She finished reading the email, ambitions cruelly resurrected on discovering the sentence: The board thought your project idea excellent and worthy of a fellowship but we found your explanation of the creative process lacking. We encourage you to apply again, paying particular attention to how you will translate your idea into a documentary, and your plans for how the narrative will unfold.

It was tempting to curse the board—they didn’t know what they were talking about; they wouldn’t recognize talent if it came and sat beside them—but D’Arcy knew, in her heart of hearts, that her explanation of the creative process was lacking. She’d dashed off the application three hours before deadline in her usual whimsical fashion and probably hadn’t provided the rigorous detail required to be truly competitive. Her mother might say that D’Arcy hadn’t really wanted to succeed because then she would have to commit to a twelve-month project, whereas D’Arcy’s life consisted of short-term contracts and minimal obligations. Which was the best strategy for avoiding disappointments like this one.

D’Arcy went upstairs. She almost headed straight for a long soak in the tub but knew she’d feel better if she stretched first. Her yoga mat was one of her non-negotiables when it came to packing for overseas trips; she retrieved it from her room and laid it out on the balcony, moving through a series of sun salutations, stretches and inversions for almost half an hour. Then she let herself sink into the glorious bath.

Célie had left out a tray of Buly 1803 products, with their eccentric vintage-style bottles, and D’Arcy inhaled the scent of lemon, mint and rosemary as the bubbles rose around her. She lay her head back and closed her eyes, feeling the ache in her muscles from hammering and sawing dissolve into the water. She really could stay here forever, which, for someone known for their nomadic habits, was both a confronting and curious thought.

After a very long time, she dragged herself out and dried herself off, using the Buly moisturizer and hand cream liberally. Then she went to her suitcase and discovered that everything had been hung in the wardrobe, and pressed too. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d used an iron, and her clothes wafted lavender and citrus toward her from the bags of herbs strung from the rails.

What did one wear to dinner in the folly of a French chateau? she mused. She pulled out one of her favorite things, a vintage turquoise Courrèges mini-dress that she always took with her when traveling because it didn’t crease, could be dressed up or down and, she thought, suited her. The brown cowboy boots from the day before were pulled back on and she checked her watch. Nearly half past eight. Everything was lazily late in France though. She hoped Josh would be too.

Outside, the night was balmy and not yet dark, a crescent moon just beginning to show like the curve of a hipbone glimpsed beneath sheer fabric. The folly was lit with candles and D’Arcy could smell the food from a hundred meters away. “At this rate, I’ll have to take up running,” she said as she cast her eyes over the table laden with food, and then at Josh, who looked as delicious as the dinner.