I stop halfway to the door. "I'm sorry?"
"The goat." Cat takes a sip of her tea, utterly casual. "Belongs to the Merciers down the road, but he's an escape artist. Thinks he owns the lane. Bit of a menace, really."
"A goat," I repeat.
"I call him Napoleon. Fair warning."
I stare at her for a moment, trying to determine if she's joking. Her expression gives nothing away.
"Right," I say finally. "Thanks for the heads up."
I escape into the morning before she can tell me about any other livestock I need to worry about.
The run helps. Not a lot, but enough.
The roads around the farmhouse wind through lavender fields and olive groves, past stone walls that look like they've been there since the Roman Empire, under a sky that's bluer than any sky has a right to be. I run until my lungs burn and my legs ache and my brain finally stops cycling through all the ways this situation is impossible.
By the time I get back to the house, I'm sweaty and starving and almost ready to face the day. Cat is still in the kitchen—has she moved at all?—yes, she's cooking something that smells incredible.
"Breakfast?" she offers without looking up.
"I usually just have coffee."
"That's tragic." She slides a plate across the island toward me. "Eggs, tomatoes, fresh bread, Jacques dropped it off while you were out."
"Jacques?"
"Monique's husband. They run the café in the village. They were friends of Grand-mère's." Cat finally looks at me, and there's something in her expression that might be a challenge. "Eat. You'll need the energy."
I want to refuse on principle—I don't like being told what to do, and I especially don't like the way Cat moves through this kitchen like she owns it—but the smell of the eggs is making my stomach growl loud enough for both of us to hear.
I sit. I eat. The eggs are perfect—creamy and soft, seasoned with herbs I can't identify—and the bread is still warm from the oven.
"This is good," I admit grudgingly.
"I'm a chef. Or I was. Will be again, probably." Cat shrugs, settling onto the stool across from me with her own plate. "Cooking's the one thing I know how to do."
"The one thing?"
"Well. Also plumbing, basic carpentry, and how to prune lavender. Grand-mère was a practical woman."
The mention of my grandmother sends a small jolt through my chest. Our grandmother, I remind myself. Whatever else is true, she was both of ours.
"We should probably talk about logistics," I say, because focusing on practical matters is always safer than feelings. "How we're going to share the space."
Cat raises an eyebrow. "Share the space?"
"There's only one kitchen. Two bathrooms. We need some kind of schedule."
"A schedule."
"You don't have to repeat everything I say."
"Sorry, it's just—" Cat sets down her fork, and I see her wrestling with something. "I've been living here for a week. I've got a rhythm. Wake up, make tea, cook breakfast, work on the property, cook dinner, go to bed. I'm not really a schedule person."
"Well, I am." I pull out my phone, where I've already started a notes document labeled DOMAINE LOGISTICS. "I was thinking: kitchen access, alternating mornings and evenings. Separate bathrooms. Common spaces—"
"You're actually serious."
