Cady roamed the château’s ground floor in pursuit of cleaning supplies. She found the original estate kitchen, a massive room with scarred marble and wooden counters long enough for an assembly line of chefs, a wall of intricate cabinets, and an iron oven. Cady imagined the cooks tending bubbling cauldrons atop the stove, kitchen staffbustling about while chopping and slicing and peeling, farmers delivering baskets filled with local fruits and seasonal vegetables, hunters carrying in deer and rabbits hanging from rods, the day’s catch.
A smaller room next to the large kitchen must have been a pantry. It was lined with shelves, on which still sat a few Mason jars full of canned fruits and vegetables as well as jam jars caked in grime and spiderwebs.
Cady peeked into half a dozen windowless chambers reminiscent of nun’s cells, wondering if they had been servants’ quarters, or offices, or storage rooms, or some combination of all three. She could practically see the flickering forms of spirits as she meandered along: an efficient head housekeeper, a dignified butler, an arrogant chef, a handful of scurrying housemaids.
At long last she yanked open a stuck wooden door and discovered a storage closet with cleaning supplies. They, too, were covered in dust, but trusting that soap didn’t have an expiration date, she took an armful to her bedroom. She flung open the windows to allow the cool, fresh, early-spring air to chase away the staleness, and then she got to work.
An hour later, Cady noted with satisfaction that the bedroom looked and smelled much more inviting.
Her stomach growled. Last night Jean-Paul had mentioned that Fabrice had someone bringing him groceries, but if she was going to be doing the cooking, she wanted to do the shopping as well. Also, her phone still wasn’t working, and she needed to call the rental agency to figure out what to do with the car. Surely her phone would work in town, or maybe she could find an Internet café.
The village of Saint-Véran was only a few miles away. She could walk there, if necessary.
Cady was gathering her things—her camera bag, her cell phone, her jacket, her money—when she heard thescrape-thumpof Fabrice’s crutch. She went out into the hall and peered down the stairs.
Fabrice was standing at the bottom step.
“I made you a list,” he said, holding up a piece of paper.
“A list of what?”
“Things I need from the store. I want roast chicken tonight.”
“Oh, good,” said Cady, coming down the stairs to join him. “You must have read my mind.”
He didn’t respond.
“I mean, I was just thinking about food.” The note included a hand-drawn map of the village, including the location of theboulangerieand a grocery store.
Fabrice grunted. “You can use my car. The keys are on a nail by the door, and the shopping bags, too.”
“Does that old car run?” Cady asked. “The one in the shack out back?”
“What, the Deux Chevaux? Of course not. Take the Citroën. The French are great engineers. We invented cars, you know.”
“Is that so? I seem to remember something about an American named Henry Ford....”
He waved her off dismissively. “Ford was a latecomer to the scene. He invented the assembly line, is all. The internal combustion engine is the heart of the automobile, and that was invented by Lenoir.”
“Huh. Well, learn something new every day.”
Fabrice looked curious. “What car do you drive in the United States?”
“A Toyota.”
He snorted and mumbled, “Japanese. It figures.”
“Oh, by the way,” Cady said, “there was a kid out in the courtyard earlier, throwing rocks at the windows.”
Fabrice grunted.
“He did one of these,” she said, copying the arm gesture in as discreet a fashion as she could, minus the bravado.
“Ah yes, thebras d’honneur.”
“The ‘arm of honor’?”
“It’s meant sarcastically. It is a very rude gesture.”
