It reminds me a little bit of Falcon’s Nest, the ancestral castle of the dukes of Arrago. But Rocamadour is in southern France, not in Mount Evor. The heights of the old Périgord County may seem impressive compared to flat countries like Belgium or Denmark, but they’re just high hills next to mine. Which explains why Rocamadour looks less forbidding, greener, and friendlier than Falcon’s Nest or Château des Neiges. In this light and from this angle, it appears like something from a fairy tale.
For a moment, I’m lost in the beauty of it all.
I could live here,I catch myself thinking.
What? No!
Mount Evor is much more beautiful. It is my home. I’m a member of the royal family, and I’m prepared to do anything to protect it from its enemies. Which is the reason—theonlyreason—I’m here now.
I am in Dordogne on a mission. I did not travel here to fall for the scenery… or re-fall for the closet anti-royalist showing it to me.
CHAPTER NINE
I’m strolling through a shady patch of woodland that, unbeknownst to the uninformed observer, is a high-stakes truffle farm. Henri and his business associate Jocelyn Narbonne, a man in his late fifties with a Tom Selleck mustache, are my guides in this fungal wonderland. We’re accompanied by Henri’s bestie Yann Chalut, fitness expert and local gym owner.
Jocelyn, who’s in charge of the cultivation side of the business, is explaining something about soil acidity. But I’m too distracted to listen carefully.
The bloggers’ retreat begins tomorrow. The key hasn’t been found yet. Audrey and I moved into Henri’s château earlier this afternoon. Right now, the search team is combing through the remaining rooms. I worry they won’t find anything. Dana and Audrey worry, too. Even Henri’s initial optimism has taken a hit.
Audrey’s inside the house right now, collaborating with a local carpenter and a locksmith to reinforce the door to my room. She has stockpiled bottled water and canned food in the cellar and stashed a long-range radio phone. I think she’s overdoing it. Both of us are already equipped with secret pagers. In case of emergency, all we need to do is push a button, andthe MESS squad parked in the neighborhood will know we’re in distress.
At the first lull in Jocelyn’s presentation, Yann jumps in. “So, Gigi, Henri tells us you’re an old friend from his youth in the old country.”
“Yes, we go way back.”
Henri told me this morning that Yann, Jocelyn, and the live-in staff Odile and Quentin Marchand knowabout Mount Evor. All four have signed our famously draconian nondisclosure agreement. The housekeeper couple had already done so decades ago, at the initiative of Henri’s grandparents.
Yann and Jocelyn were clued in more recently, at Henri’s request. He’d written to MESS that it was becoming increasingly difficult to lie to his best friend and to his business partner about his past. MESS ran a background check on both and approved the request. As all the “initiated” across the world, the four in Henri’s entourage were directed to avoid mentioning Mount Evor, even with no outsiders present. Hence Yann’s reference to the “old country.”
“And now you’re here for the retreat, right?” Yann checks. “With your friend Audrey?”
I nod. “That’s right. I’m a more experienced travel writer than Audrey, but there’s always something new to learn, and I love spending time around people who share my passion.”
Jocelyn looks at me, “The truffle business is much more exciting than people think. Maybe you could write a blog post about it.”
“Oh, absolutely!” My professional conscience awakens at last, and I take out my phone. “Do you mind if we do an interview?”
“Not at all!”
“You might have to repeat some of the things you already said…”
“If you’re afraid it bothers Jocelyn, rest easy,” Henri says, grinning. “He doesn’t mind. He lives to talk about truffles.”
“Like you don’t?” Jocelyn arches an eyebrow at him before shifting his gaze to me. “Can you cite any other business that involves hunting with pigs?”
I blink, my mind painting a picture of such a hunting party in all its bizarreness.
“Most truffle producers use dogs these days,” Henri admits. “Pigs tend to dig out and eat the mushroom’s fruit body if you aren’t fast enough. But they’re formidable truffle hunters due to their highly developed sense of smell. We still use them when we organize old-style truffle hunts for visitors.”
“That’s great stuff for my blog!” I press Rec on my phone and nod to Jocelyn. “Ready?”
“Yes, Ma’am!”
I interview him as we continue our walk between rows of trees that stand guard over the precious truffles hidden beneath. With my pro cap on, I’m focused and engaged, listening carefully, double-checking when he mentions an unfamiliar term, and asking follow-up questions.
An hour later, Jocelyn is out of breath, Yann is bored silly, and Henri has fallen behind to place a business call. I have enough material for a whole series of blog articles, so I snap some pictures to go with them. Henri and I say goodbye to Jocelyn and Yann, both promising we’ll see more of them during the retreat.
Henri and I head back to the château.
