Cover

BERKLEY TITLES BY LEXIE ELLIOTT

THE FRENCH GIRL

THE MISSING YEARS

Dedication

For my sisters,

Tor and Hels.

And, always and forever,

for Matt, Cameron and Zachary.

My father is happily living in Australia with a lady called Sarah. Or Susan. They have a handful of charming children—with the exception of the last, who even in his early twenties is something of a handful (they call him their “late bloomer”)—though of course my father struggles endlessly with thoughts of the child he left behind. But he’s come too far to be able to see a way back to her.

ONE

The Manse is watching me.

At first I don’t notice it, I’m too involved in my study of the imposing gray stone edifice before me. It’s a tall structure—three stories, and the first two must have high ceilings—with a turret and stepped gables like sets of staircases. Grand baronial style, I think, the half-remembered phrase leaping into my mind. I recognize the ground-floor bay windows that frame the wide doorway from the old battered photograph that has traveled as far and wide as I have, but as I squint at them, I become aware of an acute, uneasy silence, as if the whole building is holding its breath. There’s a queer stillness to the dark, unreflective granite, to the slate roof; as I lift my eyes upward, I notice that even the sky behind is still—still and leaden and looming. I turn my attention back to the windows, wondering whether the photograph I always keep beside my bed was taken in front of the left or the right one, and as I study them, I have the disturbing sense that whatever lurks beneath the flat, gray surface is stirring; the windows are craning forward, crowding toward me. I blink to try to find a wider perspective, but then I notice that even the turret on the left is peering down; I have the sensation that it’s swooping, rushing toward me, and my stomach lurches as if the lawn has dropped away beneath my feet. The house means to swallow me, I think with an irrational flood of panic, swallow me whole—and then what?

“Jesus.” It’s Carrie, my half sister, pushing her badly cut fringe out of her eyes as she joins me on the mossy lawn to survey the house. Her voice drags me back to normality with a hard jolt. I feel like I’m staggering from the impact. “This is a bloody castle.”

“It’s not so big inside.”

I can feel her slanting gaze on me. “So you remember?”