The huge mass that had concealed the light was standing in front of her. Clotilde only recognised who it was when she pointed her torch at its dead hand, its neck, its face.

Hagrid … Hagrid was the name that came to her, despite herself, even though she hated herself for it.

‘Orsu?’ she murmured.

The giant didn’t reply. He merely held out his good arm and stared at her with the frightened look of an elephant waving its trunk at a mouse. Then he pointed out the way.

He turned on a torch whose beam reached ten metres further than Clotilde’s phone, and set off ahead of her, at surprising speed in spite of his stiff leg, using it almost like a jointed cane. After a few minutes they left the path signposted to Casa di Stella, and plunged into the maquis. The soft branches of the broom and the arbutus caressed her in the darkness. The climb seemed endless. Not once did Orsu utter a single word. Clotilde had been hesitant about asking him any questions at the bottom of the hill.

Where are we going? Who’s waiting for us? Do you know my mother?

She had said nothing, probably because she knew that Orsu wouldn’t reply, or perhaps in order not to disturb the solemnity of the moment, as if their walk had to be done in silence if they were fully to appreciate its meaning, its deep significance. So that an intimate certainty would be imposed.

That the person waiting for her was her mother.

He will lead you to my dark room.

Who else could have used those words?

They passed by a small stream, then advanced up a steep hillside that was bare except for a few scrubby trees. Orsu frequently turned round, as if to check that there was no one behind them. Instinctively, Clotilde did the same. Surely it was impossible for someone to be following them? They were climbing about a hundred metres above the path, using a torch, and it would have been impossible to steer through the pitch darkness without a light. Any light but their own, however far away, would have been as immediately visible as the evening star.

One thing was certain, Clotilde thought. They were alone.

Another certainty: that she was being reckless.

Of her own accord, she was plunging into the maquis, answering a call from beyond the grave, in the company of a lame and silent ogre in whom she had placed her trust from the outset. This pilgrimage towards a place, a ritual, a God she knew nothing about, would last another hour.