“My restlessness had nothing to do with the bed, which is in fact the most comfortable I have ever known. Rather, it was the riddle you posed me yesterday.”

“It was less of a riddle and more a statement of fact.”

“It was a riddle, and I spent the entire night seeking its answer.”

“Then I fear you wasted your time. The riddle is its own answer.”

I felt a sudden wave of ill temper wash over me, a lifelong habit that has worsened with age. I let it pass before continuing. “You said everything Jeanne ever told me was true. Surely not everything?”

“I said all of her stories were true. Jeanne was not incapable of lying, but about certain things her word was her honor.”

“If you know all you claim, you also know how fantastic her stories were.”

“I am aware of their nature.”

“Jeanne believed in the transmigration of souls.”

“Yes. She called it crossing.”

“And yet you insist her stories are true.”

“Evidently.”

“You will excuse me if I ask you for proof of your knowledge.”

Madame Édmonde sighed. “Where to begin? Shall I tell you about Koahu and Alula, and how they loved one another? Or about the island of Oaeetee, the chief Otahu, and the sage Fetu? Shall I tell you about the Solide, its captain Marchand, the surgeon Roblet, and the sailor Joubert?”

I was in disbelief. “What about the albatross? What do you know of that?”

I had the distinct impression that, with that question, I had managed to launch an arrow of my own through her veil. Her head drooped down. “Ah, yes. The albatross. You mean the story of the owl and the tern.” Her head lifted again.

I could not hide my astonishment. “How is it that you are so familiar with these tales?”

“Oh, Charles, if I tell you, will you not react with your customary disdain?”

“Jeanne’s stories were a child’s fairy tales—a lunatic’s delusions!” I said, thumping an armrest with a clenched fist.

Madame Édmonde remained perfectly still until she finally said, in almost a whisper, “Do you remember the last occasion you saw Jeanne?”

“How can I forget?”

“How many people have you told about it?”

“No one.” How could I have told anyone? I was too ashamed.

“If I told you, now, would that be sufficient proof?”

I nodded. “Yes. I suppose it would.” And yet I didn’t want to hear.

“You had just awoken from one of your nightmares. Jeanne began to console you, as she had done throughout the years. But that morning you would not be consoled. Her tales had long since ceased to comfort you. And on this occasion you were especially inconsolable.” Madame Édmonde paused. “Do you remember how you responded?”

I nodded shamefully. “Yes,” I murmured, “I’m afraid I do.”