A smile stretched over my cheeks. Nothing saidpeacemore than mornings at the château. We were miles away from town, the main road, and anything remotely resembling industry. All we heard were the sounds of the forest and homey things, like the bubble of a tea kettle or the low sizzle of pancakes on a Sunday morning.
“Picture the sun breaking through the mist and illuminating everything,” Roux went on in a hushed voice.
“You would make a great painter,” I mumbled.
He snorted. “I can barely draw a stick figure.Allez, chut,” he ordered softly.Now, hush.
I did as I was told, waiting for more.
“Then you walk around, setting up the croquet gates…”
I grinned, because that usually entailed a fair amount of arguing — the kind you came to cherish as time went by.
“Then you pick your mallet.” He paused. “Let me guess. Yellow for you. Or red.”
Huh. Yellow was my favorite. How did he guess?
He snorted like it was so obvious.
I wondered what color he would choose. Something dark and serious, no doubt. Blue. Black. Gray. The man definitely had the Batman vibe down.
“Where did you grow up?” I asked.
“Near Bordeaux. Stop changing the subject.”
“Yes, sir.” It came out in a sleepy murmur rather than clipped army style.
“Then the game starts. The mallets click…”
I loved how the imagery mirrored my father’s painting. The thought of it ought to have made me fret — Who had stolen it? Why? Could we recover it? — but somehow, I remained in my peaceful little bubble.
“The ball rolls…” Roux continued.
I pictured the spin of the yellow line painted through the middle of the ball… The glint of dew kicked up in its wake…
“You aim for the first gate, then the second gate…”
Either Roux missed a few, or I’d nodded off momentarily, because the fifth gate came next. Then the sixth, then the…tenth? Eleventh?
Somewhere in the double digits, I drifted off to sleep for good.
* * *
I woke the same way — without even realizing it. Then I blinked, getting my bearings.
The fire was down to embers, the house quiet. Every window was a rectangle of darkness draped by dim curtains.
I was still curled up in a corner of the couch, and Roux was still beside me, keeping my feet warm. He was asleep, angled toward me with his head resting on the arm he’d stretched over the back of the couch.
Now that didn’t look comfortable.
I lifted my feet, wiggling quietly in search of more space. But there wasn’t any, and frankly, my heart wasn’t in it.
I nudged him. “Roux.”
No response. Surprising, since he was theI have eyes in the back of my headtype.
“Roux.” I tried again.
