He feels as if the home life he and his wife have so painstakingly constructed for themselves and their son is a fraud. The only thing that seems real right now—real as the ugly wrinkled yellow fruit seems real, compared to the unreality of the angels’ psychedelic wings—is the rocky cove in Collioure, where one night he had sex with a local girl he’d picked up in a nightclub.

He clicks a series of keys on his computer, and the altarpiece vanishes. What scrolls up in its place is the e-mail message he was sent a week ago, and which he’s been unable to answer.

He rereads it, taps “Reply.” Considers a long while, types a few words, then once again presses “Cancel.”

“Have you any idea where we’re headed?” asks Morgan, in his sweet trusting way. Just because Rat’s saving his life and honor doesn’t mean he’s going to give her a break.

No Sunday bus to Collioure till 4:45 that afternoon, they’ve discovered, so Rat has decided to hoof it to Canet to see if there’s an earlier bus from there. Cutting across the fields to stay off the big roads. When they get tired of walking, they can hitch.

“Short-term or eventually?” asks Rat. “Short-term, we’re going to stay with my granny. Long-term, we’re going to go meet my father.”

Morgan looks puzzled. “You have a father?”

He’s got a point, that kid. What father? The only father in anybody’s life is Jean-Luc, poor guy, stuck serving as communal surrogate to all Mas Cargol’s single-mothered mites.

“Remember, I got this father who’s English, who lives in London? I thought maybe it was time to go look him up, say here I am, your wonderful daughter you’ve been longing to meet all these years.”

Doesn’t sound very convincing, does it? Especially since the supposed father still hasn’t bothered to answer her damn e-mail. If anybody ever sent Rat an e-mail, she would answer straightaway now that she knows what torment it is sitting around waiting.

Vanessa used to tell her Gillem McKane had become a sort of hermit. That was why he never answered her letters, or why Rat couldn’t go meet him. But that was probably just Vanessa-mush because the guy didn’t want to see her. Hermits don’t publish their address in cyberspace.

Sliding under the electric fence dividing one field from the next, Morgan snarls his leg on a thistle. Hops, rubs it.

“Lemme see. I got a Band-Aid somewhere in this pack. Shall we put a Band-Aid on it?”

“No.”

“You wanna change into long trousers?”

“Nope.”

“That way you won’t get cut so bad.”

“I don’t care.”

Something isn’t right with Morgan; he won’t look at her.

“What’s the matter?”

Long silence. Then, “I didn’t say good-bye to Solenne.”