Overhead, the flashlight illuminated a once-grand rounding board—the “crown” of the carousel—with alternating painted panels and carved shields. The center room, which traditionally housed partof the mechanism of the carousel and sometimes the band organ, was also covered in panels—some painted, others mirrored. All appeared to be nearly black with soot and dirt, any color lost to the elements and the night. The salon show front had been dismantled and the parts appeared to be leaning against opposite walls.
Cady approached an intact portion of the carousel, reached out, and ran her hand over the pig. His sweet face tilted to look up at her, tongue sticking out, big floppy ears inviting a child’s touch. During the day, in good condition, it would have been charming; now, in the dark, encrusted with dirt and soot, it seemed almost nightmarish, as though it might come alive and give chase.
She found the telltale brass shield on its saddle blanket: Bayol’s factory had made these figures.
Cady had taken hundreds of photographs of carousels, and had seen plenty of the individual figures being repaired and worked on, but never had she seen a carousel dismantled and disassembled, charred and left to deteriorate like worthless junk. It hurt her heart.
She lifted the Leica that hung around her neck and started snapping. She disliked using a flash, preferring natural light, but in case this was her one chance to take photos of this gravely wounded carousel, she wasn’t going to pass it up.
“I’m telling you,” said Fabrice, shaking his head. “I had someone look at it a long time ago. It’s been looted, besides the fire damage, and there was water damage after that. It would cost more than it’s worth to have it restored. And there’s no way to get back all the original figures.”
“Nonetheless, these are worth something,” Cady said, her voice low and reverent, as though they were in a church. This was history beneath her fingers. Sooty, grubby history.
“Maybe they used to be, but look at them now. Just trash.”
“No, Fabrice, they’re not. They just need a little—or a lot—of cleaning, and some basic repair. They’re worth the effort. They were carved by the House of Bayol, in Angers.”
“So?”
“Bayol is said to be France’s most famous carousel maker. He was a sculptor, an artist.”
“Why should that matter to me?”
“Because they’re valuable.”
“Like I said about the signed books I have, I don’t care. I have what I need. I won’t be around much longer, anyway. Your boyfriend can cash these in, I guess, if that’s what he wants.”
“My boyfriend?”
“Jean-Paul.”
“He isn’t my boyfriend.”
“Not what it looks like to me. Anyway”—he turned around, casting the beam of his flashlight on the figures, but not entering beyond the threshold—“this just seems sad to me. It was all built for my father, Marc-Antoine.”
“He was the only child of Yves and Josephine, right?”
He nodded. “Sounds like you know my family history pretty well.”
“Just trying to keep the characters straight.”
“The way I heard it was that they had this thing built before my father was even born. I guess they wanted to fill it with kids, but it didn’t happen that way. And Yves spent a fortune on it, not realizing he would need the money later to maintain the château through an economic downturn and then World War I.”
“But Marc-Antoine must have loved it. And the village children used to come here for festivals.”
“You’ve been here, what, less than a week? This town loves to talk.” His beam rested on the old rocking carriage, a rose carved over its opening. “You really think you could do something with this old thing?”
“It’s a job for a conservator. There are professionals who could—”
“I don’t want any so-called professionals. If you want to clean this thing up, you can do it. Just you.”
“I would need help, though. What about Johnny? It would be a perfect project for someone like him. And Jean-Paul, of course, if he would agree to help.”
He snorted, but said: “Fine. You, the kid, and Jean-Paul. But I don’t want any more strangers around; if you want to call in ‘experts,’ then wait until I die. After that, you could probably talk Jean-Paul into letting you do whatever you want. But until then, no outsiders on my property.”
“Fabrice, you know Jean-Paul cares about you, right? And yes, he’s worried about what will happen to the château, but it’s really not his fault that he’s next in line to inherit. Or that his grandfather is a jerk.”
He shrugged. “It’s just that... this carousel seems like a metaphor. Everything beautiful and innocent is ruined.”
