“Fabrice, it wasn’t your fault. It was war. The Nazis committed atrocities.... It wasn’t your fault.”
“It was,” he said, his voice matter-of-fact as he gazed into the shadows. “Itwasmy fault. My father begged me to keep out of it, to work with him in his woodshop, to survive.”
“And you did survive.”
He nodded grimly.
“So did I,” Cady said, thinking of the last time she had seen Jonquilla—or Maxine, for that matter. She thought of the baby she had miscarried, and the wretched, desperate urge to continue, even while leaving others behind. “So what happened with Paulette? She threatened to shoot you?”
“No, she tried to shoot herself. I wrestled the gun from her, but my cousins, Pierre and his brothers, were coming out to meet me at the château. The gun went off, but neither of us was hurt. They heard the shot and found us, and took her to be arrested.”
“And hailed you as a hero.”
“She was put on trial as a traitor, which, of course, she was....” He trailed off, clearing his throat. He stroked the head of the horse, running his fingers along its wavy, beribboned tail. “Eventually she managed to kill herself while in prison. Can you imagine the pain of being called a hero for leading to the death of the woman you love?”
“If Pierre and the others hadn’t found you, would you have let Paulette go?”
Fabrice did not answer. He just turned and walked out into the black night.
• • •
The next day Jean-Paul arrived early and found Cady sitting on a low stone wall in the courtyard, perusingThe Châteauand trying to compare a few passages to the French version of the novel, which she had found in the book room.
Their eyes met as he walked toward her. He looked delicious, and all she could think of was the feeling of lying in his arms yesterday. The scent of him surrounding her; the enchanting warmth of his bare chest under her palms; the way his whiskers tickled and scratched.
From the heat in his gaze, she could tell he was remembering the same thing.
“I wish I could have stayed last night.”
“Me, too.”
“No renovation this morning?”
“Of course. I was just looking through the book, trying to find a few answers. Or insights, at least. What do you think this poem means? Can you tell if it’s translated properly?”
He read:
Round and round on the carousel. Will I ever catch up?
The apprentice Anon
Round and round, chasing
like a fairy tale
The horses run and run but never arrive
The carousel carver bows down
And within the healed wound,
the figure keeps the secret
Anon
“It seems basically correct,” said Jean-Paul. “But I wouldn’t have translatedpanserhere as a healed wound—panser les plaiescan mean to heal or lick one’s wounds, but I think in this instance the word could mean something like this part, here, of an animal.” He patted his flat stomach.
“The torso? As in belly? As in the belly of my rabbit?”
