“We’re not going there.” Giving her a bottle of water from one deep coat pocket and some capsules from the other, Alex scooped her into the car and stopped briefly outside the Grand Monarque Hotel, refusing to release her hand even while he settled the bill with the night porter and collected her passport and belongings. He paused for the briefest moment to thank the police, pick up her purse and phone, and tell them she was unhurt but in shock. His first concern now was with her health and they would answer any questions later in the day after some rest. His French was fluent and his manner refused challenge, and they were quickly off. In the car he held her hand through the thirty-minute trip, releasing it only to change gear. It was approaching three o’clock when they turned up the drive to the house near L’Aigle, and despite the hour Alex put the car in the garage and properly secured the door. They sprinted through icy rain, and he produced a key from a pot of over-wintering geraniums.

He turned on some lights, left the windows shuttered, pointed out a bathroom to her, then bounded upstairs and fiddled with some switches. He was back before Lucy had found a chair.

Her face was tired but shining. “This space.” White wicker furniture freshly upholstered, a small orangerie off the large living room, watercolors on the walls, a piano, a cello leaning against the stool, photos everywhere. She felt like a lost child who’d come home. She settled in an antique wooden chair at the table beside a dresser brightened with china.

Alex adjusted the oil-fired stove and flicked a kettle, then rummaged in a freezer down a tiny passageway, returning with a brown sandwich loaf. He was not yet ready to relax and enjoy her impressions.

“I’m not sure how long this has been here, but it will revive with toasting. I don’t think we can trust the butter…but you have to eat something.” He hadn’t yet been still when he passed her a swallow of hot tea and a slice of toast drizzled with honey from meticulously clean hands; then he disappeared upstairs for a few moments again. Lucy’s blood returned with the warmth of the drink and the house, but she was aware of a woozy fatigue creeping over her when he reappeared and propped himself on a corner of the kitchen table. He smiled at her huge tired eyes, which were dark-circled underneath.

“OK, you. I’ve got a small fire going upstairs; and the water should be just hot enough for a very quick shower.”