When I was a child he always read me a bedtime story, always, in which good triumphed over evil. Books, I’ve learned since, do not tell the truth. He sat back in his chair with what came close to a contented sigh and opened the book.

‘I may not be here when you wake up,’ he told me as he turned to the first page.

‘Where will you be?’ I asked, anxious.

‘At church.’

I blinked with shock. Even that hurt.

André started to read aloud the story of man’s attempt to make amends in life for something he did wrong, his voice smooth and comforting. I closed my eyes.

*

I was woken by shouting. Somewhere downstairs in the house.

‘Get out of my way, you piece of pig-shit.’

‘Non.’

‘Don’t you point your rifle at me.’

‘Allez-vous en.’

‘I’m going nowhere, so get off the stairs.’

‘Clarisse!’ I called out.

‘There, you see?’ Clarisse’s voice spiralled up to me, triumphant. ‘She wants me to go up there.’

I heard Louis’ belligerent tone on the stairs and I realised André must have set him there to guard me, the way I’d done for him yesterday. I liked that. Not just the extra safety, but the fact that my brother cared enough to do so.

‘Louis,’ I yelled, ‘let her come up.’

I heard his grunt in response. And her delighted laugh.

Clarisse swept into my bedroom with all the ferocity of the mistral, except that the mistral is a cold wind whereas Clarisse was brimming with warmth and flowers.

‘Chérie,’ she said, throwing open the shutters, ‘ma pauvre chérie.’

The day was overcast, the sky a dirty white and the air cooler, which made my pounding head easier to ignore. ‘Clarisse, what are you doing here on a stinking farm? I never thought to see you step foot in a bull-yard.’ I grinned at her and felt my nose pop painfully.

‘Only for you, Eloïse, only for you.’ She rolled her eyes in disgust and dumped a vast bouquet of flowers on my bedcover.

‘Thank you. You are kind to me.’

‘I am. And don’t you forget it when you get back to work.’

I skipped over that thought. She bent close and kissed my cheek so lightly that I barely felt it. She smelled even better than the flowers.

‘You look a terrible mess,’ she declared bluntly.

‘Have you heard anything more? About Madeleine Caron, the woman who did the attack?’