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“I have received,” I resume, changing my tone, “a request for another performance.”

Curiosity crosses his face even before he speaks.

“From whom?”

“From a French duke.”

A veil drops before my eyes. The path tilts without moving, the trees seem to retreat half a step, then return to their place. I tighten my knees against the horse’s flanks to remain upright.

“So, you are going to France?” Richard asks, rubbing his nose.

I inhale. The air scrapes my throat. My tongue stays glued to my palate a moment too long before I can speak.

“No... he owns lands here as well.”

“Have you accepted?”

I turn toward him.

“Not yet.”

I bring my gaze forward again.

“Do you remember, Evander, when we went to Lyon,” he exclaims, “that summer after...”

His voice thins. The words continue to flow, I see it from the line of his mouth but the sound retreats, turning to cotton. As if someone had closed a door between him and me.

Étoile snorts. I feel him stiffen beneath me even before he moves. His flanks tighten, his stride breaks. A sharp rustling comes from the bushes, quick and low.

Perhaps a squirrel.

A continuous buzzing pulses in my ears. The reins slip through my fingers. The thought comes after the gesture. My shoulder meets the earth with a full impact; the air is torn from my chest. My leg bends poorly.

For an instant, there is only black.

“Evander!”

The voice draws near.

“Damnation... are you hurt?”

His hands reach out toward me, slow, measured.

The same gesture.

Those hands advancing without asking permission.

A sudden smell of cigars invades my nostrils.

My heart explodes in my chest. It beats fast, too fast, until I feel the pressure in my temples. The shadow falling over me is cold.

It is not him.

I know it.

But my body cannot tell the difference.

“Don’t touch me!”