She was huddled on the front passenger seat in his black Citroën saloon, her knees tucked under her chin, her arms wrapped around her shins. She held herself tight. As if she was frightened that something might fall out that she was trying to hold inside.

‘You were wrong, Eloïse, to go there.’

A baby-faced deer leaped out into his headlights on the road, all spindly legs and eyes like torchlights. Léon swore and braked hard, missed it by a tail-whisker.

‘Bloody fool.’

Did he mean the deer? Or her?

‘You knew,’ he continued as he drove on, ‘that the situation back there was dangerous but still you walked into it. You were wrong. André would tell you the same and maybe you would listen to him.’

A full minute flicked by.

‘You don’t know André,’ she whispered. ‘Neither do I.’

‘Oh, Eloïse,’ he said gently, ‘you are not your brother’s guardian.’

‘Of course I am. I put him on those crutches.’

‘Did you know he would be in the car tonight?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Who was the other man in the car?’

‘Someone you should stay away from, even you, Monsieur le Capitaine.’

The use of his police title jarred, making Léon glance across. She was sitting with her cheek on her knee and was looking at him. The darkness outside had trickled into the car and all strength seemed to have drained from her. Léon felt a wave of sorrow for her.

‘Whatever the hell it is you’re doing,’ he said, ‘I’ll help you.’

‘Thank you. I am grateful for the lift.’

‘I don’t mean the stupid lift.’

‘Léon, I meant what I said before. I am not a child anymore. I don’t need to be hoisted up to the next branch of the tree.’

‘I know.’

She paused. The ghost of a barn owl swooped low in front of the car, startling them both. ‘Do you recall,’ she asked, ‘the day our little band of wildlings built the hut out by the étang?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you recall the snake?’

‘Yes.’

He recalled it all right. An asp viper. A nine-year-old skinny girl made to stand by their campfire with a forty-centimetre venomous viper held by a grip behind its flat triangular head. It was trying to escape and had coiled its sinuous body around her bony wrist, its dark zigzag pattern looking as if someone had run a charcoal stick down its back. Its jowls were open. The girl was muddy and scratched by brambles, her eyes on fire, her hand steady.

Yes, he recalled the snake.

‘Do you know why André made me hold that snake?’

Léon sighed with annoyance. ‘To test you. To forge you through fear. That was what he believed he could do with all of us. Make us stronger.’