The Secret Pianist
Sisters. Traitors. Spies.
When a British RAF Whitley plane comes under fire over the French coast and is forced to drop their cargo, a spy messenger pigeon finds its way into unlikely hands…
The occupation has taken much from the Cotillard sisters, and as the Germans increase their forces in the seaside town of Boulogne-sur-Mer, Gabriella, Martine and Simone can’t escape the feeling that the walls are closing in.
Yet, just as they should be trying to stay under the radar, Martine’s discovery of a British messenger pigeon leads them down a new and dangerous path.
Gaby would do anything to protect her sisters but when the pianist is forced to teach the step-daughter of a German Commandant, and the town accuses the Cotillards of becoming ‘Bad French’ and in allegiance with the enemy, she realizes they have to take the opportunity to fight back that has been handed to them.
Now, as the sisters’ secrets wing their way to an unknown contact in London, Gaby, Martine and Simone have to wonder – have they opened a lifeline, or sealed their fate?
Readers can’t get enough of USA Today bestselling author Andie Newton:
‘A brilliant tale of resistance, sisterhood and dangerous secrets. Andie Newton is a master storyteller!’ Sara Ackerman, USA Today bestselling author of The Codebreaker's Secret
‘If you believe every WW2 story has already been told, think again. This one is special.’ Paulette Kennedy, bestselling author of The Witch of Tin Mountain
Amazon US: https://amzn.to/47WCr2t
Amazon CA: https://amzn.to/3SEGjzL
Amazon UK: https://amzn.to/3Esf2Iy
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Andie Newton is the USA Today bestselling author of A Child for the Reich, The Girls from the Beach, The Girl from Vichy, and The Girl I Left Behind .
She lives in the beautiful Pacific Northwest with her family. When she’s not writing gritty war stories about women, you can usually find her trail-running in the desert and stopping to pet every Yellow Lab or Golden Retriever that crosses her path.
Andie is actively involved with the reading and writing community on social media.
You can follow her on X(Twitter)
@andienewton and Instagram, or check out her author page on Facebook.
(witter) @andienewton,
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The Secret Pianist Extract
Gaby and Martine think a farmer might have found a messenger pigeon and they want it for themselves, only they must not get caught. They have left the village and have walked toward the sea cliffs where Martine had found the first pigeon.
In the distance, down a lone gravelly road, was indeed a farm with a fence and animal pens, but no animals. It was close to where Martine had found her pigeon, and it struck me as an obvious place for the Abwehr to visit.
“Don’t you think the Germans would have gone there looking?” I asked.
“Probably, but there were Germans at our home and they didn’t find our pigeon. Let’s go,” she said, pulling me along with her, looking over her shoulder toward the main road, as we made our way to the farm. We entered through a section of fence that had been pushed over, probably by a storm.
“Wait,” I said, stopping in the weeds. “We need a plan.”
“We don’t have time for a plan,” she said, pointing at the clouds. All the light that had graced us a few moments ago at the cliffs was gone, and the smell of rain now coated the air like heavy smoke.
“We always have time for a plan,” I said.
“If they’re anywhere outside, they’re in one of those animal pens. That one looks like it could be a coop!” She pointed. “Let’s start there. They’d have to be secured so they wouldn’t fly away.”
We walked a few feet more toward a chicken coop, and a pasture that looked like it had once been the home to a few cows. We ducked down behind the coop while I surveyed the pasture. Normally, I’d think it would smell awful on a farm, but instead, it smelled delicious—something carried in the wind with the smell of rain. Something being cooked.
“Oh no,” I said. “He’s cooking meat. What if he’s cooking the pigeons?” The coop was in fact a shed with windows. I’d peeped through the glass to the other side where the farmland spread out beyond the house and saw smoke coming from a spit.
Martine popped up, trying to get a look. “Bastards,” she gritted, and I elbowed her.
“Not so loud,” I hissed.
We clung to the side of the shed, thinking, wondering what to do. But what could we do? The farmer was close enough to see us if he walked a few feet around the shed. I was about to tell Martine we needed to go, turn around before we were seen, when a pigeon flew up inside the shed through the window.
I gasped, hand to my mouth, before sinking to the ground and taking Martine with me.
“Thank God,” I said. “He didn’t cook it.” I took another look into the shed. “There’s two!”
I pushed the door open and crawled inside on my hands and knees with Martine right behind, but the hinge had creaked like a splitting tree and we both froze in the half-open doorway, listening to see if the farmer heard; it appeared he hadn’t because he’d started talking to someone about the weather. Maybe it was his wife.
“Don’t let them fly away,” Martine whispered, just before two pigeons flew off a shelf, disturbing the tilling tools hanging from hooks and making a break for the outside. I shut the door, blocking their escape, and they landed on the ground in a puff of feathers, cooing in distress and flapping their wings like chickens with their heads chopped off.
Martine swiftly took one by the head and the other by the feet, and stuffed them down her coat sleeves.
“Let’s go!” she said, and we scrambled for the door just as the farmer appeared at the window, trying to get a good look into the shed. We ducked, hands pressed to our mouths.
He shouted to his wife, “Did you hear that?”
My heart hammered in my chest, then nearly exploded when the farmer headed around the side of the shed with his shovel. I reached for Martine, pulling her in close behind the door, and scooting as flush as we could against the wall.
“Who’s in here?” He threw the door open, almost hitting our noses. The butt of his shovel hit the floor—thud—followed by the scuff of footsteps. Tilling tools swayed, metal skimming on metal, when a third bird flew out from behind a fallen beam, startling the farmer with a yelp.
“What’s going on in there?” his wife yelled from outside.
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