Before she went downstairs, she telephoned her mother to let her know she wouldn’t be back in Sydney any time soon.

“Hello, darling,” Victorine Hallworth said as soon as she picked up, and D’Arcy smiled.

“You’ll never believe me if I tell you how fabulous this chateau is. And I’m staying for two weeks,” D’Arcy crowed. “It’s like a dream job. Delicious food. Amazing views. And photographs I adore.”

“You sound happy.” D’Arcy could hear her mother smiling down the line.

“I am. In fact, I might write a piece about it. I’ll send a pitch to Maya tonight.”

“I’m sure she’d love to have another piece from you. You haven’t written for her for a while,” Victorine said.

“I haven’t,” D’Arcy agreed, freelance writing being just one of the many things she dabbled in over her peripatetic existence. “But this place is just begging to be written about. You’d love it. It’s the France of everyone’s dreams.”

“The France of my dreams is probably a more tarnished vision than the one you have in front of you now. Although you’re making me want to come out and see you. Where exactly are you?”

“Not far from Reims.”

“Not my favorite part of the country.” Her mother’s voice seemed to catch on the words.

“How can it not be your favorite part?”

Her mother paused before replying. “Just memories. From a long time ago. You have a wonderful time and enjoy it for both of us.”

“I will. I love you, Maman.”

As D’Arcy hung up the phone, she frowned. They hardly ever spoke about her mother’s childhood in France, a country Victorine hadn’t visited since she was in her twenties, even though she’d insisted on D’Arcy learning French and had always encouraged D’Arcy’s own visits there, from exchange trips in high school, to university in Paris. Despite that, her mother had told her to enjoy herself, so she would. She went downstairs, jumped in her car and drove to the nearest quincaillerie—the hardware shop—for supplies.

Back at the chateau, she carried everything inside and almost beheaded Josh with a piece of plywood. “Sorry, I didn’t see you,” she said after he’d leapt out of her way.

“I didn’t need that ear anyway,” he said, mock-rubbing the side of his head.

“You’d better tell me where to put everything before I injure anyone else. I don’t want to risk hurting Célie and not having that divine breakfast tomorrow.”

“Oh, but I’m expendable.” He actually smiled.

“Naturally.” She smiled back. Perhaps he’d just needed coffee yesterday. He seemed much nicer today. Although he was still wearing a perfectly pressed shirt and the trousers of an expensive suit, so perhaps the stiffness of demeanor to match would soon reappear.

“Follow me. The salon de grisailles might work.”

He led the way through the chateau to an enormous room, a sitting room now, although it looked to D’Arcy as if it must once have held elegant receptions or balls, the columns proudly arching up to the ceiling indicating its history. It had the same view as D’Arcy had seen from her balcony that morning, the grounds rolling away in a riot of color and perfume down to a canal. The room was furnished as tastefully as D’Arcy’s, the soft blues and grays that had lent the room its name present here also in the paneled wood walls, inset by boiserie, which arrested D’Arcy’s attention. They were painted in silver, pearl, black and white and depicted a child in a forest of strangely stunted and twisted trees; D’Arcy couldn’t tell if the child found the trees’ presence haunting or soothing.