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last few days, because everything else—every sip of wine, water, soup—went that way. And what a disaster that was: his voice would be cracking now and hoarse, and the audience would definitely notice.
    He felt hands on his hair while he was heaving, finally only spitting green-tinged saliva. He sat down next to the bucket and closed his eyes when Maurice wiped his face with a towel.
    “Feeling better?”
    “Ask me again in an hour.” Yves groaned and took the towel, wiping across his forehead. “Distract me.”
    Maurice pushed the bucket to the side, crouching next to him. “So, how is von Starck?”
    “My best guess is ‘lonely’.”
    “Of course.” Maurice winked. “And in bed?”
    Yves’s stomach clenched, but this sick feeling was different from the first one. “I . . . uh . . . don’t know.”
    “Sleeping through it, are you?” Maurice winked. “Don’t be shy.”
    Only Maurice could make him feel like a failure because he’d been acquainted with an enemy officer for three weeks and nothing untoward had happened. As if it was somehow expected or even natural.
    He could have feigned ignorance, but not with Maurice. Any claim that he’d never thought von Starck’s tastes ran that way would be mocked mercilessly and probably repeated to any other homosexual in Paris, each and every one of them seemed on speaking—or not speaking—terms with Maurice.
    “He’s never . . . shown interest.”
    Maurice laughed. “Oh, really? How often has he picked you up after a performance?”
    Ten times. Eleven-ish. “We have a bit of a habit to go to dinner.”
    “Maxim’s, too? Where the other German officers are taking their French mistresses?”
    “Twice.” Dear God, how had he ended up in this situation?
    “And you’ve never asked him up for a coffee?”
    “And let the whole house know? Of course not!”
    “He’s a patient one, von Starck. A proper courtship.” Maurice flattened his hand against his tuxedo-clad chest. “How old-fashioned. That is so romantic. Power, money, a noble title, and manners. I envy you.”
    “Well, just because you would have been on your knees in front of him in a side alley on the first day . . .”
    “Never waste time you can use better,” Maurice boomed. “Stop playing coy. The man wants you, but he’s not pushing. He waits for a sign.”
    “Well, he can keep waiting,” Yves murmured. “I’m not some harlot who falls into bed with the next best scrap of German uniform. If I want that kind of thing, you’ve shown me how to get it.”
    Maurice sobered. “Did I mention he has the ear of the German ambassador? Doktor Abetz can shut us down in a heartbeat if he feels like it. Their Francophilia only goes so far, and, to be perfectly honest with you, mon cher , by the looks of it, we can use any powerful patron we can get. You should think about it. He is not just interested in your voice, so give that man a hand—”
    “It’s not a hand he wants.” Yves took a handful of water and washed the last of the sweat away, then washed out his mouth. His stomach felt fragile, but the worst was clearly over. “Can you get me a drink? Just to settle my stomach?”
    Maurice went to the door and ordered somebody outside to bring him brandy. Less than a minute later, he returned and offered Yves a snifter, placing a hand on his shoulder. “He’s not repugnant. Good manners. Generous. His dress sense is not his fault.”
    “I know.” Yves downed the alcohol in one big gulp and met Maurice’s eyes in the mirror, then studied his own reflection. He looked pale and his hair was all over the place, too long and wavy to be just combed back. His sister had tamed the same mop of hair by cutting it very short, but on him, it just seemed to defy any attempt to manage it.
    Édith. How could he on one hand creep out with her and help her deposit the “Voice of the Latin Quarter”—just so she’d be done and home faster and because that was what brothers did—and on the