The Colour of War

Chapter 5

The door hinge gave a telling squeak. Evelyn's heart skipped, and she scrambled from her evening dress into the white cotton of her nightgown. The bed creaked as she dove in, pushing Krista aside; the little girl muttered, disgruntled. "Hush," Evelyn whispered, her eyes squeezing shut.

Footsteps approached—a soft tread she knew well. She held her breath. A waft of rosewater and lavender filled the room. Mother.

The edge of the mattress dipped. A feather-light kiss landed on Evelyn's brow; fingers brushed through her curls. Then silence, save for the retreat of those footsteps, back to Raymond and the worries that waited downstairs.

Sleep eluded Evelyn, restless thoughts swirling until—

"Give it back!"

"Stop being a baby!"

Evelyn's eyes snapped open at the bickering. Two small shadows tussled near her suitcase. With a groan, she sat up and lunged for the contested prize—a tube of red lipstick. "Krista!" Her voice was sharp as she reclaimed the item. "You ask first."

Tears welled in Krista's eyes. Lily scoffed. "Cry baby."

"Enough, Lily," Evelyn scolded. She steered the older girl toward the door. "Go help downstairs."

Once alone, she turned to Krista. "I didn't mean to snap."

"I miss Mutter," Krista sniffled, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. "She said she'd bring Oma and Opa back."

"War changes plans, little dove." Evelyn's heart clenched. They hadn't heard anything for days.

"Will we get bombed?" Krista's voice was a mere murmur, her eyes large with panic.

Evelyn hesitated, then wrapped an arm around the shaking shoulders. "We're safe here," she assured, though doubt nibbled at her. "Gisela will be back soon. You'll see."

"Promise?"

"Promise." Evelyn could only hope it was a promise she could keep.

Krista's footsteps faded. Evelyn lingered by the mirror, fingers trailing over the neat victory rolls, the front of the hair rolled upward and pinned into place perfectly. She inspected her reflection, a soft smile playing on her lips. Tonight, she'd meet Stefan. The uncertainty of his intentions nagged at her, but for a moment vanity took precedence. She twirled, her dress billowing out to reveal the curve of her calves. "Nice legs," she uttered to herself, trying to shake off the nerves.

"Evelyn!" Raymond's voice cut through her reverie, stern yet tinged with weariness.

She stilled, letting the fabric settle around her ankles. Descending quickly, she found the kitchen where an austere breakfast awaited. A loaf of bread, some butter, and boiled potatoes. Simple. Sufficient.

"Autarky," Mr Baptiste muttered, almost apologetically, as if the meagre spread was his own doing. "No more trade. Just this." He gestured towards the table.

"Hitler's doing," he added, his face clouding over. Constance reached out, her hand resting gently on his arm—a silent comfort.

"Where's Mutter?" Krista piped up from the doorway, her earlier tears forgotten.

"Making do, like us," Raymond said, pride in his voice. "She could turn scraps into a feast."

Evelyn caught the glimmer of sorrow in his eyes, quickly masked. Gisela's absence lay heavy on them all.

"Help me with the little ones?" he asked, already turning toward the stove.

"Of course," Evelyn replied, rolling up her sleeves. Her heart swelled with the resolve to do what was right—for her family, for herself. And for now, that meant ensuring they started their day well-fed and ready for whatever lay ahead.