“I hate that you suffered,” she said, following her father inside. No wonder he had left Bellerive, anglicized his name, and started a new life. “I hate that it still hurts you, all these years later.”

“I try never to think of it, but there is no escape from certain memories. The parcel from Madame Olivier brought up so many reminders.”

“I wish you’d talked to me about this.”

“It was very grim.”

“But if you’d said something, maybe it would have eased your pain. Hiding things away can be toxic, Papa. Have you ever thought of talking to someone about it? I mean, like the counselor I saw after Jace—”

He caught his breath. “Listen, all the talk therapy you endured after losing Jace did not work either. You still haven’t ventured out of our safe little world here.”

Her cheeks felt hot, burning with the truth of what he said. “Because it’s our world. Because it’s safe.”

“You can no longer say it’s a safe place, not at this moment,” he pointed out, his gaze flicking in the direction of the garden.

She felt a stab of worry. “You’re right. What am I going to do about Julie? I feel so awful for her. I just want to go and rip somebody’s head off.”

“Which, of course, will not work, unless you want matters to escalate. When I was Julie’s age, the village priest passed away, and a younger one took over. He observed what was happening, and tried to punish the kids who were tormenting me. You can imagine what that did, eh?”

“Made it worse,” Camille said. “What do I do, then? Force her to tough it out? Send her to boarding school? No way.”

“They’re totally cute, Papi,” Julie said, her eyes shining as she came into the house. “I love baby ducklings.” She went over to the sink to wash her hands. “I’m sorry the kids in your town were mean to you.”

He poured wine from a decanter, and gave Julie a glass of bubbly water. “It was a long time ago. Perhaps . . . long enough. Santé,” he said.

Camille noticed a glint in his eye. Long enough for what? “Papa, what’s going on?”

“Dr. Ackland has cleared me to travel.”

“That’s cool, Papi,” said Julie. “Are you planning a trip?”

“You’re not going on a trip,” Camille broke in.

“I am, choupette,” he told her. “I have decided to spend the summer in Bellerive.”

No, thought Camille. Just no. She couldn’t let him go gallivanting overseas. His health was fragile. It was too far away. “Why would you want to visit a place full of bad memories?”

“The house is in a terrible state, and I must go look after my property.”

“You never did before,” Camille objected. “You said the Oliviers took care of the upkeep.”

“True, but it’s high time I took responsibility for the place. The cave-in of a slate-tiled roof is no small disaster. Seeing the things sent by Madame Olivier . . . Now I’m compelled to visit Bellerive, perhaps confront those unhappy memories at long last.”