“Entre!”

The older woman was in bed reading. She raised her eyes when she saw who it was and lowered her book.

“So,” she asked in her native language, “How was a dinner with those two?” She used a word for “men” that had untranslatable connotations in English.

Serena smiled. “Much as you would expect. They will be staying for at least one more day. Mr. Lockheart believes there is some problem at the dam.”

Nounou’s dry smile showed what she thought about that.

“Is Oliver asleep?”

She made a sound that was entirely Gallic. “That boy! He will burn us in our beds. I have decided it is safer to let him read all night if he wishes. He will be sandy-eyed and sleepy, but that is the only way to learn. He is like his mother that way—a head like a stone.”

Serena chuckled. “It won’t hurt him, Nounou.” She stood. “I will go and see if he is awake. Either way, I will extinguish the light, so you may go to sleep without worry of immolation.” She bent over the bed and kissed her on the cheek. “Good night.”

Her son was indeed still awake and reading, not one book, but two spread across his lap while a single candle burned in a holder on his nightstand.

“Mama.” He grinned up at her, unabashed to be found awake at almost eleven o’clock.

“You will go blind reading in such light.” She nudged one of the books over and sat on the side of his bed. “You are driving poor Nounou to distraction. I want you to promise lights out by ten from now on. It is good to think without a book in front of you. That is when I have my most creative thoughts.”

He nodded and closed the books. “All right, Mama. I will try it.” He shot her a furtive glance. “But maybe we can discuss the matter after I have done so for a while?”

Serena laughed and ruffled his hair. “Very well, a negotiation. How long?”

“A week?”

She shook her head at his hopeful look. “A month. And then we can reassess.”

He gave a heavy sigh but nodded.

“Good,” she said, leaning forward to give him a loud smack on his cheek and chuckling at the “Aw, Mama!” her action elicited.

She stood and picked up the candle.

“Mama?”

“Hmm?”

“How long will Mr. Lockheart stay?” His voice had a hopeful note in it that made her pause.

“Do you like him?”

His vigorous nod set his hair flopping and reminded her he needed his hair cut.

“He likes automata. He has built one of his own, Mama.”

“Has he?” She smiled at her son’s enthusiasm. She’d been disappointed that he’d shown no interest in sculpture, but she would be just as pleased if he had a passion for another subject.

“He said I might build my own, too.” He gave her a shy look. “I like him, Mama.”

“So do I,” she said, and then extinguished the light.