I turned on the flashlight in my phone. The ankle I had twisted in the church was still throbbing. Every step was painful. As I scrambled over the boulders, I noticed that the wind that had been blowing since morning had finally abated. The sky was overcast now, the stars gone. I had made it about halfway when a terrible cry made me look up. I saw two figures silhouetted against a gray wash. One was Maxime; the other was a stranger trying to push him over the railing. I let out a roar and climbed faster so I could reach him, but I arrived too late. Maxime had fallen almost ten meters.

I set off in pursuit of his attacker but did not get far on my ankle. As I turned back, I saw that a small group of partygoers had gathered around Maxime and one of them was calling an ambulance.

I blinked back tears. For a split second, I thought I saw the ghostly figure of Vinca moving among the alums. Translucent and bewitching, the apparition, in a black leather jacket thrown over a slip dress, fishnet stockings, and ankle boots, cleaved the darkness.

Beyond all reach, the specter seemed more alive than all the people gathered around my oldest friend.

Annabelle

Saturday, December 19, 1992

My name is Annabelle Degalais. I was born in Italy, in a little village in Piedmont, in the mid-1940s. At school, the other children called me the Austrian. These days, to the students and teachers at the lycée, I am the dean of the faculty. My name is Annabelle Degalais, and before the night is over, I will be a murderer.

And yet nothing in this late afternoon gives any inkling of the tragedy that is about to occur on this, the first day of the Christmas vacation. My husband, Richard, has taken two of our three children on vacation to Tahiti, leaving me at the helm of the school. I have been on duty since first light, but I love being in the thick of the action. I love making decisions. The blizzard has caused chaos in the area. It is six p.m., and this is the first moment I have had to finally draw breath. My thermos is empty, so I decide to go get some tea from the machine in the staff room. I’ve just gotten up from my chair when the door to my office opens and a young woman strides in uninvited.

“Hello, Vinca.”

“Hello.”

Looking at Vinca Rockwell, I have a flicker of apprehension. Despite the bitter cold, she is wearing a short plaid skirt, a leather jacket, and high-heeled ankle boots. I can immediately tell that she is stoned out of her mind.

“What can I do for you?”

“You can give me another seventy-five thousand francs.”