“I wouldn’t know what to say,” she said honestly.

“What’s that?” he asked, pointing to the folded scarf on her lap.

D’Arcy flushed. Why had she brought it downstairs with her? As a peace offering? Or an inducement? “It’s a 1950s Hermès silk and angora scarf,” she said, handing it to him. “It reminded me of your eyes.”

The afternoon she’d arrived in Paris, before that awful visit to the school, she’d stopped at one of her favorite vintage clothing stores, had seen the scarf and bought it without hesitation, knowing it belonged to no one other than Josh. She’d bought one for Célie too—a 1940s Stella Designs scarf in pale grays and soft blues, colors that reminded D’Arcy of the chateau and the people in it. While she’d already given Célie her gift, she’d kept Josh’s hidden for the past two days because D’Arcy didn’t ordinarily buy presents for anyone; they were tokens of commitment. Even she and her mother mostly indulged in something transitory—a fabulous dinner and champagne—for Christmas rather than well-chosen gifts. But being in the chateau was somehow changing D’Arcy.

“Thank you.” His fingers ran slowly over the scarf. “I might need scarf-tying lessons to do it justice though.”

“I think you could probably just toss it around your neck any old way and it will look…” Devastatingly handsome, she didn’t say. “Dan Hallworth is Victorine’s father,” were the words that came out instead. “This man, who used to be just the name of the person who owned the company my mother works for, is actually her family. And she never told me any of it.”

“You look so sad, D’Arcy.”

At Josh’s words, a simple statement of truth rather than the meaningless I’m sorry she’d expected, or a jollying attempt to make her feel better, she felt her breath falter, her heart convulse, her eyes scald with white-hot tears. She pressed her lips together, the ability to speak, to tell him about the most brutal discovery, snatched away by his compassion.

He studied her face and shifted back into the sofa. “Come here. I’m an expert in giving a neck rub in such a way that it will make you fall asleep.”

She looked at him warily and he smiled. “I promise it will be very chaste and proper,” he said. “Although this is a turnaround for the books; you eyeing me like I’m about to jump on you rather than the other way around.”

He made her smile so she stood up and perched on the edge of the sofa, between his legs, and he began to rub her neck the same way he did everything: lightly, softly, gently. As he massaged her neck and shoulders, he talked about Paris, about his favorite café in the city, about small and inconsequential things, which were the perfect things, because she could manage the small and inconsequential much better than the large and devastating.

Long minutes passed, minutes of feeling her shoulders drop down from around her neck, of feeling sleepy rather than exhausted, of the sound of his voice near her ear. She should probably stand up and go to bed. He’d been rubbing her neck for at least half an hour and he must have better things to do, like getting some sleep himself.