There was fervor in her the likes of which he’d rarely seen, and it struck him, clear as a pealing bell, that she was speaking to herself as well. Her eyes went suddenly dull, and she slumped back into her chair, defeated.

“Maman?”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I always told myself I’d never treat my own children the way I’d been treated growing up and yet I should have protected you better. From the world. From Montpierre.” She said her husband’s name so softly Weysh practically had to read her lips. She inhaled a shaky breath. “I have not been a good mother to you, and I know I can never undo that, but from here on I want to be more supportive of you, of my child. Can you forgive me?”

“Yes,” Weysh said instantly, warmth tingling all though him. “I think I can understand, if only a little, how hard it must have been.” She took his hand again, and they sat just like that for a while, mother and son, while the morning birds chittered and chirped above.

But at last Weysh broke the silence. “I think I’ll get going before Montpierre awakes. I’ve been through enough for one day.”

Guilt and sadness crossed his Maman’s face like a shadow, but she said only, “Take care of yourself, my love. Shall I tell Sylvie?”

Weysh shook his head. “I’ll let her know when I’m ready.” He stood and kissed his mother’s hand before letting it go. “Thank you, Maman. It was good to talk to you,” he said, and to his amazement he meant it. He never would have thought it possible, but he was actually leaving a visit home feeling better about himself. The knowledge that he would never smell like he used to was still devastating, but something was back, and pulsing under the despair like a heartbeat.

Hope.

32

The season of rain has given way to the heat of summer, and Yenni breathes deeply. Home. The air smells of home—of tangy tamarind and sweet-spice and grilling crab. Of dust and soil and clay. And the people of the market sing, even as the women kneel and the men lie flat to the ground at their passing.