“I am sorry, mademoiselle.”
I swallow down the pain of having to spend almost all of my life without them. I remember so little. I recall their faces though. The dark scatter of my father’s stubble and how he would tickle my hand with it. My mother’s beautiful smile. The limited memories are always bittersweet, because I know for certain my parents would never have allowed me to be sold by the Brotherhood. In fact, there would have been no suggestion of it. Had they not been murdered by the one man they were supposed to be able to trust, then my grandfather wouldn’t have had to make a bargain with that vile organization in order to spare my life. And I wouldn’t be sitting here now telling Pierre I’ve never eaten candy.
“So who raised you, Imogen?” His words pull me back to our conversation and away from my melancholic musings of how my life might have turned out so very differently.
“My grandfather, and his...” I falter, unsure how to describe Larissa and her importance in my life. I would have surely perished in that house if it hadn’t been for her.
“His what?” Pierre asks, his voice soft and soothing.
“I would guess his housekeeper, perhaps? She didn’t always live there, just a few days a week. But she was much more than a housekeeper to me. She taught me everything I know. She taught me how to survive.”
He arches an eyebrow. “To survive, mademoiselle?”
Have I spoken out of turn? Surely, Pierre knows how I came to be here? “Do you know why I’m here, Pierre?” I assume he doesn’t know of my notoriety within the Brotherhood circles, given that he wasn’t aware my parents had died, but surely he knows his boss bought me.
He hums again, the way he does when he’s thinking. “That is not for me to say, mademoiselle.”
“I mean, do you know how I got here?” my voice is small, a reflection of how I’m feeling right now. For a few special moments, we were simply two people enjoying a conversation, and I wasn’t the daughter of a traitor, sold off to the highest bidder. And now I’m her again. Only ever her in this house.
“Ah!” He nods. “I know the circumstances of your arrival, yes. I know of the auction you were a part of.”
“So, then yes, Pierre. I had a pleasant enough, if sheltered, childhood. But yes, I was taught how to survive.”
“Your grandfather and his... Larissa, they did not...” He winces and flaps his hand around, like he’s searching for the appropriate word. “They did not stop it? The auction?”
I bristle. Feeling defensive of the only people who have ever shown me any loyalty in this life. If it wasn’t for my grandfather’s intervention, I’d have died along with my parents and it’s my loyalty that makes me defend him still, even after he handed me over to those monsters. “They couldn’t.”
“And why is that, mademoiselle? I know of your grandfather. He is Saul DeMotta. He is a very rich man,non? Even Pierre knows this.”
How dare he assume? I take a breath and soothe my temper.“I guess money doesn’t count for a lot when you made a promise to the Brotherhood, does it? They wanted their revenge and if it wasn’t for my grandfather paying them off eighteen years ago, I’d have been killed with my mother. As it was, he managed to bargain for my life, at least until I turned twenty-one.”
He nods. “Ah, and then you would be returned as property of the Brotherhood,oui?”
“Oui,” I murmur.
Unexpectedly, he reaches across the table, feeling for my hand. He finds it easily and gives it a gentle squeeze, and it’s strangely comforting. It reminds me of the rare occasions Larissa would pat my hand reassuringly, and how even that simple contact would brighten my whole day. “You are a brave young woman, mademoiselle.”
I don’t feel brave, but I don’t tell him that. Instead we sit in silence for a few moments before he asks, “Have you ever tasted apple pie?”
I can’t help but smile, reminded of the pastry still untouched and sitting beneath its glass dome on the counter. “No. But yours does smell delicious.”
“Then why haven’t you taken a slice, mademoiselle?”
“I wasn’t sure I was permitted to,” I admit, feeling foolish for some reason.
“You are a grown woman, yes? Not a child any longer. If you want some pie, you simply take some pie.”
“I was taught never to take something without asking, and this isn’t my house. I’m a...” I want to say prisoner, but instead choose my word more carefully “... guest.”
“Then you ask for some pie.” He throws his hands into the air and then mumbles something in French again. “I understand this is an adjustment for you, mademoiselle. And Mr. Knight has left last night without per’aps explaining how this all works.” His tone is softer now. He takes a deep breath. “Yes, you are a guest here but for now, this is your home. So, if there is food inthe kitchen, then it is for you to eat. If I spend hours making a delicious pie, even if it is Mr. Knight’s favorite apple pie with extra cinnamon, you are free to take a slice, or four.”
“It’s Mr. Knight’s favorite?” I suppress a snicker at the thought of the huge brute in the black camo gear, with the hunting knife strapped to his thigh, and the scary-looking mask loving apple pie.
Pierre nods. “Oui.”
So his trip must have been unexpected, then. Or at least, Pierre must not have known about it in advance. Why else would he have spent time baking not one, but two of his favorite pies? That begs the question as to where the elusive Mr. Knight has gone and what he’s about to do. He definitely didn’t look like a billionaire recluse when he left. I expect Pierre wouldn’t like me asking any of those questions though. “Do you enjoy cooking, Pierre?”
“Oui, mademoiselle. And tell me, what do you enjoy doing?”
