“Camille’s right,” said Finn. “You get half of your DNA from your mother and half from your father. And since your parents got their DNA from their parents, you also have some DNA from your grandparents.”

“Petra and I share a set of grandparents . . .” her father said, understanding dawning in his eyes.

“Then you will have about twelve percent of the exact same DNA,” Finn supplied.

“You’re very smart,” Camille said.

“I’m a professor, remember?”

“Of genetics?”

“Okay, maybe I’m just a genius.”

“And so humble. Can we contact her?” Camille asked her father.

“I imagine we can, but I’ve no idea if she would welcome a visit, much less cooperate with a DNA test, of all things.” He paused, looking around the attic. “Petra and I were never close. She was quite beautiful, and she married a man with a grand house in the city. A solicitor, I believe. Neither of them had anything to do with me when I was growing up.”

“It was all so long ago. I’m sure your cousin would like to hear from you.” Madame glanced over at Finn. He was sweating as he stacked boxes by the door. “It is getting far too warm in here,” she added.

“I agree,” said Henry. “If you don’t mind, I’m going downstairs to have a cold drink and a little rest in the garden, to recover from our work detail.”

“And I’m coming with you. Let’s call your cousin Petra on the telephone.”

After they left, Camille and Finn were silent for a few moments. “It’s strange and interesting, learning all these things about people long gone from us.” Then she realized how that must sound to him. “Finn, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You’re right. When I think about my father, I wonder if the man I’ve seen in pictures, the man my mom and sisters and grandparents knew, is anywhere close to the man I imagine.” He looked around the attic, standing there in a swirl of dust motes shot through by sunlight, looking curiously vulnerable. “And then I wonder how much it matters.”

Julie winced as the rooster crowed, sounding as if he was right in her ear. “How does he know I was in the middle of an excellent dream?” she muttered.

“Dream . . . un rêve,” said Martine, jumping out of bed. “Is that right?”

“It’s six in the morning,” Julie said. “Nothing is right at six in the morning.”

“You’re funny. Come on. We have des tâches ménagères—what is the English word for that?”

“Chores, I think. Or maybe torture. When Papi said we were coming to Sauveterre, he didn’t tell me it was chore camp.”

“Get dressed,” Martine said heartlessly. “Work will go faster if we get an early start. I’ll meet you downstairs.”

Julie flopped back onto the bed and tried to bury herself in the duvet. It was just her luck to share a room with a morning person. Martine’s dog, Aspro, leaped on top of her and started digging furiously at the sheets. Martine refused to call him off, so Julie finally gave up.