We'd reached the crossroads now. But instead of setting off back down the way we'd come, Remy said, 'Follow me,' and he took off through the trees to one side, Patou scampering along beside him. It was quite easy going at first, because there was quite a lot of space between the trees, but soon there were more bushes and undergrowth and stuff and I got caught a couple of times by brambles. Remy and Patou forged on ahead – I couldn't see a track or path at all but I presumed they knew where they were going so I just followed on blindly, fuming now because it felt like he was dragging me through something difficult for some reason of his own. He was clearly in a bad mood and I had no idea why and it was beginning to bug me, because I had a feeling it was something to do with something I had done or said but didn't know what. All the happy feelings I'd had before, and the sense of being in a bubble of enchanted time, that was all vanishing and all I was left with was this uncomfortable rush through prickly woods with a prickly guy who was angry with me for no good reason. And I'd get back to the house and Mum would be furious as well. Hell, what a disaster of a day.
'Damn!' I tripped on a mossy stone that jutted up suddenly in my path, I tried to save myself, half-fell, and put my hand straight into a nice big patch of nettles. It stung like crazy, though I tried to pretend it didn't. Remy turned around with a frown on his face to see what was making the commotion.
'What's wrong?'
'Nothing,' I said, though my hand had immediately gone red and felt swollen. But he came back towards me, looked at my hand, said, 'Hang on,' and plunged off to one side of where I stood. Patou stayed with me, panting and grinning at me, looking so cheerful that I felt a little comforted. Dogs can do that for you, can't they? They're so simple, compared to humans. They either love you or they hate you and that's that and you know where you are with them.
Remy came back with a couple of big soft leaves. 'Dock leaves,' he said. 'They're good against nettle rash.' He took my hand and wrapped the leaves around it and he looked at me and said, 'I'm sorry, Fleur,' and that was all, but I could feel my heart beat faster and warmth rush up into my limbs. I said, briskly, 'I'm fine, my hand doesn't hurt that much,' pretending I didn't know what he meant, and he gave me a little smile and said, 'That's okay, then,' and we set off again, with me feeling much better, ridiculously much better, even though the hand throbbed a bit still under the dock leaves.
Soon we emerged from a tangle of bushes onto a clearer patch of ground. The trees grew much thinner here and in the middle of them, scattered around, were rocks. Big grey rocks, more like tall, rounded boulders, some of which were piled up together, looking a bit like the walls of a ruined house, caved in on each other, with cracks of darkness here and there where there were openings. I stopped. There was something about that place that caught at me ...
'Strange spot, isn't it? It's known locally as la Maison de la Dame – the Lady's House,' said Remy, stopping too.
'What?'
'There's a story that a fairy used to live here. People just call her la Dame, the Lady, because you're not supposed to say a fairy's name, it brings back luck.'
'A fairy?' There was nothing fairy-like about the grey rocks, the ruined walls. At least nothing that I could recognise as fairy-like.
'Not a little pretty thing with wings,' said Remy, with a faint smile. 'The sort that looks like a lovely woman but is actually very dangerous and cruel. The sort that lies in wait for you to put a spell on you and make you wander in the woods till you're lost and can never get home ...'
I shivered. 'That's a horrible idea.'
'Don't worry. The Lady's prey was always male. She'd not have been interested in you.'
I shrugged. 'Stupid story. How can people believe that stuff? Come on, let's go or I'll never get there. And Mum will be –' and then it hit me, like a hammer, just what it was about that place. I said, 'Oh God, Remy, let's get out of here, let's, quick, quick,' and he took one look at me and came over to me. He took my hand – the one that wasn't covered in dock leaves – and he said, very gently, 'Don't be afraid, they're only rocks, it's only a story,' and he led me away from that place, quietly, without saying another word, holding my hand till we were well clear of it.
It wasn't until we had left it far behind, taken a turn that led down to the riverbank path and I could see where we were going, that I could bring myself to speak again. I said, 'I'm sorry – I thought – I thought it was like a place in a dream – a nightmare I've had – twice – and I thought that it was the same one – but it can't be – I've never been there before so it can't be. Can it?'
'I don't suppose it can,' he said quietly, watching my face. 'At least I suppose not. But I don't know, for sure. Dreams are strange things.'
'Yes,' I said, swallowing on a lump in my throat, because the images from the dream were flooding in on me, not only the grey rocks, but my fear, the running, the person pursuing me with a bow and arrow. My heart thumped uncomfortably and I thought about what he'd think if I told him the whole story. What would he say? And what does it mean? But it couldn't mean anything, it must just be a coincidence, everyone knew that in dreams things didn't mean exactly what they showed but something else, some deeper meaning. That's what Dreaming Holmes said. That's what all the dream interpretations said. My dream wasn't a literal warning about being chased by a hunter with a bow and arrow near a place that looked like the Lady's House. It was symbolic, not real. Not something that was going to happen in real life, but something that was troubling me underneath. Supposedly. Something from my other life, not from here because I hadn't met Remy when I had that nightmare.
He said, 'It really did scare you, didn't it?'
I shrugged. 'It's okay. Just that it looked similar. But I think now that it didn't. I was imagining things. That's all. Sorry I acted so stupidly.'
'You didn't,' he said. He put a hand on my shoulder, and gently drew me towards him. 'It's quite all right.' And then he bent his head and kissed me full on the lips: a soft, warm, but definite kiss that was over almost as soon as it had begun. He released his hold on me and said, his eyes with that flicker of laughter in them, 'And I'm not sorry about this, Fleur. Are you?'
'No-no ...' I wanted to kiss him again, to hold him, to disappear into his arms and stay there always, but I was too scared. I could feel the touch of his lips on mine still and I was shaking, but I tried to stay cool and as if things like that happened every day to me. 'I'm very – I mean, I'm glad I met you. I–I like you. A lot.'
He laughed. 'Good. And I like you. Very much. So that's settled.'
How could he speak like that? How could he sound so – so calm? I don't know what I said after that, but I think I mumbled something about having to get back and then he pointed out to me that we were almost back. I looked and saw we were at the bend in the river where you could see the house and I hadn't even noticed. I said that I could find my own way now. I thought he might kiss me goodbye, but he didn't, he just smiled at me and asked if I wanted to meet him tomorrow at eleven, near the willows, for a swim? I blushed, remembering the first time we'd met, but I said okay, I'd bring my swimmers and we could have a picnic maybe. That'd be nice, he said, and then he whistled to Patou, and after a wave and another smile at me, he was off, with his dog at his heels, while I stood there for a moment, just staring and staring after him.
Kingdom of peace
I was quite over my shock about the Lady's House now. I'd reasoned myself out of it. It was just the atmosphere in those woods, and the atmosphere of the day, which had made me think otherwise. But caught up in my thoughts about the day, I didn't see Nicolas Boron pacing and smoking at the back of the house till I was almost on top of him. He looked angry.
'Fleur! Your mother's been looking for you. Where have you been?'
I didn't like his sharp tone. He wasn't my dad or my guardian or anything. He had no right. I said, shortly, 'Walking,' and was going to push past him and into the house when he said, 'Where did you meet Wayne Morgan?'
I turned and stared
at him. 'What?'
'Where did you meet him? Why is he here now?'
'I don't know what you're talking about. I've never met him. He rang Mum yesterday.'
'Where did she meet him then?'
'Mr Boron,' I said, coldly, 'we had never heard of him till yesterday.'
'I've heard of him,' he said tightly. 'He pestered Raymond with letters. He thought they should write a book together.'
I shrugged. 'I know nothing about that. He rang up out of the blue. He said he had a letter from Raymond giving him permission to do stuff.'
'But don't you see,' he snapped, 'this man is obviously intent on subverting my client's wishes.'
I shook my head. 'Sorry, this is too much for me. I don't know what you're talking about. I'm going in to see Mum,' and this time I did walk past him and up the back steps into the house. I could feel his angry gaze on me, and it made the back of my neck prickle.
I could hear voices coming from the dining room, and for a moment I thought of just sneaking upstairs and not braving Mum's annoyance straightaway. But if I did that I'd only cop an earbashing later so it was better to go and get it over with. I marched along to the dining room, pushed open the door and went in.
My first impression was that the room was full of people, there was so much noise, talk and laughter in there. But soon I realised there were only four – Mum and three strangers, two men and a woman. The woman I recognised at once, though I had never met her – she was the beauty in the photos upstairs. In the flesh, she was even more amazing: the dark blue of her eyes brought out even more by the dark blue silk blouse and beads of the same colour she was wearing, her pale skin set off by the jet-black hair that swung in a graceful line against her jaw. She wore a cream-coloured pencil skirt and strappy dark-blue sandals, and a jacket, the same colour as her skirt, hung on the back of her chair. The man beside her was much more ordinary-looking, and a good deal older than her, too. Of average height but with a bit of a potbelly, he was balding, with a comb-over anyone could have told him was pitiful. His shirt was smart but rumpled, and he wore a designer suit that looked a bit tight for him. He had nice eyes though, grey, fringed with dark lashes. But they were full of anxiety, and I noticed that his hands were shaking too, and that he was tearing little bits of bread into shreds on his plate.
The other man, the man who was talking loudly when I came in, was quite a different story. He was tall and broad-shouldered and handsome in a cheesy kind of way. His thick dark hair was longish, sort of windswept but deliberately so, he had a neat black goatee, his eyes were brown behind very smart glasses, and the hands he waved about were covered in several silver rings. His pale blue shirt was open at the neck and you could see some kind of silver medallion nestling on the bits of chest hair that curled there, and he wore a white linen jacket and trousers. I knew who he was too. Wayne Morgan, the Glastonbury guy. I'd seen his picture on the internet. How had he got here so quickly?
Seeing me, Mum gave me a glare, of the where the hell have you been kind, but all she said was, 'Fleur. There you are. Come and meet everyone.' Then I had the embarrassing experience of having to go round the table in turn, shaking hands and saying hello. After shaking hands with Wayne Morgan, I was introduced to Oscar Dulac and his fiancée, Christine Foy. They all spoke really good English, not surprisingly of course in Morgan's case – he had a British accent – but it turned out not only that Oscar had lived in Canada, which I kind of remembered someone telling me – Nicolas, maybe? – but that Christine Foy was Irish, she'd just lived in France for a fair while. They were all very nice to me but you could tell they weren't really that interested in talking to a teenager so I was relieved when Mum said, 'If you go to the kitchen, you'll find some leftover chicken in the fridge, we're up to coffee now I'm afraid.' Because you were so late getting back, and I'll be wanting an explanation for your rudeness later, her eyes told me, and I scuttled out pretty quickly after that.
When I went out, they were getting back to their discussion and I could hear Morgan's voice rising again to dominate everyone else's but though I listened for a moment outside the door, all I could make out was that they were talking about King Arthur. I couldn't understand why that would make Nicolas Boron so angry, but then maybe it wasn't that but something else. Maybe he didn't like the idea of Mum giving Morgan the notebooks she's found, but then, it was no business of his, was it? Despite what he'd said about 'subverting the wishes of his client', which I supposed referred to Raymond – there was really nothing to say Raymond had not wanted Morgan to have them. Or he'd have said so, wouldn't he? He had just said Mum should choose what she wanted. There were no conditions. But perhaps, I thought, perhaps he simply didn't like the fact that Morgan was paying a lot of attention to Mum – his nose was out of joint and he felt he wasn't going to get a look-in now that the groovy Glastonbury millionaire was on the scene.
He'd certainly got there quick enough, I thought as I went off to the kitchen. He must want those notebooks really badly. Or maybe it was just because he was a very rich man with a whim and he wanted it satisfied right now. I'd heard very rich people can be like that. Well he wouldn't get the dream book I'd found, I thought with satisfaction. That was my secret.
Marie Clary was in the kitchen, drinking a cup of coffee and reading the paper. She looked up and smiled when I came in. 'Bonjour.'
'Bonjour,' I replied. 'Er, Maman said there was some chicken.'
'She was not happy with you,' said Marie Clary, going to the fridge and getting out a plate. 'She was worried about where you were.'
'I just went for a walk.'
'I see.' She glanced at me as she put the plate of chicken in front of me and got me another plate and some cutlery. 'Remy Gomert is very handsome, no?'
I blushed. 'I suppose so,' I mumbled.
'Did you meet his mother?'
I didn't want to talk about it, not to her, nor to anyone, till I sorted out my feelings about it all. Besides, the memory of the day was too precious to me to want to gossip about it. So I lied. I said, 'I didn't go there.'
'I see.' Her expression had hardened, and it annoyed me. It was no business of hers what I had been doing. To change the subject, I said, carefully, 'Monsieur Morgan – how did he arrive?'
She looked startled. 'Pardon? Oh, I understand. He arrived in a car.'
'A car? From England?'
'No, no. From Paris. He was already in France. He hired a car, yes? It does not take long if you go on the autoroute.' She looked at me. 'Why?'
I shrugged. 'Just wondered.'
'He is a very rich English businessman, yes? I think he wants to buy this house.'
'This house?'
'I heard him say something to Oscar about it when he arrived.'
'Really? What did Oscar say?'
Her eyes were suddenly bright with malice. 'Oscar has money but he spends, spends. And now, with this woman, even more. He liked his uncle and he knows Monsieur Dulac loved this house. You know, he used to call it his kingdom of peace. But Oscar does not have that feeling for it. He could sell it, especially if his fiancée says so. He denies her nothing.'
Clearly she did not like Christine Foy. I did not know why – she seemed nice enough, and at first glance at least not a grasping sort – but then maybe it was just because she was a stranger muscling in on a household Marie Clary knew well. Or maybe she thought Christine was a gold-digger who was just after Oscar's money. Maybe that was true, I had no idea, but it still seemed a bit harsh. I said, half to myself, 'That was why Nicolas Boron was so angry.'
'Pardon?'
'Monsieur Boron. He seemed angry.'
'Ah.' She nodded. 'It is a pity Monsieur Raymond did not leave the house to Nicolas. He loves it dearly. He knows this place. He knows what it means. He would never sell.'
I stared at her. 'But he's not family.'
'No, but family is not always the best to leave things to. Like your mother. She loves those books. Monsieur Raymond knew she would. So he leaves them to he
r, not to Oscar, who would just sell them.'
Her mouth was set in a thin line. I thought, wow, she really doesn't like Oscar, does she? Poor guy, he hadn't seemed that bad when I met him. Pretty harmless, really. A bit pathetic. I said, 'Yes, but books are different to a house.'
'Monsieur Raymond was too good,' she said. 'He always thought the best of people. He trusted Oscar. And this is the way he repays.'
'He has not sold the house yet,' I said. 'And maybe he won't.'
She gave a short laugh. 'And maybe hens will grow teeth made of gold. That one, she will make him do it, you mark my words.'
I didn't answer but attacked my chicken instead, and after a little while she gave up trying to talk to me and went out of the room.
Dreaming Arthur
They were all still busy in the dining room when I slipped out of the kitchen and made my way to the library. It was only now I remembered Raymond's dream book, still in my jeans pocket. I'd completely forgotten about it but now I took it out and looked at those sketches again. Having seen Valerie's drawings, I didn't think the style was like hers, so maybe the better ones were Remy's instead. But maybe he'd been working on it with Raymond. I would ask him about it tomorrow, ask him whether it had been his nightmare or Raymond's depicted in its pages. Yes, I'd ask him tomorrow. Tomorrow, when we'd be together again.
I'd decided I wanted to have a look at Raymond's other notebooks, see if there was anything in them like what I'd found. After all, he had said in his letter from beyond the grave that they might interest me.
The library was very quiet. I went in, shut the door and looked around. There were piles of books everywhere but I knew Mum wouldn't just have put them randomly down, she'd have put them in order of subject. Yes. Not only had she done that but she'd helpfully labelled the piles with slips of paper. Here was a pile on Greek myths. Here was another on Norse myths. Another on Celtic stuff, several piles on King Arthur – historical, legendary, literature, extras. There was a pile labelled 'Rare' and another one labelled 'Curiosity'. And so on and so on.
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