“You just told Cady she could come in.”
“She has whiskey. And she’s an American. Why should I let you in?”
“Because I’m your cousin?”
“Your great-grandfather was my father’s cousin. You’re several times removed, or something like that.” He waved a hand in annoyance. “Doesn’t count once it’s that far removed. Blood’s too thin.”
“According to whom? Seems to me the Clement family tree is pretty intricate and carefully kept. Also,” Jean-Paul said, holding his hand out palm up to catch the beginnings of raindrops, “it’s starting to rain.”
“Why don’t we all go inside and warm up over a glass of whiskey?” Cady tried again.
The old man sighed and gave them a barely-there nod, a gesture that reminded Cady of Maxine. He lowered the long barrel of his gun, turned, and limped toward the back of the château.
Cady and Jean-Paul exchanged glances, then followed.
“You were not frightened by the gun?” Jean-Paul murmured.
“I’m from Oakland. I don’t scare easy.”
He chuckled softly and waited while Cady hurried to her car and retrieved the bourbon from her suitcase. Jean-Paul led the way around the château to a rear entrance, where Fabrice had left a door ajar.
A single shaft of light spilled from a doorway down the hall. They proceeded toward it through an unadorned passageway that had clearly been a servants’ entrance. With the hallway’s low ceiling and damp stone walls it seemed colder inside than out. Here and there were scattered stacks of newspapers, books, and maps, and piles of discarded tools and dusty rags.It’s been a very long time since servants—or anyone—cleaned this place,Cady thought.
At the end of the hallway a low doorway opened onto an enormous kitchen. Walls were lined with shiny, deep-ochre tiles, and the huge six-burner stove and honed Carrara marble island made it clear that this kitchen had been remodeled at some point. Open wooden shelves held heavy white crockery: cups and saucers, plates and bowls of varying sizes. Dirty dishes filled the ceramic sink and lay scattered across the long counters, but by and large it was a welcoming space. A huge grandfather clock, missing its hands, ticked loudly. On the opposite wall was a massive stone fireplace, large enough to roast an entire boar on a spit, where a small fire was flickering, the flames casting warmth and light across the room.
“Nice kitchen,” Cady said.
Fabrice took a seat at a small wooden table next to the fireplace, grunting as he settled in. “Grab some glasses off that shelf there.”
Jean-Paul found three clean juice jars and set them on the table.
Cady took a seat in one of the scarred wooden chairs, only half believing she was actually here, in the kitchen of Château Clement, speaking to the man who had writtenLe Château, who might know the origin of her carved rabbit figure—and perhaps something about the secret box it contained. There were a hundred questions she wanted to ask, but told herself to breathe, to relax. Given his character, Fabrice was likely to clam up if not handled with care. A shot or two of bourbon should help.
She held out the bottle for Fabrice to examine.
He eyed it and nodded, and Cady poured some into each of the three glasses.
“Salut,”Jean-Paul said.
“À votre santé,”Cady replied.
“’Ere’s mud in ze eyes,” Fabrice said in heavily accented English, drained his glass, and poured himself another shot. Then he switched back to French. “I learned that from the American soldiers.”
“I’m impressed,” said Cady.
Fabrice waved his glass at Jean-Paul. “I heard you were getting married.”
“Plans change,” Jean-Paul replied, his voice subdued. He gazed into the amber liquid in his glass.
“I heard she left you at the altar,” said Fabrice. “Ran off with your business partner. No surprise there. Typical Parisians.”
Cady wondered if she was following their conversation correctly. Her French had improved dramatically since she had arrived in France, though she still stumbled at times. Judging by Jean-Paul’s bleak expression, she had indeed understood, but she pretended she wasn’t listening, hoping they would keep talking. Family dynamics—even strained ones—fascinated her.
But she knew enough to gaze into the fire and keep silent.
After a long pause, Jean-Paul said: “For a hermit who hates people, you are remarkably well informed. And all the way from Paris. Very impressive communications system.”
Fabrice let out a rusty laugh and downed the rest of his bourbon. Cady’s glass was still largely untouched, as was Jean-Paul’s. She took a sip. Smooth and smoky and ever so slightly caramel, sliding across her palate.Thank you, Olivia.
