‘You like her, then? My grandmother?’
‘She is strong and she is a survivor. Does that remind you of anyone?’
Her shoulders shook and he smiled. Reaching into the bag beside him, he extracted the rosary she had given him.
‘I won’t be needing this again, but perhaps you might. I think your grandmother would be very happy to see you at her doorstep when you are ready.’
‘Summer?’ He stiffened at her use of his old name. She was the only person who had ever called him that.
‘Yes?’
‘Thank you.’
Chapter Seven
Celeste woke early the next morning and sat watching the night break into day, the darkness fading to dawn. She tried not to move for she didn’t want to wake Summer. Not yet. She liked the silence here. A bird cooed from somewhere nearby and another answered from further away, but there was no human movement, no sound that broke a natural peace with the cacophony of rush or anger or just plain busyness.
The sky looked as though it might be blue and clear today, the cool of night swiftly being replaced by the growing heat of summer.
‘Good morning.’
The words came from behind and she smiled, the blanket catching the edges of the movement as Summer tucked it about them.
‘I love the peace of this place. In Paris there was always noise.’ Even her voice sounded different this morning.
‘Where did you live there?’
‘Behind the Palais Royale, in one of the small streets to the north.’
‘A safety net?’
‘A trap sometimes. I used to leave items around to make certain that no one had trespassed upon my territory. Dust from the street, a leaf balanced against my door in an exact position. A hair wound around the handle.’
‘Did you ever discover an intruder?’
She laughed. ‘A dove once. She ate the breadcrumbs I had foolishly left on the step. She cost me hours of time in worry and it was only the next day when I re-applied the crumbs and waited to see the result that I understood the culprit.’
‘You were always careful?’
‘Extremely.’ She did not temper this word with tones that might minimalise her reply.
‘The weight of the damned is a hard way to live.’
‘As hard as an English soldier spying in the very heart of an uneasy Paris?’
She had turned now and watched as he tipped his head. ‘How long did you live with Guy Bernard?’
‘A year.’
‘And did he go easily at the end of it?’
‘What do you think?’ She looked straight at him, his shirt ruffled from sleep, his face indistinct in the half dawn. She could smell him, too, a masculine comforting scent that made her want to breathe in more deeply.
‘I think a man like Bernard would not wish to lose any toy that he owned.’
She flinched. ‘How do you do that? How do you see into the heart of a truth so many others would easily miss?’
‘I am trained to notice detail. The pinch of a bruise on your left breast. The way he looked at you in the dungeon. The fury when you speak of him which is underlined in fear. How did you meet him?’
