“Célie will show you.” He indicated a woman who’d just appeared from nowhere. As her travel-fuddled brain shut down, D’Arcy followed the woman up the stairs, which spiraled within the turret, then down a long hallway and into a room that she would peruse tomorrow. Right now, all she wanted was a shower and her bed.

* * *

D’Arcy woke the following morning thankful that her nomadic existence meant she’d learned to sleep whenever and wherever, and that jet lag never bothered her. She yawned and stretched and, for the first time, reveled in the luxury.

Sheets so sumptuous they must be Egyptian cotton. A true French bed of curved and carved wood, the molded flowers spilling delicately across the headboard, the wood painted a soft creamy white, D’Arcy thought at first, but then she realized the paint held the palest note of blue, offset by the velvety blue-gray wallpaper. Matching carved bedside tables stood on either side.

She sat up and swung her feet over the edge of the bed, walking over to the soft white drapes, pulling them open to reveal doors that led onto her own balcony. Her stomach growled and she realized she was starving and had no idea what to do about breakfast. Would they feed her? Or would she have to drive to the nearest town and grab some coffee and croissants?

In answer to her question, a knock sounded on the door.

“Come in,” D’Arcy called.

Célie appeared, breakfast tray in hand, loaded with croissants and baguettes and cheese and fruit juice and—D’Arcy sniffed the air—coffee.

“Breakfast on the balcony?” Célie asked in French.

“Oui, merci.” D’Arcy followed her out and breathed in the wild scents of the French countryside—musky sweet chestnut, the strong fragrance of artemisia, spicy licorice and citrus. Yellow buttercups frolicked over the garden below and she could see that a loose formality played hide-and-seek with the natural landscape: pleached limes bordered a mass of wild orchids, a separate garden room had been created with drooping mulberry trees to house the potager, which was full of strawberry and blackberry bushes, as well as the most vividly orange pumpkins D’Arcy had ever seen, perfect for flamboyantly gilded fairytale carriages. There was even a maze.

D’Arcy sank into a chair, sipped her coffee with closed eyes and felt the kind of contentment wash over her that was an infrequent visitor in her life.

“Would you like anything else?” Célie asked.

“I think everything is perfect,” D’Arcy replied, the French her mother had always spoken with her rolling off her tongue as familiarly as the English she ordinarily spoke.

It was very tempting to sit on the balcony all morning and drink too much coffee and eat too much pungently oozing cheese and fresh baguette. No bread in the whole of Australia ever tasted as good as the bread in France. But she had work to do so she threw on her version of jeans and a white shirt—her choice of shirt being a once lemon-colored, now faded to cream 1970s Ossie Clark chiffon blouse, with a bow at the collar and the bleached-out lines of a Celia Birtwell print still visible. She eschewed yesterday’s cowboy boots in favor of a pair of scuffed vintage boots with the traces of once bright embroidery.