‘So good. How’s the steak?’
He hadn’t tasted it yet, but now he did. Perfectlysaignant, rather than merely rare. Just the way he liked it and cooked to perfection. The chef here was just getting better and better. ‘Very good,’ he told her.
She speared two of the frites in the bowl beside his plate before he knew what she was doing. He loved watching her eat, he realised. She did so with relish. ‘So what happened to the Wolf?’
‘La Fontenelle? He was executed in Paris. He was implicated in a plot with Spain.’
‘Convenient.’
She had a point. The people of Cap Sizun had wanted rid of him, high and lowborn alike. ‘He was broken on the wheel, the punishment for highwaymen and robbers, rather than traitors, so who knows?’
Ari grimaced at the thought of all that such an execution entailed. ‘We have such charming dinner conversations,’ she told him solemnly. ‘The final resting place of doomed lovers and gruesome executions of murdering pirates. Whatever will we do for coffee?’
He wanted to say that she’d steered the conversation that way with her questions, but self-preservation held his tongue. ‘What would you like to talk about then?’
That was the question. She paused, thinking it over.
‘Last night, I suppose.’
Ah yes, there it was. The thing they had been skirting around all day.
She put her fork down with a clatter that jarred them both and echoed around the silent restaurant. ‘Was it really Simon?’
‘Why don’t we finish our meal first?’ he suggested. Not to put her off. Not really. The food was just too good and it seemed a shame to put the restaurant staff to all this trouble only to leave the meal half finished.
They ate in silence after that and he half wished he had never said anything. Skipping dessert, they each had apetit café crèmewhile the bill was calculated. A paltry sum, really, for all the trouble he had put them to. He paid without hesitation, adding a generous tip.
They walked down the hill, past the quays and the marina, to the path which led, through gentle woodland, to the blue-painted pedestrian bridge, the Passerelle Jean Marin. The centre was open to allow a yacht entrance to Port Rhu, and they had to wait, the soft breeze worrying her copper-coloured hair, the sunlight painting it with gold. He tried not to watch her too closely, but it was impossible. She drew his attention like a flame. She leaned against the rail, staring at the island with its dense woodland, the stately white buildings of the former cannery, now the headquarters of the Parc Naturel Marin d’Iroise. The people who worked there guarded the sea in this region, the precious marine environment, the very place where Ys could still be hidden. He still had some red tape to sort out there, but no doubt another donation would solve it. He’d worry about that later. He’d worked with them on a number of environmental projects before and there was a lot of goodwill both ways.
‘It’s an oasis,’ she murmured.
‘You can walk there at low tide.’ He glanced down at the high water beneath them. ‘But not today, I fear. I can arrange a boat, if you would like.’
She looked tempted for a moment, then shook her head. Which left them with nothing else to say.
Apart from all the things they needed to say. They had put it off as long as they could.
‘Last night,’ he began and the bridge began to lower again, releasing them to the other side of the estuary. It was almost like one of those awful conversations when you’d had too much to drink and fallen into bed together. Except that would have been easy in comparison. ‘I’m not superstitious.’
‘I know that. Neither am I. I’m not mad either.’ Well, someone had to say it. Of course she would be the brave one. ‘He had Simon’s face. But it wasn’t Simon, was it?’
‘I don’t know,’ he replied. That was the problem, wasn’t it? ‘We could ask Mémé, but I…’
‘You don’t want to upset her,’ she finished for him, understanding immediately. He was grateful for that. Her empathy was a godsend.
They had reached the point where the road curved around, where the slip led to the island. At low tide, there was a path which he had walked many times as a child, but it was deep underwater now. Lost, drowned. Like so much else in his life. The steps and handrail vanished into the water.
On the side of the slip, the mosaic of an eye glared back at him, one of those stylised creations you saw more commonly in the Med. He wondered who had put it there and when. And why? An art project probably.
Perhaps more people needed protection from the sea than just him.
‘So Tristan and Iseult are buried over there?’
‘That’s what the stories say. But as legends go, it’s a relatively modern one. Perhaps there’s a seed of truth at the heart of it. Who knows?’
‘Archaeology has found many things based on stories, myths, legends handed down through generations,’ said Ari. ‘Troy for one. And Nineveh. Biblical archaeology is basically dependent on the idea. The Viking settlements in Vinland were thought to be legendary for years, but look at the discoveries in Newfoundland. And they found Richard III under a car park by tracing the friary where he was said to have been buried. Why not Ys? That’s Jason’s theory.’
Rafael knew this was her area of study, the subject of her doctorate. He’d looked it up, even started reading it online, although, if he was honest, it was probably beyond him. But she was an expert and right now he needed all the help he could get. He could see the moment she decided to change the subject, to veer away from mentioning Simon and reliving the pain all over again. But she couldn’t escape it entirely. Not now.
