She knew that it must be Céline. And yet there was something about those muffled, girlie sobs that made her shiver. She had cried that way, when she was a girl. The little gasps, the almost-coughs, the very pitch of the voice behind it all. This wasn’t the first time she had recognized her child-self in the maid and been unsettled by it. She’d felt it that evening when she’d found Céline trying on the Joseph Box court shoes. Fantastical though the notion was, she couldn’t shake it. She was being haunted by her own lost innocence. And it was no more than she deserved.

“Céline?”

The maid was sitting hunched up on the Pirogue couch. When Genevieve entered the room she jumped to her feet, rubbing her eyes with her apron. “Madame! I’m so sorry, madame.”

Genevieve moved farther into the room. “What’s the matter?”

Céline pointed, wordlessly. Some pieces of broken glass lay on the hearth, along with a puddle of water and six strewn lilies.

“I see.”

“I don’t know how it happened,” said Céline. “I’m so clumsy today. How am I ever going to pay you back?”

“Don’t cry.” Genevieve awkwardly placed a hand on her back. “There are bigger things to worry about than broken vases. We’ll just agree not to mention it again.”

The sobs died instantly away. “Really? That’s so kind of you, madame. You know I would pay you back if I could? My mother is ill and—”

“It’s all right.” Embarrassed, she waved a hand to stop the outburst. Walking gingerly across to the hearth, she stooped and began to collect the broken glass.

“No, madame! You’ll cut yourself! I’ll fetch the dustpan and brush.”

Genevieve picked up one of the lilies. The vase was Lalique. One of her favorites. But she was glad this had happened. They had lots of vases and glassware. The act of comforting the maid—of being able to make someone else’s problem vanish in an instant—was more unusual. And there was something about this girl.

“Madame.” Céline hovered at the door. “You’re very kind. You and Mr. Shelby King. You’re good people.”

“I wish that were true.” She plucked at one of the petals.

While Céline was busy cleaning up the mess, she went to the cashbox in the study and unfolded two hundred dollars from the roll. These she placed in an envelope. She took the envelope to the maid’s little room and pushed it under the door.

It was then that the telephone rang.

“Madame. It is someone calling himself Monsieur Renard.”

“Monsieur Renard? I don’t know any Monsieur—” She stopped herself. Le renard—the fox. An obvious pseudonym as even Céline had realized. Guy Monteray, perhaps? Who else would do something like this?

“Madame?”

Clutching at her throat, she took the receiver.