“I’d come back,” I whispered, as though the option of leaving had already been offered. “It isn’t as though you’d never see me again.”

“Like your brother has?” Gran raised one eyebrow. “Gone six months and we’ve not seen him once.”

I grimaced. Had it been so long since Frédéric had left?

“I know you think living in Trianon with your mother is the only way you’ll be happy. That it will be wonderful, like a dream where you can have everything your heart desires, but I think the reality will be much harder than you believe.” Gran’s eyes searched mine. “I also know that me telling you so is pointless. You’ve always had to find things out yourself, no matter how much the finding caused you grief.”

I looked away, uncertain whether her words should make me feel proud or foolish.

“But that’s enough of us sitting here on the floor.” Gran rose to her feet, hauling me to mine with surprising strength. “Today is your birthday, and whether Genevieve comes or not, we’ll still have cake. But I need time to make it.” She shooed me in the direction of the stairs. “Go wash up. Joss will do the rest of your chores so that you can have the afternoon to yourself.”

My free afternoon was only made better by the new dress waiting on my half of the bed that I shared with Joss. It was dark blue wool with yellow daisies embroidered along the collar and down the sleeves. But the best part of it was that the hem reached all the way to my ankles. Pulling it on, I twirled around, imagining how much older and taller I must appear, wishing, in perhaps a not-so-rare moment of vanity, that we owned a looking glass. Racing down the stairs, I skidded on stocking feet into the kitchen.

“Well, aren’t you a sight.” Gran dusted her hands off on her apron. “Go show your father.”

Joss was sitting on the front stoop putting a final coat of polish on my boots. She looked over her shoulder when the door shut, her eyes still red from crying. She handed me the boots and I sat down next to her to put them on.

“I’m sorry ’bout your letter. Gran said I deserved to be fed to the trolls for doing it,” she said, wiping her fingers on her skirts. “I just…”

“I know,” I said quickly so that she didn’t have to explain. I wrapped an arm around her shoulders and hugged her tight, pressing my cheek against her blonde hair. “Where’s Papa?”

“’Round the barn with the Girards.” Josette gave me a sly smile. “You should know, Papa gave me your pony.”

“What?” I demanded, pulling away. “Why would he do that?”

Joss’s grin widened and she grabbed my hand. “Come on.”

Together, we ran across the yard toward the barn. I kept my skirts hauled up with one hand, leaping over the puddles so my boots would stay clean. Going around the side of the old wooden building, we found our father leaning against the fence next to Jérôme Girard. His son Christophe stood a few paces away holding the lead of a beautiful bay mare.