Dangerous to Know

invitation, and planned the trip at once.

Cécile’s train from Vernon had arrived before ours from Yvetot, and she greeted us on the platform, then ushered us into the Priers’ carriage. Narrow medieval streets veered up and down steep hills and along the Seine, no obvious plan to their layout. We passed a square containing a market, fruits and vegetables, fish and cheese amongst the offerings, the noisy buzz of transaction masking the sound of our carriage. Many of the people dressed in the old costumes of the region—the men in full, baggy shirts, the women with tall hats fashioned from delicate lace, making those in modern dress look awkward and out of place amongst the city’s medieval buildings. Colin tugged my sleeve, motioning out the window to the tower that imprisoned Joan of Arc during the Hundred Years War, and I shuddered at the thought of her ultimate fate, to be burnt alive in a space that now contained cheery shoppers.

“Frightening how shallow civility runs, isn’t it?” Colin asked.

“Such a thing could never happen now,” I said.

“I wouldn’t be so confident.” He leaned back against the seat. “And don’t forget it was the English who killed her.”

“You’re a bloody race,” Cécile said.

“Unlike you with the guillotine,” Colin teased.

They continued to argue over which country had exhibited more brutal tendencies throughout history while I looked out the window at the Gothic towers and spire of the cathedral, ornate yet delicate spectacles rising to the clouds.

The Priers expected us at their town house, although to use such an English term did not quite fit in Rouen. Situated on a winding cobbled street not far from the centre ville, their residence took up nearly the whole block, the first floor of its half-timbered façade leaning forward like the buildings in York’s Shambles. This was not a result of wood bending over the centuries. In Rouen, this sort of construction was deliberate, giving additional space on each floor above the ground. Boxes full of red geraniums hung from every window, a stark contrast to what must have been the mood of the home’s inhabitants. A somber servant answered the door and showed us into a dark sitting room, its beamed ceiling low. Despite this, it was a pleasant space, cozy rather than dull, elegantly furnished in well-preserved renaissance furniture: heavy cabinets and narrow, elaborately carved chairs with red seat cushions.

“Cécile!” A door opened and in came a petite woman, swathed in black. “It is too many years since I’ve seen you.”

“Dominique, mon amie!” Cécile embraced her. “It is a terrible occasion on which to call, but I could not leave you in your grief without offering my condolences.”

“It means more than you can imagine to see someone from the old days. And these are your friends?” Introductions sped by—her husband, a lean, dour man, joined us as well—and soon we were all being plied with coffee. I found mine difficult to drink, not because I disliked it, but because a cold sweat had broken out over my body. I wondered if Edith’s parents knew it was I who had discovered their daughter’s body. Considering whether they did, whether they would ask me about it, contemplating what I would say brought the terror of the scene back to me, and seemed to drain all the oxygen from the room. I swallowed hard, steadied myself, and wished Colin was sitting near enough that I could grab his hand.

“The difficulties we have faced are enormous,” Madame Prier said, dabbing conspicuously dry eyes with a black-edged handkerchief and glancing at her husband, who showed no sign of interest in the topic. “All I want now is comfort, not sadness. It’s too much to bear. The situation, you see, is unusual. The loss of Edith surpassed any ordinary death.”

I had opened my mouth to tell her I understood, that I, too, knew what it was to grieve a victim of murder, when the door cracked open and a girl who couldn’t have been a day over eighteen popped into the room. Curvy and petite, she was built like her mother, with shiny black hair, wide-set eyes, and looking nothing like her unfortunate sister. She had eschewed imitating her mother’s dress, however, and was clothed entirely in crimson.

“What a relief!” she said, in flawless English. “It’s been too long since we’ve had new faces in the house. It’s been unbearable, I tell you.”

“Toinette, don’t be horrible. We must break you to them gently,” Madame Prier said, turning to us, her voice full of apology. “This is my youngest daughter, who is feeling much put-out by the requirements of mourning.” Monsieur Prier glowered at his daughter and opened the book he’d been holding on his lap.

Despite her outrageous entrance, I felt a rash kinship to Toinette. Upon finding myself widowed, I’d initially felt relief followed quickly by resentment at being packed away to mourn—feelings that vanished as soon as I discovered the excellent character of the man who’d died only a handful of months after he’d made me his wife, before I’d come to know him at all. No doubt the enormity of the loss of her sister would soon find her, and sadness—real sadness—would come.

“I don’t see why we’re all pretending,” Toinette continued, her crinkled brow at odds with the rest of her perfectly smooth face. “Edith went away ages ago and none of us has thought about her in years. This is a display of guilt, not grief.”

“Toinette!” Her father’s tone was severe, but he did not look up from his book.

Madame Prier froze, then straightened her back and flipped open a black fan, waving it vigorously in front of her face. “I do not think our guests are interested in your extremely superficial analysis of the subject.” I caught Colin’s eye and raised an eyebrow. He drew his lips firmly together and gave the slightest shrug.

“You’ve done an excellent job raising a daughter capable of thinking for herself,” Cécile said, rescuing the conversation. “I would have expected nothing less.”

“And I should have known you wouldn’t be shocked by her,” Madame Prier said. “She does, however, need to learn some manners or no one will have her for a wife.”

“Which would be a terrible outcome. The threat, however, is not quite enough to make me mend my ways. Perhaps because I’ve not yet found a worthy suitor,” Toinette said. Her eyes lingered on Colin. “You’re very handsome. Pity you’re already spoken for.”

I expected he would have kindly, but firmly, brushed her off, as I’d seen him do a thousand times to awestruck females before. Challenges do present themselves when one is married to the most handsome man in England, but he never gave me cause for concern. This time, though, he sounded almost encouraging. “You are too generous with your compliments, mademoiselle.”

“Not in the least, I assure you,” she said, flashing a wholly inappropriate smile that revealed impossibly white teeth. “I’m frequently censured for being too hard on those around me.” I waited for Colin to flash me a look of something—exasperation, or even apology. He grinned at me, but I was not reassured.

“That’s quite enough, Toinette,” her father said, his voice knifesharp.

“Don’t force me to send you away.” Madame Prier frowned.

“You would devastate our guests if you did,” Toinette said. “They’d be dead of boredom in a quarter of an hour. What would you have them do? Sit here quietly and pat your hand?”

“I shan’t tolerate any more of this,” Monsieur Prier said, slamming his book shut. “I will deal with you later, Toinette.” He darted out of the room. Only a moment later the door swung open, this time with a bang, revealing a tall man, broad-shouldered, with close-cut hair and features that while not handsome, oozed all things exotic. His aquiline nose and regal bearing caught the instant attention of everyone in the room as his eyes, dark and liquid, the pupils rimmed with gold, surveyed the scene before him.

“Laurent!” Madame Prier stood and embraced him. “I’ve been beside myself. Where have you been?”

“Who are these people?” he asked, his words full of fury, with no suggestion of an interest in social niceties.

“Old friends from Paris,” she said. “This is—”

“Society callers at such a moment?”

“Oh, really, Laurent, you’re such a bore.” Toinette’s tone would have dismissed a lesser man at once. “They’ve come to pay their respects to dear Maman and poor Edith. Papa, of course, has fled. You can go elsewhere to brood.”

“An excellent suggestion.” He left without another word before we could be introduced to him.

“I’m afraid he has taken his sister’s death badly,” Madame Prier said. “They were extremely close as children.”

“Twins, were they not?” Cécile asked.