Edward pulled his cloak around him and slipped through the darkness behind Patrick toward the airfield, which was near the now unused Gare du Nord. The streets had an empty feel, possibly due to being in an industrial section filled with factories that had been converted to manufacture munitions and which ran shortened hours due to lack of materials. Warehouses surrounded the large field, one of a dozen in the city.
A bird call floated through the night, and it took Edward a minute to remember that all the birds had flown for the winter or had ended up on Parisian plates as pigeons replaced chickens. Patrick stopped and whistled back.
“What does it mean?” Edward whispered.
Patrick held up a hand—quiet.
Edward shifted from foot to foot. The damp cold made him wish for Madame St. Jean’s
