THE VAST CHAINS ROLLED BACK, AND THE GREAT DOORS HEAVED OPEN. The huge white interior of the Mont St. Michel was still packed with an assortment of vehicles, in spite of the fact that it was late September and most of the family tourists had long since passed through, returning to schools, jobs, and the routines of home and hearth. The usual clutch of juggernauts, the run of questionable antique dealers and VAT dodgers, a few French couples and some university students yet to resume the new academic year were crossing to Portsmouth for le weekend; and there were a number of expensive cars—with and without dogs. The immaculate, dark blue, Rome-plated Lancia Fulvia caught Will’s eye. He’d seen a few of them on the continent, a classy restyling of the sixties model. What a classic beauty, he thought, with its slim tinted windows and low sweeping lines. Quick, really quick—the kind of car Will would love to have, maybe when he was older. For now, the Ducati would carry him swiftly through the last stage of his long journey home, where he was desperate to be.

The sharp morning air reminded Will that autumn was showing signs of coming earlier to Britain than Normandy. A watery sun was breaking through the sea mist, but the temperature was still cowering. Taking his gloves from the tank bag and checking that his passport was under his leather jacket, he pushed the bike off the stand and flicked the engine into life. He kicked up first gear with his foot and let the clutch out delicately. He was a little tired: he rarely slept well on overnight crossings, even when he took a Commodore-class berth, as this time. But his mind had been racing all night, ever since Chartres in fact, and he couldn’t come to terms with all of his thoughts, discoveries, ideas that had been forming and pressing on his mind. He couldn’t think about it all again now: he’d wait until he could talk to Alex and then, he hoped, make some sense of it all.

Gently now, Claudia, we’ll be home soon, he thought almost aloud, as he maneuvered the nervous beauty over the slippery bumps on the metal boarding ramp and down toward Customs Control. The duty officer held out his hand for him to stop. Will unzipped his jacket, pulled out his passport, and as he handed it across he lifted his helmet. The agent glanced briefly at the likeness between the man and the passport and nodded him on.