Lucy was leaning out of the window of Will’s room when a single knock at the door preceded the appearance of Max. She stretched an arm to him, and they stood together for a moment without a word, watching the scene below. A man and two women were carrying boxes and catering equipment through the rear door into the kitchen. She saw Max was already dressed smartly in a jacket and trousers, and flakes of light shone in his hair. He looked his father’s son, and she squeezed him.

“Daddy asked me to help you move your things next door into his room, as soon as you’re ready. Siân will be here soon, and we’ve got to leave for Chartres at eleven. Oh—and there’s a box for you downstairs.”

Lucy passed him a weekend bag and draped a garment over his arm. “Thanks, Max. Can you take this for me? But I’ll leave my dress and shoes here in Uncle Will’s room. It’s unlucky for your dad to see them, so I’ll get ready here. Siân won’t mind helping me.”

“Is it unlucky for me?” He looked at her with a charm beyond that of a child who’d just had his eighth birthday. With a smile and a finger zippering his lips, Lucy wordlessly extracted a pledge from him not to divulge a single detail, and delighted to be initiated into the secret, he peeked with exaggerated conspiracy at the silver silk in the cupboard. He circled his thumb and forefinger, then Lucy patted him away.

It was after ten o’clock French time when the sounds of Simon’s voice, and other guests staying at the house, filtered in through the open doors to the garden. They were already finishing their breakfast, but she felt suddenly calmed and very pleased to find Henry alone in the kitchen.

“Don’t rush, Lucy. We still have the best part of an hour. These came for you—a little while ago.” He pointed to a box of flowers, and she peeled off the note. They were from her father, the words attempting to make up for his nonappearance with their conventional wishes for her luck and happiness. She showed Henry the card and knotted her arms around him.

“I’m sad for him,” he told her. “Not to know you would leave an empty space in my life now.”

A SMALL BOY STOOD IN SHADOW IN THE WESTERN AISLE OF THE SOUTH transept of Chartres Cathedral. Above him was the window of St. Apollinaire, and beside him a rectangular flagstone positioned at odds with its neighbors, its whiteness stark against the gray surrounding paving. A gilded pin was in the cusp of the light: it was approaching noon on the eve of the solstice—the day prior to the longest of the year.