What if she carried away a secret? What if that secret is tied to the bruises on Rodolphe’s wrists and Brigitte’s ramblings of poetic justice?
Walk away, Eva. Let the dead bury the dead.
But what if Mireille Girard isn’t dead? What if she knows something no one else will tell me?
My hands tighten on the window ledge.
I won’t go looking.
I’ve had enough of secrets and twisted legacies.
It’s a coward’s choice, for sure. But securing Millie’s future is my top priority.
No, it’s myonlypriority, and it overrides everything else.
32
EVA
The road curves along the valley, all golden larches and sharp blue sky, but I barely see any of it. Halfway to Gruyac, I almost turn the car around.This is madness!my brain screams while my foot keeps pressing the accelerator.
I tell myself I’ll just talk to her. Just a conversation to satisfy my curiosity, then I’ll let it go.
That line doesn’t convince me.
I regret calling Camille, the young Duchess of Arrago. A former outcast, she’s unpretentious and genuine, and we’ve been friends since Louis shocked the principality by marrying her. “Mireille Girard?” she repeated, thoughtful. “I’ll ask my housekeeper, she knows everyone in Arrago.”
She called back ten minutes later to say that Mireille is still alive, lives in Gruyac, near her sister’s family, and keeps to herself.
When I enter the town, I’m reminded of its charming, cobbled square, stacked wooden balconies, and neat alpine shutters. Arrago’s capital is less austere, more colorful than Aymon. I roll through the streets of this jewel box wrapped in mountains until Camille’s directions bring me to a large stone house at the edge of town.
Wow, it’s stunning.
The house is stately, but not ostentatious. The front garden, with its geometric hedges, lush flowerbeds, and a stone fountain trickling, is impeccable. Not the work of a retired housekeeper scraping by.
This is curated wealth.
I park, kill the engine, and walk to the door before I change my mind.
A few knocks, and the door opens.
The woman before me has sharp eyes and an expression that reads me in one sweep. Age has creased her face but spared her focus. I can tell she knows who I am.
“Madame Girard,” I say softly. “May I introduce my?—”
“Good morning, Your Grace,” she cuts in. “Such an honor.”
“May I come in?”
“Of course.”
She pushes the door wider. I step inside.
“Tea?” Mireille asks.
“I’d love some, thanks.”
A maid appears, takes my coat, then disappears to fetch tea. Mireille wobbles across the spacious entryway. I follow. The floors gleam with polished wood. Paintings hang on the walls, not reproductions. The sitting room’s upholstery is refined and pristine.
