sudden light. She realised, to her horror, that she had leaned against a light switch. As heads in the meeting room swung towards her, she fumbled to switch it off again, and ran back the way she had come, training shoes squeaking on shiny tiles.
She reached the salle at the foot of the spiral staircase, and plunged herself again into darkness. Running up and round, burning her palms on the rope rail, stumbling on the stairs as profound blackness wrapped itself around her once more. And then there was light again, from above, and she emerged finally, gasping for breath, into the ante-room with the armoire.
She stood for a full minute, breathing hard, perspiring in the gloom, trying to regain her equilibrium. But her legs were like jelly, and her breath trembled in her chest each time she filled her lungs. Try as she could, straining to listen above the rasp of her breathing, she was unable to detect any sound from below. There were no voices. Nothing. And she knew she had to get out of there.
With as much composure as she could muster, she peered out into the abbey. There were a couple of elderly ladies kneeling before the Virgin, but there was no sign of the cure, and so she slipped out into the whispering vastness of the nave and hurried towards the back of the church.
The night air felt soft and warm as she emerged into the cobbled square. She walked quickly amongst the parked cars until she reached Fabien’s four-by-four, and slipped into the passenger seat with a huge sigh of relief. In the reflected light of the abbey’s floodlamps, she saw that her hands were trembling, and she leaned her head back against the headrest and closed her eyes.
The members of the Ordre emerged into the abbey square from the light of the arched tunnel of the Maison du Vin, a flood of crimson and black, dispersing to their vehicles and swallowed by the night.
Fabien peered in at Nicole before opening the door and removing his hat to throw it in the back.
She did her best to smile naturally. ‘How did it go?’
‘Fine.’ He slipped off his gown to reveal that he was wearing jeans beneath it, and folded it carefully to place it on the back seat. He pulled his shirt out from his jeans, where it was stretched in tight around the waistband, and he seemed to breath more easily. In the glove compartment, he found a baseball cap which he pulled on over his shock of curls, and slipped in behind the wheel. He glanced at Nicole. ‘Not too bored?’
‘No.’
He started the motor and turned on the lights. But she knew she couldn’t pretend for much longer.
‘Why are you so much against Monsieur Macleod?’
His head snapped around, eyes full of sudden anger. ‘It was you down in the cellars.’
She nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘Spying.’ He almost spat the word at her.
‘Oh, yes, that’s what I do. I’m a professional spy for Monsieur Macleod. I’m spying on you at your house, I’m spying on you at your meeting.’
‘But you were.’
‘Not on purpose. It was an accident.’
‘Oh, so you’re an accidental spy?’
She gathered her indignation around herself like a cloak. ‘I was in the abbey saying a prayer for my mother, and I heard voices. I was curious, that’s all. I didn’t mean to spy on you, but I couldn’t help but hear.’
‘Then you know why I’m against him poking around my vineyard.’ He paused to gather his cool. ‘And he suspects me of some involvement in all this. I can see it in his face.’
Nicole stared at her hands in her lap for a long time, frightened to meet his eyes, before finally she said, ‘What happened to your father’s old costume?’
She heard his deep sigh of frustration, and turned to see him grasping the steering wheel, his knuckles white with tension. ‘So you think so, too?’
‘No, I don’t. But it’s a reasonable question.’
He turned and glared at her. ‘Is it?’
‘Yes it is, Fabien. And if you’ve nothing to hide, then you’ve no reason not to answer it.’
He looked away again. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Don’t know what?’
‘What happened to my father’s outfit. My mother probably cannibalised it for her rag bag. Spending money on clothes has never been a big priority in our family. My mother’s handy with a needle and thread. She makes things last.’
They sat for several more minutes without saying anything. Then Fabien made a decision and slipped the vehicle into first gear and pulled out of the square into the street.
They drove up through the town in silence. The Place de la Liberation was deserted, benches empty beneath the gloom of the chestnut trees. A bunch of teenagers stood smoking and laughing outside the DVD shop, the brightly lit interior of the pizza restaurant next door revealing that all its tables were empty. A bored chef leaned on the countertop in front of his oven reading a newspaper.
The outskirts of town, heading west, had a seedy, neglected air before they reached the commercial park with its gaudily lit stores and hypermarket. And then they were out amongst the vines, heading towards the hills that rose to the north, the dark shapes of pins parasols outlined against a sky awash with moonlight.
In the yard at La Croix Blanche, Fabien pulled up outside the house and cut the motor. Neither of them had spoken during the drive back, and now neither of them made any attempt to get out of the car.
Fabien said, ‘Why were you saying a prayer for your mother?’
‘Because she’s dying.’ She heard him turn to look at her.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I never prayed for her before. All this time I should have been praying for a miracle. That she wouldn’t die. And then when, finally, I do say a prayer it’s for an end to it. For death to come quickly and without any more pain.’ She turned to look at Fabien, tears brimming in her eyes. ‘What’s scary is, I’m not sure if I was saying the prayer for her or for me.’
He leaned over and put an arm around her, and she let her head fall against his shoulder, and they sat like that for a long time. Only now, the silence between them was easier, without tension. A gentle hand brushed the hair from her face, and she tilted her head to look at him.
‘Take me to the source,’ she said. ‘I know we’re not lovers or anything. But, well, maybe it would change our luck. Maybe it would be better than praying.’
He seemed embarrassed. ‘I don’t know, Nicole.’ He dipped his head to peer out of the passenger window towards the house. ‘She’ll know we’re back.’
Nicole looked, too. All the ground floor windows were shuttered, but she was certain that she saw a curtain twitch at an upstairs bedroom. She looked back at Fabien. ‘Are you scared of her?’
‘No!’ His denial was fierce.
‘Then don’t use her as an excuse. If you don’t want to take me to the source just say so.’
He responded by taking his arm from around her shoulders and leaning forward to start the car. The engine seemed very loud in the still of the night, and there was no doubting now the movement of curtains at the upstairs window.
Fabien accelerated out of the yard, and turned up towards the foothills of the Plateau Cordais, headlights raking across acres of silent vines.
III
Enzo emerged unsteadily onto the steeply sloping cobbles of La Barbacane. He saw moonlight glistening on a surface slick with dew and felt his feet sliding from under him. Strong hands stopped him from falling. He turned to look into Bertrand’s smiling face, pointless pieces of metal glinting absurdly in the moonshine.
‘You’ve had too much to drink, Monsieur Macleod.’
‘No more than you.’ Enzo heard his words slurring, as if they were coming from someone else’s mouth.
‘Bertrand was spitting, Papa. You were drinking.’
