Author's Note: I'm back at a point where I'm not certain where I'm going with this. I was going to stretch this chapter out a bit more, but it's been a while since I updated and I'm not sure where to take this story next. School is quite busy this semester (lots of reading), but the semester will end in May. Perhaps I'll get some writing done then. Haven't decided if I'm taking summer classes or not. Thoughts/reviews are always welcome!

The Invisible Savior

They did not leave immediately following breakfast, as Marguerite had initially expected. Instead, Blakeney insisted on writing a few short letters to members of the League. He instructed Yosef to find her a decent coat and some Wellies before they set out, and then he sat down at the table with some scraps of paper and a pen.

Thus she found herself in a back bedroom of the cabin, with Yosef rummaging in a closet, pulling out various women's coats for her to try on. The first three were far too big, but the fourth fit well enough. Wellies were even harder to find in her size; her feet were quite small, and eventually Yosef gave up and stuffed some old flannel rags into a pair that was only two sizes too big. Marguerite took her regular shoes off and slipped into the rubber boots, wriggling her toes against the cushy flannel and wondering if she would be able to walk in the confounded English footwear, or if she would trip spectacularly out in the snow.

Yosef packed her regular shoes into a small satchel, which also included a blanket and some extra food – then he gave her a scarf, woolen hat, and a pair of mittens.

"How far am I going to walk in this snow?" she asked, frowning as she inspected the worn hat.

"The train station is a couple of miles to the west. I expect that is where Herr Blakeney intends to go," Yosef said placidly.

When he finally led her back into the main room, Blakeney had completed his missives and was waiting patiently by the door, dressed in a long coat, gloves, and hat as well.

"I thought you were writing letters?" she demanded.

"I told madam they would not take long." Blakeney handed the few sealed envelopes to Yosef and asked him, "Can you see that these reach their destinations?"

"Of course," Yosef replied. "Without delay. I expect Herr Glynde is still around?"

"Yes, he should return within the hour. He can take those on to their recipients."

"Very good. Have a safe journey, Herr Blakeney."

Blakeney smiled and clasped hands with the man, before opening the door and ushering Marguerite out into the cold.

It was crisp outside, but the sun was shining. Blakeney took care to walk just in front of her, carving a deep track through the thick snow so she could walk more easily. She was grudgingly grateful for that – even with the flannel stuffed in the wellies, she found walking awkward and frustrating...as though she had grown an extra set of feet and didn't know what to do with them.

Blakeney remained silent for their journey, which took them across presumed meadows and down a forest lane where the snow wasn't as deep, then back into the open once more. Marguerite was just beginning to think she would run out of breath (and was thankful she didn't have to talk, else she wouldn't be able to breath at all!) when she saw a small building in the distance.

"Is that the station?" she called out, clutching her coat and scarf more tightly about her throat.

Blakeney glanced over his shoulder. "Yes, just another half a league or so. Do you need to rest?" His brow furrowed as he turned to face her.

Marguerite shook her head and tried to keep her teeth from chattering. She wanted to get to the building as soon as possible, and out of the cold. Standing around while Blakeney looked concerned would get them nowhere.

"I can carry you," he offered.

She frowned. "I can walk. Just hurry up – I'm nearly frozen!"

Without another word, he turned and kept plowing through the snow. By the time they reached the small train station, Marguerite couldn't help but stumble up the steps. She silently cursed the stupid boots as she tripped, but Blakeney caught her arm and kept her upright, and helped her through the door and out of the wind.

It was only slightly warmer within the station. A small wood-burning stove in one corner did little to provide heat, and they were the only travelers in the single room. The stationmaster glanced up as they entered, and Blakeney approached the counter. In perfect French, he asked for tickets to Basel, Switzerland.

She was momentarily speechless at the flawless French. She had heard him brutally mispronounce French words in the past! True, he had recently claimed that he could speak several languages fluently, and it unnerved her that he was right. There was still much about him that she didn't know, regardless of the short time they had spent discussing their real personalities within the tiny hidden room in the cabin, closeted away from Chauvelin.

As the stationmaster took Blakeney's money, Blakeney glanced over his shoulder at her.

"Êtes-vous bien?" He spoke again in French, and she diverted her eyes in shame.

"Oui." The word felt stuck in her throat. She didn't feel fine at all, but she certainly didn't want to tell him that.

The stationmaster handed Blakeney the tickets and asked them to please be seated, because the train was about fifteen minutes out. Then he stepped outside, onto the platform, leaving them alone.

Marguerite sat down on one of the hard benches, and to her slight discomfort, Blakeney sat beside her.

"You are not well," he said quietly. "What is the matter?"

"Stop reading me like a book." She knew she was pouting, probably petulantly, but she hardly cared. It was odd having someone guess her feelings so easily. After a moment of awkward silence, she muttered, "It's just the way you speak French, that is all."

"The way I speak French? That bothers you?" Blakeney looked thoroughly confused. "But –"

"It bothers me," she said pointedly, "because you speak it so well. Yet I've heard you speak it so incorrectly that it made my very ears bleed!"

"But that was merely an act, Margot."

"Yes, I know. And that's what bothers me the most." She finally looked up at him, but she immediately felt her stomach swoop slightly at the color of his eyes. She tried to refocus; she had other things to think about than possible romance. Scowling, she went on, "How many other acts have you put on around me? How do I know when you are acting and when you are not?"

"Margot, listen to me. I will always be my true self when we are alone. I will never act before you, unless it is to deceive someone else. But I will never deceive you again. You have my word of honor as a gentleman."

"If only it were that simple."

"In time, I hope you see that it is that simple."

Marguerite wanted to believe him, but it was incredibly difficult. Instead, she asked, "What is in Basel?"

His eyes changed – they went from somber and solemn to twinkling, and the corners of his mouth twitched. "Ah. You shall see. I promise. Do you want to change your shoes? These are far too big, I think."

"Yes, please."

And, quite impertinently, she lifted her right foot to see if he would actually take the wretched British footwear off for her, like a slave to do her bidding.

To her surprise, he moved to kneel in front of her. Aghast, Marguerite dropped her foot. "What are you doing?" she hissed. "I was in jest!"

But he already had her leg in his hands and was slipping the rubber monstrosity off. "Replacing your footwear, of course. I am, as always, your servant."

"Stop! I was joking!"

"Perhaps so, but I was not."

His hands were large, and white from cold, for he had removed his own mittens. He briskly rubbed her stockinged foot and ankle, warming her frigid skin, and Marguerite found herself torn between wanting to yank her foot out of his grasp and allowing him to continue. Eventually he stopped and opened the small travel pack that Yosef had given them, and extracted her normal, sensible shoe, which he slipped on her small foot. Then, to her horror, he repeated the actions to the other foot.

She had never had a man treat her thus – with such care, as though she were a china doll, or something precious to be cherished. It was strange; she couldn't decide if she liked it or not.

As he finished, she heard the train whistle, and she jumped violently. Blakeney stood up and gathered their things, just as the stationmaster stepped back inside and announced that the train was on time.

Ten minutes later, they were sitting in a private, first class compartment, which was much warmer and cozier than the tiny station, and the train was chugging steadily towards Basel.

It struck Marguerite that this was the first time they had been alone since Glynde had interrupted them only a few short hours earlier. The walk through the snow had not permitted any conversation or interaction, and even though they had been alone in the station, the stationmaster had been just outside the entire while. Now, with the curtains drawn over the windows and the delicious heat thawing her limbs, she wasn't certain whether to feel elated or reserved.

"I must look a mess," she remarked, casting about for conversation. "My hair needs washing."

"You look beautiful."

She pursed her lips and frowned at him, but he merely smiled at her.

"Will you not tell me why we are going to Basel?"

"No," he said lightly. "Not at present."

"That is most unfair. I should be shooting a film, you know. Fontebleu will wonder what has become of Andrew and myself!" The idea that she should be in the middle of filming seemed strange. So much had happened in the past few days that she could barely make sense of it. She didn't even feel like herself.

"Not to worry – I've already covered that. Andy will give Fontebleu a false copy of the supposed directions the two of you received, and Fontebleu will likely go on the warpath trying to find out who gave you such misleading information. He'll rave for a few days, and then resume filming, I expect."

"You certainly have everything planned out, don't you?" She couldn't manage to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. It was rather disturbing how he could play such a master puppeteer.

"Not everything." His face fell.

Marguerite sighed. "I'm sorry, Percy. I wasn't blaming you. Not really. And certainly not for Armand."

"I wasn't thinking of Armand. But thank you."

"Oh?"

His face didn't relax, but remained perplexed and worried. "You will see."

Marguerite wasn't certain what to expect in Basel. As they stepped off the platform, the town around seemed perfectly normal. Percy hired a cab, but even as she gazed out of the window, she didn't see anything out of the ordinary. He directed the driver to a neighborhood, or at least Marguerite supposed it was a neighborhood. But when they arrived, she had to admit her confusion.

The neighborhood Percy had taken them was on the outskirts of town, and seemed to be quite self-contained. The road here was dirt, covered in slush, and as she exited the car she noticed a group of children having a snowball fight in a nearby yard. There were about six or seven of them, all running around, laughing and having a grand time. The snow here wasn't powdery at all, but icy, wet, and hard. The children didn't seem to mind; a smaller boy had just thrown a hard-packed ball at a taller boy with a gleeful shout. The ice made a resounding thwack against the older boy's shoulder and Marguerite was certain it would bruise, but the boy didn't seem to care. Instead, he shouted something to the younger about how he was in for it now, as he bent and scooped up a handful of ice to throw in return.

The car had already pulled off, but none of the children seemed to notice, for they were too self-contained in the snowball fight. But then suddenly, the eldest boy noticed Percy, and with a loud cry, he shouted, "Monsieur Blakeney!"

The other children immediately looked up and cried out as well, and before Marguerite quite knew what was happening, they were all racing towards the gate to welcome their visitor. Percy smiled boyishly and gave them a shy wave, but as soon as he and Marguerite stepped through the wooden gate into the yard, chattering French children surrounded them.

This one wanted to show Percy her new mittens, that one wanted to tell him about her coat, the smallest boy wanted to show him a missing tooth, another about a toy he'd received for his birthday. Blakeney took them all in good-naturedly, ruffling the eldest's hair and asking, "Have you all been good? Have you been studying?"

"Oui, Monsieur Blakeney!" the oldest boy replied eagerly. "Colette won the spelling contest last week – tell him, Colette!"

Percy knelt down so that he was face-to-face with one of the girls, who peaked up at him with a small smile. He asked briskly, "Is that so, mon petite chou?"

The girl nodded solemnly, and in a tiny voice said, "I was the only one to spell all the words correctly! Teacher gave me a piece of candy."

"I'll bet you were smashing," he said warmly, pulling her close to give her a hug. "And how is Madam Muhr?"

The oldest boy spoke again – he seemed to be in charge. "She is doing quite well. Come in and see for yourself! She'll be glad to see you."

Another girl asked quickly, "You will be staying for dinner, won't you, Monsieur Blakeney?"

Instantly, all of the children began to beg Blakeney to stay for dinner, and he laughed and said, "Yes, I'll stay! Goodness, but you are all very persuasive. Before we go in, shall I introduce you to my guest?"

The children fell silent and all eyes snapped to Marguerite, who suddenly felt quite self-conscious.

Blakeney didn't seem bothered by this, and went on, "This is Margot. She is from Paris. Margot, this is Hagen," (he pointed to the oldest boy, and then down the line by age), Seraphina, Pascoe, Cesar, Gail, Colette, and Marie."

Marguerite briefly thought it odd that he didn't introduce her as Marguerite St. Just the actress, but she didn't have time to dwell on that.

The oldest boy, Hagen, must have been about eighteen or so. His face lit up at the mention of Paris, and said eagerly, "Paris? I am from Paris, also!"

"Oh yes?" Marguerite smiled at him, and he began to lead her towards the small cottage. The others followed, the girls practically hanging onto Percy's arms, and the smallest boy dancing between them.

"Oui. But I doubt I'll ever go back. I'm Jewish, you see. Well, we all are," he gestured to the other children. "But they made it to Switzerland before the Nazis reached France. I fled Paris after the occupation and hid in a small farm outside the city, but the Nazis found my family a few months later. At first I thought we were turned in, but Monsieur Blakeney put me straight after he saved me from the camps. He said someone was actually trying to save us, but the devil tricked her. I suppose the devil tricked many people back then. He wanted all of us to die, after all. But I survived. Most of my family didn't," he went on, opening the door for her. "But I did." Hagen was inside the cottage then, and he turned away from Marguerite to call out to the matron of the house. "Madam Muhr! Monsieur Blakeney and a guest are here to visit!"

An old, stout lady stepped into the main room, beaming. "Ah! Monsieur Blakeney! It is good to see you again! Do come in, you are most welcome as always!"

Marguerite felt as though she had frozen to the doorstep, and only when Blakeney gently pressed his hand into the small of her back did she manage to walk, wooden-backed, into the warm cottage of Jewish refugee children.