She returned to the bedroom, where rain was beating a frantic tattoo on the windowpanes. She found the little rubber stopper she carried in her suitcase and shoved it under the bedroom door, hesitated for a moment, then scooted a heavy wooden bureau a few inches in front of it as well. She had to unplug the side lamp to plug in her phone, as there was no other outlet. Her phone came on and started to charge, but still wasn’t receiving any service.
Nonetheless, she felt the urge to text Olivia. She would send it when she could.
Well, we’ve really done it now. I am sitting in a mysterious, dilapidated château, awaiting my fate. Seriously. I’m pretty sure there are murderers lurking behind these stone walls. How could there not be? This is a classic setup for a slasher film—not the cheap, blood-spurting Hollywood kind but the artistic European type—except that I am not a nubile teen. And in the movie version the cranky old man who owns the place would have a mysterious cat, rather than a goofy dog. But still.
Cady thought she heard something besides the rain, and paused for a moment to listen; a faint sound was coming through a vent. Itsounded like... singing. A man’s voice, rough and aged, but surprisingly melodious. She tried to follow the notes, which reminded her of a French version of Sinatra’s classic “My Way.”
Cady continued her text:I can’t BELIEVE I let you talk me into this trip. I will NEVER forgive you.
The windowpanes rattled as the wind began to howl.
She curled up under the covers, seeking warmth. In the faint light provided by her phone, she gazed at the old photo of the mystery woman and once again reread the love note, trying to focus on her goal in coming tole châteauin the first place.
But she couldn’t help but wonder: Who in the world had slashed her tires? And why?
One thing was sure: This was not the fairy tale she had been looking for.
• • •
When Cady awoke late the next morning, it took her a moment to remember where she was. Sunshine filtered in through the dust-caked windows, filling the old bedroom with a cheerful brightness and dispelling the gloom from the previous night.
The stone walls still emanated a chill, but she was surrounded by historic beauty, and last night’s ghosts had vanished.
She got out of bed and pushed open the leaded casement windows, feeling very European as she leaned out. The storm had passed, and the sun-warmed garden filled the air with the mingled scents of lavender, rosemary, and thyme. Cady breathed deeply.
Petrichor. She remembered finding the word in a book and asking Maxine what it meant. Maxine had told her, “Petrichoris an ugly word for a beautiful thing: the smell after the rain.”
Looking out over the courtyard, Cady noticed details she hadn’t seen in the dark of last night: garish graffiti tags on some of the buildings; an old car that probably hadn’t run for decades covered by a bright blue tarp that rippled in the breeze; leaves and branches blownabout by the wind. She smelled something else, too, something enticing coming from inside the building.
Was that coffee?
Her stomach growled. Her last meal had been a large lunch—Parisians, she had learned, liked to eat large lunches—asalade composéewith duck and pâté. Plenty of bread and cheese as well as chocolate mousse and a tiny cup of strong espresso for dessert. At the time she thought she’d never eat again, but that had been a very long time ago. She’d snacked on some almonds while driving from Avignon, but that was it.
The hallway and stairs looked different in the day, not so ghostly but much sadder. Where there had been a bit of romance to last night’s impression of a haunted mansion, the morning sunshine revealed dust motes hanging in the air and piles of yellowing newspapers. Her nose twitched at a hint of something that might well have been rodent in nature, and she skirted several small puddles where rain appeared to have dripped through holes in the roof.
She made her way through the book-lined room, along the broad paneled corridor, and down the next set of stairs to the kitchen.
The ochre tiles seemed to gleam in the daylight, the room untidy but charming with the sun streaming in through multipaned windows.
Lucy let out a loud woof and wagged her tail as she greeted Cady at the door.
“Bonjour,”Cady said, scratching Lucy under her chin.
“Bonjour,”said Fabrice.“Tu fais la grasse matinée, n’est-ce pas?”
Cady was familiar with this expression from her days at the French-American school; it would be invoked when students arrived late. Literally it meant “you are making a fat morning,” and referred to sleeping in.
“I guess so,” she said, feeling vaguely guilty as she stifled a yawn. It wasn’t that late, was it? Fabrice was probably one of those old people who got up before dawn. “It took me a while to fall asleep.”
He grunted. On the table sat half a baguette, a dish of butter, and a jar of jam.
“I know you Americans eat big meals for breakfast, but this is how we do it here.”
“This is perfect, thank you.”
“You want chocolate?”
“Pardon?”
