“But why would Yves have stopped to take photographs?” Cady asked. “Wouldn’t he have run to help his wife?”
“Maybe he didn’t realize she was there,” he said. “Yves was an artist; he probably thought it was beautiful. And it is, in a dark sort of way.”
“If he was taking these photos, does that prove that he wasn’t the one to set the fire?”
“Does it matter, at this point?”
“I suppose not. When did the fire occur?”
“I’m not sure of the exact date, but it was after Marc-Antoine had gone to fight in the First World War.”
“So these photos of Marc-Antoine must have been taken soon before he left. He looks like such a baby, doesn’t he?”
Jean-Paul stood near her. The red light made them both glow; the quiet, enclosed room felt a thousand miles away from the rest of the world.
“So, have we gone through all the negatives?” asked Jean-Paul.
“I think that’s about it. Darn it. I was hoping to find something more about the mystery woman. Why was her picture inside my rabbit?”
“You are such a curious woman,” he said. “What is it they say in English? ‘Curiosity killed the cat’?”
“Does that mean you’re going to kill me for diving into your family secrets?”
He laughed. “Not at all. But I can’t vouch for my grandfather.”
They gathered their things, went into the store to thank Guido for his help, and then Jean-Paul drove Cady back to the château. She asked him to come in so she could show him Fabrice’s author photo.
Fabrice wasn’t in the kitchen or his sitting room, so they went straight to Cady’s chamber off the red hallway. Along the way, Jean-Paul checked out the empty rooms, the ruined plaster, the water stains. Cady remembered he had said he hadn’t been allowed past the kitchen in years; she hoped he wasn’t becoming even more discouraged about the state of the manor.
“I’ve noticed that there’s a strong family resemblance with many of you Clements,” Cady said. “The shape of your eyes, the bridge of the nose, the cheekbones. But not Fabrice—or even Marc-Antoine, now that I think about it. Check this out.”
She handed him her copy ofThe Château, turning it over to display the author photo. Then she put the photo of Léon Morice next to it.
He nodded slowly. “So you think my grandfather is right? Josephine had an affair with Léon Morice?”
“He was very handsome.”
Jean-Paul smiled. “And would that be enough reason to go outside her marriage?”
“No, of course not. And clearly, I’m in no position to judge her. It’s just that... her husband was so much older than she, and they had tried for years to have children, but couldn’t. And then a handsome apprentice comes along and...?”
“And stays in the house for months, carving.”
“Sounds like a romantic setup.”
“Yes, it does.”
Cady stood by the doorway, running her hands over the swoops ofthe wood carvings: the flowers and berries, a little wren. The wood had a velvety finish, not a varnish but similar to what Maxine always called a “French polish,” accomplished through a many-layered buffing process. It was slick and inviting under her fingertips.
Jean-Paul’s hand settled over hers. She tilted her face up to his.
“This is probably a bad idea,” he whispered.
“I know.”
You’re a terrible judge of character, Drake,she told herself. Nonetheless, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled his lips down to hers. The kiss was the gentlest she had ever experienced, the brushing of a butterfly wing, the softness of the dawn.
But then it deepened. The kiss caught fire, and swept them both along with it.
