The woman was pretty and young, with flushed cheeks and a sweet smile. He stopped to ask her if she knew a woman named Paulette, and described her as best he could.
She shook her head. “Désolée, monsieur.I’m sorry, I really don’t know. She doesn’t sound familiar.”
He nodded, then lingered to look at her items out of politeness. He noticed a dragonfly motif on several items, and a few necklaces.
“Pourquoi les libellules?”Why the dragonflies? he asked.
“Most people sell the cicada; it is our Provençal symbol. But I prefer the dragonfly: They are descendants of the dragon that once lived here.”
“What dragon?” Fabrice asked, amused.
Her chocolate brown eyes still held a spark of interest, of youth, of hope. Fabrice had celebrated his sixteenth birthday a few weeks ago, but he felt as ancient and hard as the stone cobbles beneath his worn-out leather soles.
“You have not heard the legend of Coulobres?” she asked, her eyeswide. “He was an enormous winged dragon who lived within the font where the river comes out of the mountain. He used to attack the people of Fontaine-de-Vaucluse until he was finally driven into the Alps and killed by Saint-Véran, Bishop of Cavaillon.”
Fabrice released a slight chuckle at the thought of dragons living within springs. He knew too well that monsters were human. There was no need to invent any when the humans were ghastly enough.
“They say there are ancient coins in that spring; the Romans used to throw them in to appease the dragon. No one knows how far down it goes.”
“It’s this way?” he asked, gesturing toward the winding path that led up the limestone escarpments.
She nodded; her shy smile held an invitation. “Not far.”
A lifetime ago Fabrice would have been thrilled to have a pretty woman look at him as though he were worthy of interest. Now he felt toxic, polluted. He felt sure he would destroy anything beautiful in his path.
He pulled a few coins from his pocket and bought a dragonfly necklace fashioned from tin and wire, then proceeded up the mountain.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
PRESENT DAY
CHÂTEAU CLEMENT
Cady
As she drove into town, Cady spotted the florist shop on the main road. An old stone house sat behind a tall cobbled wall, and was connected to the florist shop by way of a greenhouse pass-through. The shop doors were open.
Cady pulled into the small lot. Before getting out, she noticed her phone was getting service, so she sent a quick text to Olivia, outlining her idea of photographing the decrepit Château Clement carousel. California was nine hours behind, but Olivia was a night owl. After pressingSEND, Cady decided that her second thoughts were probably correct: Chances were good that no one would share her fascination for thesaloperieof a once-beautiful carousel.
It was just as well. At least she wouldn’t have to broach the idea with Fabrice.
Cady got out of the car and walked toward the florist shop. Standing behind the main counter, arranging flowers, was a woman of delicate stature, probably in her late sixties. With her big eyes and upswept salt-and-pepper hair, she looked like an aging Sophia Loren.
“Bonjour,”she said with a cool nod.
“Bonjour,”Cady responded in kind. The air was heavy with the floral aroma of roses and carnations, lavender and daisies. What would it be like to work in such perfume every day? Did a person stop smelling it after a while? Was it like a beautiful view, treasured at first but then forgotten? Or was it fully re-appreciated every morning, upon first stepping in amongst the flowers?
“Est-ce que vous êtes Madame Goselin?”Cady asked the woman if she was Madame Goselin.
“Oui. Et vous?”
“I’m Cady Drake,” she continued in French. “I’m staying for a while with Fabrice Clement, at Château Clement.”
The florist gasped and dropped everything, literally, roses tumbling from her hands as she came around the end of the counter. “I heard there was an American staying with him! Is he all right?”
“Yes, he—”
“His health?”
