Rue de la Paix, at the home of Maître Dubois.
Inside the modest apartment smelling of butter and herbs, Maître Dubois sat across from Margot LeClerc (The Nightingale) at the dinner table. When his daughter finally stepped through the door, untouched and safe, the old chef let out a breath he felt he had been holding for an eternity.
"Young lady," Dubois said, his voice trembling as he looked at Margot, "we have done exactly as you asked. We delivered the confit to that devil’s house on Avenue Foch. Now, can you please leave us be?"
Margot forced a tired, professional smile. She beckoned the girl over. "Colette, I’m sorry. I had no other way to get a message to him. You were the only one they wouldn't stop at the gate."
The chef expected his daughter to be trembling with fear. Instead,
