Dangerous to Know

and the Unicorn set I’d seen in the Cluny museum in Paris.

“How beautiful,” I said, standing close to the first panel.

“They’ve been in the château since the fifteenth century,” Madeline said. “We think some long-ago grandmother of mine worked on them.”

“This was the center of the original castle,” George said. “Twelfth century. And as you can see, no owner has parted with even a shred of furnishing in the ensuing seven hundred years. The room above this serves as our library, but other than that, we don’t use the space for much but storage. A manor house was built later, and I’ve constructed a passage to connect the two buildings. Will you follow me upstairs?

He led us up a flight of hard stone steps to a much smaller room lined with bookcases. The windows were nearly nonexistent, better suited for shooting a crossbow than looking at the view of the garden below.

“It’s a horrible space, I know,” he said. “Terrible light. But then, there are those who say books should be protected from the sun.”

“Magnifique,” Cécile said. “Functional rather than beautiful. And impenetrable by enemies, I imagine.”

“Which was, no doubt, significant to the original builders. Perhaps I flatter myself, but I myself don’t feel in imminent danger of being under siege,” George said. Madeline laughed and kissed him, blushing when she realized we had all seen her.

“You must forgive me,” she said. “I do adore my husband.”

“Something for which you should never apologize,” I said.

Monsieur Leblanc blinked rapidly and shifted his feet in awkward embarrassment. “This would make an excellent writing space. Few distractions.”

“You’re welcome to use it any time.” Our host riffled through the drawers of an imposing desk fashioned from heavy ebony, pulled out a note, and handed it to me. “For your reading pleasure.”

I recognized the handwriting in an instant. There could be no doubt Sebastian had penned it. My Greek, which I’d been studying for nearly three years, was much better now than it had been when I last encountered the clever thief, and I translated the brief phrase at the bottom of the paper:

The passage had to be from the Greek Anthology, a collection of ancient epigrams. Sebastian quoted from it frequently in the earlier missives he’d sent me.

“I have missed Monsieur Capet,” Cécile said with a sigh. “He’s such a rare breed of gentleman. Refined and focused, clever, but with the sort of dry wit I admire so much. Although after the success of the haystacks, he really ought to consider Monet popular.”

“You know this man who is causing our troubles?” Madeline asked. “Is he dangerous?”

“Dangerous? No, not at all,” I said. “Sebastian might steal everything valuable you own, but he’d never harm you.”

“He’d be more discerning than that,” Cécile said. “He’d only take a selection of your best items.”

This drew a deep laugh from George. “I’ve half a mind to invite him back, if only I knew how to contact him. We’ve far too much crammed in most of these rooms, and the attics are a complete disaster. Would he be interested in furniture, do you think?”

“Darling, you know we can’t get rid of anything while Maman is still alive,” Madeline said. “It would disturb her too much.”

“You shouldn’t talk about me as if I’m not here.” All of us but Madeline started at the sound of the voice. An elderly woman stood near the doorway, leaning against the wall. I had no idea where she’d come from or how long she’d been standing there. Her gown was of a rich burgundy silk, beautifully designed, an odd contrast to her coiffure—her white hair hung long and wild down her back—and the strained expression on her face.

“Are you the one they’ve sent to stop her? She’s come again, you know. My daughter’s seen her, too,” she said, crossing to George. “We should, I suppose, be introduced.”

Not hesitating in the slightest, George kissed her hand. “George Markham, Madame Breton. I’m Madeline’s husband.”

A shadow darkened her face for an instant. “Bien sûr.” Her eyelids fluttered. “It’s this dark room. Impossible to see anyone until you’re directly in front of them. Who is Madeline? Should I be introduced to her?”

“Madeline is your daughter,” George said.

“It’s all right, Maman,” Madeline said, taking the old woman’s hand. “Would you like to have tea with us?”

“Tea?”

George put an arm firmly around her shoulders. “It’s time for something to eat. We’ve douillons, and I know how you love pears. Come sit with us. I can read to you after we’re done.”

“She doesn’t like the books,” she said. “She’s crying again and won’t stop.”

“Who’s crying?” I asked.

George caught my eye and subtly shook his head before leaning in close to her. “We’ll go for a little walk and you’ll feel better. Then we’ll have tea.”

“I can’t stand the crying,” she said. “Someone has to make it stop.”

“I’m so sorry,” Madeline said, turning to us as her husband led the old woman from the room. “My mother’s not been well for some time. It’s nerves—they plagued my grand-mère, too. The doctor tells us there’s nothing to be done, and George agrees. He trained as a physician in London, you know, but hasn’t had much occasion or need to work. He’s the only one able to help her when she has a spell.”

“She’s fortunate to have him,” I said. “But how dreadful for her to suffer so.”

“I don’t think she has any awareness at all of her condition,” Madeline said. “Sometimes she’s lucid, and when she is, she has no idea that she’s ever not. Eventually she’ll remember nothing. By the time my grandmother died, she didn’t recognize any of us. But, come, now, I don’t want you all to feel awkward. Let’s start our tea.”

Monsieur Leblanc offered her his arm, and we followed them into a narrow corridor lined with tall windows that ran from the keep to a seventeenth-century manor. Stepping into this newer section of the structure was like entering a contemporary Parisian house. Bright yellow silk covered the walls on which stunning paintings hung at regular intervals. There could be no question of the Markhams’ love for art—their collection ranged from Old Masters to Impressionists, grouped by color rather than style. It was a fascinating method of organization, unlike any I’d before seen. A Fragonard beside a Manet, the two Monet haystacks across from a Vermeer portrait.

“Where have you put Sebastian’s bounty?” I asked.

“It’s just across the corridor,” Madeline said. “We’ll show you when George returns.”

Sitting on a tall, rigid chair, I accepted a cup from Madeline. She must have poured it before we’d arrived— there was no teapot in sight, and the drink had gone cold. Cécile raised an eyebrow as she tasted hers, but said nothing and abandoned the beverage for the douillon on her plate. Flaky, butter-filled pastry surrounded a whole pear sweet with cinnamon and sugar, all drowning in crème fraîche. It more than made up for the inadequate tea.

“Have you heard anything further about the murdered girl?” Madeline asked. “Does anyone know who she is?”

“We’ve been told nothing,” I said. “But I would imagine they’ve identified her by now.”

“It is horrifying. Here I am worried about someone breaking in to give us a painting and some poor girl was killed not two miles from me,” she said. “It doesn’t seem possible. And it’s made our intruder all the more frightening. No one in this neighborhood could have done such an awful thing, so this stranger must be the guilty party. And what if he’d gone into a murderous rage while he was in our house?”

“I’m confident Sebastian would never do such a thing—” I began, only to be interrupted.

“I’m so sorry, Adèle,” Madeline said, addressing me directly, her eyes open so wide they looked strained, an odd, unfocused expression coming over her as she began to speak. “I did try to contact you about our change of plans, but I’m afraid you didn’t receive my note. Would you very much mind if our excursion is only to Yvetot, not Rouen? I’ve not yet had the pleasure of meeting your friend, Sebastian, but he’s more than welcome to