Mireille and the girls are running, running, running through the moss garden, past the spitting carp, around the two giant hunchbacked chestnut trees, down the gravel road, and into the forest, painted emerald and gold by the afternoon sun.

They run over a moldy log, under a broken branch, through a spiderweb thin as a ghost bride’s veil. In the distance, the corner of the cabin’s roof appears. The chimney spits out thin whorls of smoke.

Tai takes a leap, landing on a rotted mess of roots, and her foot slips through.

She shrieks and falls to her knees. The camera rushes toward her, while still capturing another figure in the distance, reaching the cabin: Manon. She swirls around to track the shriek and doesn’t slap her hand against the splintery wooden exterior wall.

“Hello?” Manon calls into the woods.

“OW OW OW OW,” Tai shouts, still flopped on the ground with her foot trapped.

“Tai?” Manon says, squinting through the branches. “Is that you?” She steps away from the cabin, but in the wrong direction.

“Mama, help meeeeee,” Tai shouts, even though the cameraman is right next to her. “Mama! Help!”

The normal chatter quiets as a cloud passes overhead, darkening the leaves. Somewhere a dove calls—its cooing low and mournful.

There is rustling in the branches. The camera spins around, ragged breathing audible.

“Mama?” Tai calls, hesitant.

The rustling continues. “It’s probably just one of those mangy foxes that scampers across the lawn,” the cameraman says. His voice is low, but he sounds like just a boy.

That’s when Mireille runs out of the darkness, dropping to her knees. “Shut that off,” she snaps at the camera, but he doesn’t. She loosens Tai’s foot with a surgeon’s precision, frowning at the weakened roots, and kisses her ankle all over, until Tai breaks out in giggles.

“My poor lamb!” she says, kissing Tai across the forehead, the cheeks, and the shoulders as Tai squirms.

Tai smears the lipstick off, still laughing.

Manon comes trudging up behind them. They exchange a look. Mireille reaches for one of her hands, which she grants her, tentatively—then the other. She pulls Manon into her arms, too.

“My girls.” She leads them toward the cabin, and Tai makes a point of slapping the outside wall hard, with a minxish grin at Manon.

Inside, a small stove burns. Somebody has laid out little painted cakes and miniature cups of tea.

Mireille pours tea into bone cups, so fragile.

“Chípí chípí,” they say, clinking.

“What about my prize?” Tai says, without looking at Manon.

Mireille smiles and pulls a wrapped package from her pocket. “For you, Thaïs. An incredible display of agility,” she says, bestowing it upon Tai with both hands.

Tai gives it a shake; it sounds full.