“They came after she died and I tried to kill that rat meself.”
“Are the Peur still here?” Asked Mal.
“Oh, they’re still here alright. Towards the Manche.”
“The what?” Asked Mal.
“He means the English Channel,” said Maeve. “‘The Manche’ is the French title.” She stepped towards Thad. “Do you know much French Mr. Gagner?”
“Only what me sister taught me before she went to London. She said the Peur was French.”
Mal stood and extended his hand to Thaddeus. “Thank you.”
His voice was short. Curt. Void of all emotion.
Thaddeus looked up at him, and then at his hand. “You my sister’s boy?” Thaddeus’ eyes returned to Mal.
“So it seems,” said Mal.
“I tried to find you,” said Thad, his face soft and discomforted.
Maeve’s heart tightened.
“But you was long gone. No trace. I didn’t think you’d have his last name. . .”
Thaddeus raised his arm to strike himself. Mal snagged his wrist swiftly. Thad looked up at him, shocked.
His arm relaxed and Mal released his grip.
“Where is she buried?”
“Here. Down the hill.”
Mal nodded and extended his hand to his uncle once more.
Thaddeus reached for Mal’s hand and made to stand. As their fingers brushed, Thad fell limply back into his chair, his large belly rising and falling in a deep slumber.
Through the forest and across the southern valley was a large manor. It sat in perfect opposition to the Gagner House. It was clean, with planted flowers sitting in the windows. The painted white wood shone in the morning light. It was a slim manor with two stories. It’s window’s sat open, yellow linen curtains flowed in the breeze.
The pair silently climbed the pale stone steps to a large white door. Mal opened the front door with a flick of his wrist, the locks clicking. The door fell open silently.
Muffled voices and music came from inside the house. Once inside the foyer, it was clear the sounds were coming from just one room over. She heard a man’s voice, followed by a woman’s, followed by laughter.
Light jazz music flowed through the house.
Mal waltzed through the large archway, lowering his hood. The woman screamed. Maeve stood back in the shadows as she heard the sound of glass breaking.
“Who are you?” Said a man’s voice.
“Is it not obvious to you?” Asked Mal. “I am told we favor.”
Maeve made her way into the drawing-room. It had expansive windows that faced the valley, allowing sunlight to pour into the room. They were wealthy.
Extremely wealthy.
The men were on their feet, the woman cowering behind the older of the two men. There was a teacup shattered across the black and white tiled floor. It seemed they had interrupted their morning tea.
Maeve gasped upon seeing the man who was undoubtedly Mal’s father. He was just as handsome as Mal, only older. The pair were almost identical. The other two, Maeve surmised, were Mal’s grandparents.
