He gave her a mocking bow, tipping his hat, and then left, his footsteps echoing in the empty building.

She collapsed back against the wall when she could no longer hear him, her entire body shaking, her teeth chattering. She wrapped her arms around her body and tightened them, hugging herself as she would Oliver if he woke from a nightmare.

Oliver. What if Bardot hadn’t really left, but had gone to find him?

She ran from the room before the thought was even fully formed, her mind like a crazed animal, trapped in a snare.

Oliver. Where was he?

Stop. Think.

She obeyed the voice that had guided her out of France and away from Bardot and dozens of others who would have killed her for what she’d carried with her.

Fishing. He’d come to her room this morning to tell her Nounou had agreed to let him fish, in reward for being so good during the days when he’d not been able to step foot outside.

She returned to her impromptu work room and took her cloak, hat, and satchel from the peg where she’d hung them. In addition to her ever-present sketchbook, the satchel contained all her money, a miniature painting of Oliver in a leather case—an item she’d traded a piece of sculpture for with another artist—her marriage lines, and Robert’s signet ring, gold and emerald with his initials graven in the stone.

Serena took the satchel with her everywhere—a lesson she’d learned to her detriment over a decade ago, when she’d been caught and forced to flee and leave behind the information that had led Etienne Bardot to her door.

Oliver favored a bend in the stream where the water collected in a deep pool. They’d walked there together and she’d promised to come and bathe with him when the weather was warmer. There was a particularly alluring rock that hung over the stream and she’d told him—under no circumstances, was he to dive or swim alone. He was a boy who honored his word, so she was not concerned.

She half-ran, half-walked the distance to the stream, her breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps—especially after she saw the impression of far larger boots beside Oliver’s familiar footprints.

Oh God, she begged, please let her be mistaken. Even Etienne would not do such a thing—he would then have to care for the boy and she knew he had no regard for anyone other than himself.

But then she recalled his threat of six months past, when she’d refused to pay him—chiefly because she’d had almost no money: “I’ll take him from you, Serena, and I wager you’ll find the money to get him back, won’t you?”
She crested the rise that overlooked the small river and skidded to a halt. Two figures were down below, and neither of them was Etienne Bardot.

Serena quickly moved into the shade of a nearby grove of Scots Pines.