The Lost Castle

by Kristy Cambron

  Francesca fell deeper into disrepair with the fiery explosions. She curled into the curtains like a panicked child, burying her face in the velvet with each boom.

  “We must get out of here!” Aveline wrapped her palms around her mother’s shoulders, trying and failing to pull her away from her iron grip on the hanging velvet. “Do you hear me?”

  Loud pops burst through the pandemonium then, smaller explosions as rocks pounded through glass and felled pictures on the walls, one by one.

  Ladies fell away in their haste to flee, sliding on glass and debris that shredded their delicate satin slippers. One side of the ballroom had become a makeshift battleground, where men had lined up behind the overturned punch table, loading muskets and firing into the madness beyond the château’s walls, while others formed a line hoisting buckets of water to douse the flames.

  She searched for the blue coat. Surely Philippe would have lined up with the rest of the men in defense of his father’s estate, like Gérard had done when his father’s home fell under siege. But black smoke invaded the scene, creating cinder-laden shadows that darkened the air.

  It was impossible to make anything out now.

  Aveline coughed into her palm, the smoke searing her lungs with each breath.

  Fear of flying debris was one thing, but they couldn’t hope to hide from fire. Not if the castle was to be brought down to ash and rubble. They were not going down with it. She squared her shoulders against the mere idea.

  In a blink a flash of blue whisked past their hiding place, jarring Aveline from frenzied thoughts of escape. She peered through the smoke, steeling her eyes to stay with the willowy figure. The man had dark hair, long and tied at the nape, and a royal blue coat she’d been searching for. But the Renard crest would have been on the front, and that she couldn’t see.

  He moved back and forth, whisking ladies from the dance floor and depositing them in the entry behind men splashing buckets of water against the roaring flames.

  Aggravated by the evening breeze, the flames licked higher. Closer. Deadlier as they eyed their victims under the stairs. Aveline could see them, roaring like a fire-breathing dragon come to collect its prey. She hadn’t time to consider whether it was a smart decision or not; it was either stay in fear and get eaten by the flames, or flee and take their chances with the musket shots.

  Aveline ripped her gloves free.

  “Here—” She shoved the crumpled swatch of fabric under her mother’s nose. “Cover your mouth.” She kept it there, pulling Francesca’s shaking fingers up to replace her own. “Hold it here, breathe like this. We must run. Do you understand?”

  Francesca nodded, though weakly.

  Aveline dug her nails into her mother’s elbow, yanking her along behind her. “Then go! Now—” she shouted, covering her own mouth with a satin glove as she steered them into the storm.

  Francesca proved deadweight—a useless stupor in yards of brocade, allowing herself to be dragged along like an oversized doll. Aveline stretched an arm over the small of her mother’s back, bending her over at the waist as they ran. They sped along the wall, avoiding the fire as best they could, tripping and falling with skirt strips tangling round their ankles. They reached the front hall, but it, too, was imperiled.

  Flames had consumed parlor chairs and rugs on the second-story landing and were eating up brocade curtains where Aveline had stood only moments before. Their only exit was the front façade, where she’d watched the carriages unload with party guests. It was before them, freedom behind front doors that had been stripped bare, their hinges torn and splintered wood hanging as if made of paper.

  The blackness of night beckoned outside, the flicker of torches buzzing like fireflies kissing the water. Aveline paused behind one of the thick doors, making wood her shield.

  Shadows passed by: men running. Flashes of satin gowns flew past as women scattered and hid in the shrubbery. To the left, a bright-orange glow burned where the carriage house had once stood—it, too, now consumed. Horses trampled by with empty carriages, doors swinging in the runaway madness.

  Aveline pushed her mother forward through the doors. “Run! Down the road! We’ll hide in the grove until morning. I will come and find you.”

  This was their battlefield: fire and ash come to claim them. All that was left was to summon grit and pray slippered feet would carry them. Aveline could do nothing but watch her mother amble through the darkness, until the orange glow reflecting off her skirts had faded into the night.

  Félicité’s letter . . . the half-imagined portrait she’d sat for . . . the fiancé she had yet to meet—all were poised to vanish that night. And they would not be listed among the dead. She drew in a steadying breath, then raised her torn skirts to follow down the stairs.

  Without warning her vision was jarred, blurring her sight as blackness flooded.

  A blow to the side of her head sent Aveline careening for the doorjamb. She fell, crumpling against it. Searing pain shocked the breath out of her lungs, forcing unconscious tears to her eyes. They mingled with smoke, somehow, the wetness burning her eyelids.

  She scratched her nails down the wall, desperate for sight, for anything of substance to hold her from the tidal wave of dizziness dragging her to the floor. It proved futile. The pile of satin skirts did little to cushion her fall, so she had a sense of bumping into things—people? Furniture? Why hadn’t her face slammed against the marble floor yet?

  There was no pain. No sense of up or down, right or wrong. Just falling. And then the oddest sensation that she was flying—maybe both. Her world had been overcome by fire and smoke, and somewhere in the midst, Aveline had been whisked away from it.

  Night air overtook her, washing her skin with a coolness that replaced the oppressive heat. The limbs of knotted trees stretched out in a canopy above her, air laden with smoke and flashing cinders suddenly left far behind. Aveline flew through it, seeing the blur of stars overhead, the sky wild and dark as chaos faded into the background.

  “Stay with me.”

  The voice startled Aveline to focus.

  A hand brushed against the side of her head, then patted her cheek, like her nounou used to do when she was to wake each morning.

  “Can you hear me, mademoiselle? You must stay awake.”

  A man. His tone was firm but edged in worry.

  “Open your eyes . . .”

  Aveline battled, blinking against the canopy of green overhead.

  “Bien. Keep them open.”

  She tried, failing to focus on the man’s profile above her.

  They were still flying, dizziness toying with her senses. The air smelled fresh and clean somehow. And the glow of orange and yellow flames dissolved into an ink sky, black shadows, and still forest greens. Aveline allowed her head to sag, chin to chest. And then she saw it, flooding the view before her: a blue coat.

  A coat with a crest on the lapel.

  Gold embroidery. It was a fox, the Renard coat of arms that had plucked her from the dragon’s breath. Aveline raised a hand to the embroidery, battling to stay awake as she ran a fingertip over the rows of thread.

  “Philippe . . . ,” she exhaled, finally giving in as her fingertips fell away from the light touch of gold stitching, and blackness triumphed.

  They were safe.

  FIVE

  PRESENT DAY

  LES TROIS-MOUTIERS

  LOIRE VALLEY, FRANCE

  Ellie stood at the edge of the mist, staring out over a crossroad cutting through sun-swept vineyard hills.

  The country road mirrored the landscape she’d passed for much of the drive from Tours: fog-laden hills and hollows, winding roads, the occasional gated entrance or quaint cottage. Vineyards and châteaus, of course. A rich expanse, no doubt, but not clearly mapped for a directionally challenged American who could have used a French lesson or two long before an intrepid spirit led her to hop on a red-eye bound for the Loire Valley.

  Fortune had intervened before it was too lat
e, catching her attention in the form of an old wooden sign peeking from the overgrowth on the side of the road. It boasted lovely names—in white-painted letters and accent marks near faded from the sun. They could have been châteaus or estates, just as easily as country town names. And the arrows pointing in all directions offered little help. But little was better than none. So Ellie had parked her Fiat and hopped out, trying to match names to the guidebook map she’d picked up at the airport.

  Despite the sign that pointed seven ways to nowhere, the vast landscape was exactly as she’d dreamed. A never-ending span of rolling hills cut a broken line against the horizon, layered with a feast of greens, rich ciders, and autumn golds. The sun peeked over the highest crest, sweeping through the landscape like a silent protector, mingling with grape arbors spread out as far as the eye could see.

  “Well, if I have to be lost, this is definitely the place to do it.”

  Though the sun’s searching rays were just starting to wake the land, they offered scant warmth. Ellie was grateful for her Northern Michigan constitution right then. October could still be brutal in early morning, and she’d packed smart out of instinct: fingerless gloves, layering sweaters, and lined hiking boots—just in case. She shivered into her blanket scarf and pressed the folded map under her elbow as she turned in semicircles, arrested by the calendar-worthy landscape.

  Grandma Vi had been persistent one day out of hundreds since her diagnosis. That alone would have been enough to spark some investigation on Ellie’s part. But then the brooch . . . the photo . . . the discovery of a lost love and the breaking open of a story she’d never known existed. As fairy-tale romances went, Ellie had to admit that finding the man in the photo and giving him her grandmother’s decades-long answer to a secret proposal was up there.

  A quick Internet search had produced images of a castle of the same name as Perrault’s famous fairy tale. It was nestled in the Loire Valley—the area of France Grandma Vi had mentioned a time or two before. And that was it: Ellie left Grandma Vi under Laine’s watchful eye, boarded a plane with little else than a photo and raw nerve, and stepped out in their race against time.

  I wish you were here, Grandma Vi. You’d love this.

  And then she thought of the old photo and the long-ago captured views that might have been locked away in her grandmother’s memory.

  But I wonder, have you seen this before?

  Emotion dared her eyes to remain dry as she snapped photos on her phone, until the rumble of an automobile echoed up the hill and pulled her from her thoughts. She scrambled, waving, intent on flagging the driver down.

  A vintage truck in faded evergreen—looked like an old Ford—which struck her as odd to have been in France. Despite impressive rust patches, wooden slats lining the bed, and an engine that sounded like it was sputtering on its last leg, it still rolled up over the rise. The brakes whistled, slamming the truck to a stop directly behind her rental.

  Wistful thoughts of the view faded, replaced by the hope that the driver might be able to point Ellie in the right direction. She hadn’t seen anything but rock walls and trees, vines and the occasional cottage for ages. Maybe this passerby was better at reading maps than she was. Better yet, maybe he was a local who could solve the mystery of the crossroads and simply tell her which way to go.

  Ellie trotted up to the door, but when zeal threatened to get the better of her she eased off, burying her riding boots in the dewy grasses along the field. A tourist traveling alone in a foreign country best be on the cautious side. She slipped the map behind her and smiled, ready to speak from a safe distance.

  A man cranked the driver’s side window down, calling, “Mornin’,” over the sputter of the engine. Ellie could decipher little else over it but took a hopeful step forward when she heard at least one word spoken in English.

  That was a good sign.

  “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

  He cut the engine. “I said, good mornin’. Is there a problem with your rental?”

  The man was younger than she’d expected, given the vintage ride. Thirty, maybe. Probably around her age. And not bad to look at. Not at all, with dark hair tucked behind his ears in a longer, laid-back style, and a jawline that looked like he’d purposefully avoided a shave. He proceeded to stare at her through green eyes so sharp, she bet they could knock a person flat had he wanted them to.

  “My rental?”

  “Rental.” He nodded over the top of the steering wheel to her Fiat. “Sticker in the back window. Gives it away every time.”

  Ellie’s heart sank a little. His old rig obviously wasn’t a rental, so she’d hoped that meant he was a local. But with that Irish brogue weighing his voice down, there was no way he could be French. Chances were he knew as little about the landscape as she did.

  “You’re Irish?”

  The question tipped his brow a shade. “There’s a problem with an Irishman offerin’ to aid a stranded motorist?”

  “No. I didn’t mean it like that. Sorry—it’s just that you might not be able to help unless you’re from around here. I couldn’t understand much of anything they said in that little town back there. They know about as many words in English as I do in French, so we bumped into a bit of a crossroads, so to speak. But by your accent I’d have guessed you might be a tourist and I was hoping that’s not the case.”

  “A tourist like you, ya mean?” He tossed a glance down at the half-hidden map in her hand. “I didn’t think they still made maps that folded.”

  “Yeah. They do, apparently. I found it in a bookstore at the airport. And good thing, because my GPS hasn’t once found a signal out here. If I could just read this thing. But I’m hoping you can help point me in the right direction.”

  “So, nothin’ wrong with it then?”

  Kind of gallant to ask.

  Ellie turned toward the little Fiat. It sat, quiet and still, the jet-black color cutting a sharp outline against the field mist.

  “The car? No, it’s fine. A little on the small side but—”

  He nodded, satisfied enough by midsentence to cut her off. “I meant not broken down then. You do realize you’re parked.”

  “Yes.”

  “In the middle of the road. With your car door open, so no one else can get by?”

  “Is it?” Ellie glanced up at her car. The door was indeed open, efficient in blocking him or anyone else from getting around it on the tight one-lane road. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know the roads here were so tight.”

  “It’s alright.” He wasn’t annoyed, thank goodness. A man of few words, yes. But at the very least, he seemed cordial enough that Ellie felt she could ask for help.

  “But if you could help me, I’ll be out of your way that much faster.”

  She flipped the map so it was right side up to him and pointed her cherry-red index nail at the spot she’d circled with her Sharpie.

  “I’m looking for the Domaine du Renard. You might have heard of it. It’s a vineyard around here. According to the map, it says it should be . . .” She waved her hand out over the span of rolling hills past her car, gesturing out into the heart of it. “Right there. But as you can see, it’s not. It looks like I’ve come to the ends of the earth out here. A beautiful end, but still not what I’m looking for.”

  “Right there.” He tossed a glance to the span of fields and cocked an eyebrow. “You sure about that, yeah?”

  What good was it to pretend? Ellie could barely handle the driving, let alone reading signs in a language she hadn’t studied since seventh grade. Finding an estate house smack-dab in the middle of the French countryside was beyond her at the moment. Best to be out with it. The sooner she got to the vineyards, the sooner she could start investigating the photo and get back home.

  “No, actually. I’m not sure about much of anything anymore.”

  “The Renard is up the ridge, not down.” He extended an index finger over the wheel, pointing to the treed hills out in front of them. “That way. About
two kilometers, then turn left at the rock wall. Follow it back to the end.”

  Ellie held the map up over her brow, blocking the rising sun as she looked up over the rise. So the vineyard was up the hill? Good. She just hadn’t gone far enough. And even though there seemed to be some old rock wall every hundred feet or so, a well-known vineyard would have to have better signage than the one she’d initially stopped for.

  “What a relief. Then that’s where I’m headed.”

  “There’s a tastin’ room—open until nine. The wine shop a half hour later, except on Sundays. And the restaurant is seasonal, but it’s still open for a few more weeks. That’ll save you from gettin’ lost on the way back to town, if you’re in a pinch and need a bite. Breakfast and noon meal. Night meal’s on your own, though.”

  “So you work at the vineyard?”

  “In a manner of speakin’.”

  Finally, a real stroke of luck. He was headed right to the front door she needed to knock on.

  “Great. I can’t tell you what a relief this is. Do you mind showing me the way? It’s actually freezing out here, and I would love to find my room at the estate inn—preferably one with a fireplace so I can warm up and check my limbs for frostbite.”

  As if triggered by something she’d said, the man’s countenance changed in an instant. Cordiality melted away, his casual air replaced by a distance in the eyes and a firm cut to the jaw.

  He kicked up the engine—a none-too-subtle signal he was ready to be on his way. “Sorry to disappoint you, miss, but the estate house is privately owned. It’s booked by reservation only. There aren’t any of those this time of year. Ya ought to head back down the hill—stay at one of the inns in town.”

  “Oh, but I do have a reservation.” Ellie turned to her phone. But just like the use of the GPS, she had no Wi-Fi access. And no Wi-Fi meant she couldn’t hope to show him her e-mail reservation. “Well, I do when my e-mail’s working. Does the estate have Wi-Fi?”