"So we're trapped," Iris says flatly. "Either we stay here for three months, or we lose everything. And even after that, we're tied together."
"Marguerite's hope," Duval says gently, "was that by the end of it, you might not wish to sell. She believed you would come to love the property—and perhaps each other—as she loved you both."
"That's—" Iris stops herself, pressing her lips together. "That's very optimistic."
"Marguerite was an optimist. Also, perhaps, a bit of a romantic." Duval's smile is sad. "She believed that if you were forced to know each other, you would find common ground. She wanted very much for her two grandchildren to become family."
Her two grandchildren. I'm not her grandchild. Not really. Not in the way that matters.
"I'm sorry," Iris says. "But I have to ask." She turns in her chair, her gaze moving from Duval to me. "You keep calling her Grand-mère. You spent every summer here. But my mother was an only child—I am her only child. So how are you hers?"
Duval starts to answer, but I cut in. If anyone's going to explain me, it's going to be me.
"My mother was English. A painter—or she wanted to be." I keep my voice level, the way I do when I don't want it toshake. "She came to Provence the way a lot of artists did back then, chasing the light. Somewhere along the way she ended up at Marguerite's door—pregnant, broke, nobody waiting for her anywhere. And Marguerite took her in. Gave her a room, gave her work, gave her a place to have me. I was born in that farmhouse."
Iris is watching me now, really watching.
"We didn't stay for good," I go on. "My mum took me back to England before I was old enough to remember any of it, and we made our life in London. But every summer, we came back here. Every single one, until I was twelve. Marguerite taught me to cook in that kitchen, worked me half to death in those fields, and loved me like I was hers." I make myself hold Iris's gaze. "I'm not blood. I know I'm not. But she's the only grandmother I ever had."
Iris is quiet for a moment. Whatever she expected, it wasn't this.
"No one told me any of that," she says finally. Not an accusation—more like she's adding it to everything her mother kept from her.
"No one told me much either," I say. "That seems to be the family way."
"There is one more thing," Duval continues. "Marguerite left letters for each of you. They are to be delivered at the six-week mark—along with the key to her bedroom. And there is a final envelope, to be opened only after the ninety days are complete."
"The locked room," Iris says.
"The locked room." Duval closes the folder in front of him. "Marguerite was very specific about the timing. She wanted youto have the chance to know the house—and each other—before you knew everything about her."
Everything about her. The words hang in the air, heavy with implication.
"What does that mean?" I ask. "What don't we know?"
Duval's expression is careful, almost apologetic. "I am not at liberty to say. But I can tell you this: Marguerite's story is more complicated than you have been told. Both of you. Your mothers..." He pauses, choosing his words. "Your mothers had their reasons for the estrangement. Whether those reasons were good ones, I cannot say. That is for you to decide, once you know the truth."
The truth. As if truth is something simple, something that can be delivered in an envelope and understood in an afternoon.
"For today." Duval reaches into his desk drawer and produces two envelopes, one labeled with Iris's name and one with mine. "Messages. Marguerite wanted me to give you these today, when you learned the terms of the will. She wanted you to know why she did this."
He holds out the envelopes. I take mine; Iris takes hers. The paper is heavy, cream-colored, old-fashioned. Grand-mère's handwriting on the front—I'd know it anywhere.
"Read them when you're ready," Duval says. "And remember: whatever frustration you feel about the conditions of this inheritance, Marguerite did this out of love. She wanted you to have each other. She wanted her two worlds to finally meet."
We drive back to the farmhouse in silence.
I keep my eyes on the road, but I can feel Iris beside me—the tension radiating off her like heat. Her envelope sits in her lap, unopened. Mine is in my pocket, burning a hole through the denim.
"Ninety days," she says finally, as we turn onto the dirt road that leads to the property. "That's until mid-August."
"The lavender harvest is in July," I say. "Grand-mère probably wanted us here for that."
"The lavender harvest." Iris's voice is distant, like she's trying to process the concept. "You just... harvest lavender?"
"Well, the lavender doesn't harvest itself."
She makes a sound that might be a laugh if it weren't so exhausted. "I don't know the first thing about lavender. I don't know the first thing about any of this."
