in mind.
This morning, she sat at her perfumer’s workbench and scribbled furiously in her journal, checking numbers. Waving a strip of blotter paper under her nose, she felt a frisson of exciteme
