A small red fox with a beautiful tail was running along the face of the cliff just above the dogs, a bit higher than they could reach when they stood on their hind legs, higher even than they could jump—darting from crevice to knob to bit of fern, sometimes slipping on a patch of ice and then leaping just beyond Olive’s eager mouth and Oscar’s paws to the next ledge. So little, so light, he seemed to float as he tried to reach the narrow ravine about fifty yards along the path, where the spring trickled down. The ravine, Henrietta could see, was too steep for the dogs to follow but would be easy enough for the fox to climb. Each time the fox neared the ravine, the dogs chased him away and sent him back across the cliff face in the opposite direction. Back, forth; north toward the lake, south toward the winery, as if he were writing a line of music with his paws. One shadow followed him on the lake side of the gazebo; two shadows on the winery side, where the lantern shone. Back and forth ran the fox, pursued by the dogs, now barking so persistently that Henrietta, looking back toward the house, could see faces at the windows. One belonged to Didier, who with a few remaining guests was sipping at the brandy that Jasper had wanted to offer Leo and Henrietta.

What were they doing out there, with the barking dogs? Jasper, Henrietta, Jasper’s friend—whatever it was wouldn’t matter, Didier thought. He would do what he could to save the family business, but he’d take care of his son no matter what happened. The letters Charlie had written to that professor would never be answered: because they had never been sent. Didier had seen the first one in the outgoing mail tray, and at the idea of his son following in his path, setting off for the same area at almost the same age, when anything could happen—he’d taken the letter and destroyed it.