The Lost Castle

by Kristy Cambron

  Julien stepped into view, arms braced across his chest and a severe clench to his jaw. “That was incredibly foolish.”

  They were the absolute last words she’d expected to hear. Vi shot up to standing, her breaths still rocking in and out. “Pardon?”

  “You trusted me.”

  “Of course I trusted you—it was either that or risk getting a bullet in the back. I hadn’t any other choice.”

  “Didn’t they train you at all?”

  “Who?” She swallowed hard, feigning her best show of innocence. “Train me for what?”

  “What are you, a secretary masquerading as a spy?” Julien shook his head, making no effort to hide what he felt about such a ludicrous idea.

  Vi’s heart rate kicked up a notch, the drumbeat echoing in her ears.

  What? How much does he know?

  The Nazis may not have been the only ones to circulate her photo. The thought rocked her, that Julien may know more about her than he was letting on. But that was pure speculation, and it would require her to reveal too much even to inquire.

  Julien flitted his glare to the rifle he’d leaned up against the table, then rested his eyes back on her. “How did you know I wouldn’t put a bullet in your head right here? Or turn you in to the nearest uniform for a pittance of food? You must be smarter than this if you mean to stay alive here longer than five minutes. They shoot milkmaids too, you know. And secretaries. The multilingual kind go first.”

  As much as Vi hated to admit it, he was right.

  Men at war wouldn’t hesitate to work out their trigger fingers. And truth was, besides the name Julien had given and where he stashed food rations, she knew next to nothing about him. He could have been in league with the Nazi presence in nearby Loudun, and that would have been it; a firing squad in the town square with her as an example to the rest.

  “You’re right. I wasn’t thinking . . .”

  Julien didn’t take it further, much to her relief.

  He crossed the room and tinkered with the surface of a sideboard against the wall. The small flicker ignited the end of a matchstick with a pop. He cupped his hand around the flame and lit a kerosene lamp, then turned around to face her.

  “Only use the lantern if absolutely necessary. I lit it now so you can get your bearings. Bumping into things could signal your presence inside. The matches are in the sideboard, top drawer. But take care with them. They’re a luxury now—all we’ve got left.”

  He walked the length of the room, casting a glow on the back corner beneath the stairs. The light revealed a cot and a folded woolen blanket, a wooden stand with a metal pitcher and chipped porcelain basin, and a floor-to-ceiling shelf with empty mason jars and stacks of books.

  “Pitcher and basin in the far corner with water left over from yesterday. Soap next to the basin and a towel on a bar under the window. There’s an old hand mirror in the drawer but it’s cracked, so mind you don’t cut yourself.”

  “A broken mirror. Isn’t that bad luck?”

  “Let’s hope not, for both our sakes. We need all of it and more at present.”

  Vi paused at the bottom of the stairs, looking up. They were steep and wooden planked, with a flimsy rail overlooking the room where they stood. “And up there?”

  “A loft. Sleep there if you’d like, but it’s near empty. We used the last of the furniture to feed the woodstove last winter.”

  She ran a finger along the edge of the bookshelf. “But not these.”

  “They’re bolted to the fireplace. Would’ve taken too much effort to dislodge them when there’s firewood growing all around the cottage. But don’t worry. They’ll have their day. Another winter like the last one and this cottage may be reduced to kindling and a pile of stones.” He looked around and sighed. “I wish it were more, but this is all we have to offer you.”

  We.

  It was the first time she’d considered that this man may have a family. She had to know. If it was the case, a wife—children even—she’d put them all at risk just by being here.

  “You have a family then?”

  He nodded. “Every person on the vineyard grounds is part of our family. Unless they’re the enemy. The enemy we tolerate. Watch. And keep our rifle sights trained on in the event we’re forced to defend against their threat. Boches are our enemy around here, and any indifference on their part eventually becomes our ally.”

  The fact that he’d make such a distinction didn’t sit well.

  “Which do you think I am? Family, or enemy?”

  “Neither. You’re invisible right now. That is, until I decide what to do with you.”

  “You said you’d hide me here . . .”

  “Yes. And I’m sorry if this is not what you were expecting, but it’s the way it must be. With no disappearing back to the castle ruins or the chapel. If they think anyone has helped you, we’re all at risk. I won’t take that chance. Do you understand? If I let you stay here, you stay.”

  Julien was right. Besides the sparse furnishings and a central stone hearth, there wasn’t much to the space. No running water. No bathroom facilities. Certainly no phone line. It was like some woodcutter’s cottage she’d read about in a fairy story—tucked away, forgotten by time, just like the castle. She couldn’t think of a single friend back home who would give up her rationed nylons or her lipstick, let alone rough it out in some rustic hovel in the woods. But if he thought the surroundings were a detriment to her, they were just the opposite.

  Even for its lack of comforts, the cottage was what Vi needed most.

  It was her third savior of the day.

  “Can you abide by my terms?” He’d already placed the lantern on the table and stood off behind her, quiet. Waiting. Watching her as she took in what the cottage offered.

  “Thank you, Julien. I’ll stay.” To look around and feel a measure of safety was so foreign, she’d almost forgotten what it felt like to have her heart beat at a normal decibel. “And I’m grateful. Truly.”

  “Thank me by doing as I ask.”

  Vi wrapped her hand around the cross-shoulder strap of her bag. “And how long am I to be here?”

  “We’ll see tomorrow. For now, rest. Will you need anything else tonight?”

  “Wait—you’re leaving?”

  He cupped his hand around the lantern’s glass hurricane, preparing to extinguish the flame. “Yes. Before anyone realizes I’m gone, and certainly before I have to explain why. I’d rather not lie my way through breakfast if I can help it. Stories always manage to come to light, no matter how we try to protect them. If no one asks a question, then I don’t have to provide an answer. If there’s no answer, then there’s no you.”

  “And that’s what you’re doing then, protecting me?”

  “I’m protecting everyone.” He surprised her by retrieving a pear from one pocket and setting it on the table. “For lunch.” And then another, setting the fruit side by side. He lowered his head to her, offering a polite nod. “And dinner, though I wish it was more.”

  “It’s enough.” She tipped her shoulders in a light shrug, patting the canvas bag against her side. “I didn’t mention it, but I kept back some of the walnuts too, just in case. Couldn’t risk going hungry if you’d said no.”

  Julien nodded again and let a soft smile spread his lips in a speechless touché. He picked up the rifle and carried it over, extending it to her. “Do you know how to fire one of these?”

  Viola took the rifle, wasted no time inspecting the chamber to see if it had a live round. It did. She then checked that the sight was level, eyeing a stone she picked in the far wall, then lowered it in a firm, double-fisted grip in front of her.

  “I think I can manage.”

  “Right. Well, then I’ll leave you to it. And I’ll bring you water in the morning, before sunup if I can. Until then, stay out of sight. And get small in that loft if you hear the slightest noise outside.”

  She nodded. “I will.”

  “Bonsoir, Lady.” He lef
t without another word, the sound of the door bolt jarring and final.

  Vi went to the window and slipped her finger against the black woolen fabric, enough so she could see him disappear into the woods.

  The same view rose behind him: castle spires peeking up over the tops of the trees. The sun pierced the sky above it now, in the spot where clouds had once met the ground in layers of morning mist. Other than a slight touch of wind that kissed the treetops, no movement stirred along the road. No sound. The gunfire had stopped and music no longer carried through the trees, though she doubted she could have heard it from that far away.

  There was only . . . stillness. Her body protested with the realization of it.

  Safety brought the nagging ills of her weary physique back to the forefront, her stomach lurching and muscles crying out for attention. She turned to the pitcher and basin first, pouring water over her cupped hand.

  Washing was the first, weary step.

  Vi took time with it, though the water stung like daggers against her skin. But she couldn’t care. It was a luxury to wash—to feel like a woman, even human again. She reached for the molded lump of soap, a sickly beige color smelling of turpentine. Washing pain away with the dirt and grime tingeing the water.

  The cracked mirror she left in the drawer. Maybe another day she’d take it out. But not today. Exhaustion befriended her the moment she’d replaced the towel on its rack.

  Vi picked up the rifle, carrying it to the back corner of the cottage. The pears and walnuts would also have to wait their turn. And the rest of the forest would have to pass the time without knowing where she was. Because in that moment, Viola Hart felt her physical hunger abate. The hunger for a safe haven was now satiated, and for however long it lasted, it was enough.

  She leaned her back against the wall and slid down to the floor.

  The rifle she laid by her right hand, for quick access should she need it, and pulled her knees up to her chest. Vi would do as Julien asked. She’d stay put. Remain invisible to the world, and try to sleep in the meantime. Above all, she would protect her secrets—starting with the fact that he’d been an answer to her most desperate prayers.

  He was her fourth savior in one day.

  SEVEN

  JULY 17, 1789

  LES TROIS-MOUTIERS

  LOIRE VALLEY, FRANCE

  “Mademoiselle . . .”

  Aveline had been lost in the void between sleep and waking for some time, until the anchor of one word pulled her from it.

  But spoken in a man’s voice? Surely not. Her mind was playing tricks on her senses. If she’d fallen asleep, it would have been in her private chamber, a space no man other than a lady’s husband or father, or perhaps a physician on the most serious of occasions, should ever be allowed entry.

  She fluttered her eyelids, battling to open them and confirm what was real.

  Fitful sleep had enveloped her. For how long, she couldn’t know. Aveline had fought through a similar madness before, when she’d been infected with the putrid throat as a child. She’d survived under a cloud of furious fever then, with days that were lost to her memory.

  This sleep had felt like that, the alternating between oppressive heat and biting cold, pain enveloping and then easing in fractures of memories . . . A cool cloth bathed her brow. Words, spoken by whom, she didn’t know, encouraging her to fight. To wake, to battle, and then to rest as waves of fits continued to ebb and flow.

  It was then Aveline remembered the last moments in the castle, with glass rain and a wall of flames, the grip of fear that should only exist in nightmares—never so in real life. The halls of leaded glass, marble floors, and royal furnishings of gold and crystal. That was the view she’d expected to find. The only one her mind had known. But she opened her eyes, surveying a room in stark contrast now.

  Crown molding had become a thatched roof, plain and pitched in a severe vault overhead. The elegance of carved furnishings—an oversized armoire and gilded bed with brocade curtains, a writing desk and tea table made to host trays of fine china and sweets—they’d all vanished, exchanged for a simple four-poster bed and stiff, line-dried linens that scratched at her skin. A bureau, chipped pitcher, and washbasin lined the wall closest to the bed. A single window had been opened. It spread threadbare curtains to dance out in the breeze, washing plain stone walls in veils of white.

  The only object that did not belong in the humility of the space was her silver-and-ivory-handled brush laid out atop the bureau, though the paired hand mirror was missing. The curious addition of a vanity stool was pushed up against the wall, elegant with rolling carvings in the legs, a tiny drawer with a gold claw pull, and a tufted velvet cushion in a deep amethyst shade—the only splash of color in a very earthy, bland room.

  “Mademoiselle?”

  The floor creaked with someone’s shift of weight.

  Aveline turned, the absolute certainty of a man’s voice this time prompting her to seek its owner. She settled her gaze on a form, just edged in shadow, standing across the room.

  He leaned back against a stone chimney that cut a line through a railing to a ground floor beyond. He stood silent, one trouser leg crossed over the other, arms folded tight across his chest, wrists peeking out from the rolled cuffs of a white linen shirt. Dark hair had been neatly groomed, combed, and tied at the nape. Light eyes greeted her, soft tawny and nonthreatening, just beneath a brow that seemed to relax in relief.

  The sight of him eased her trepidation. Not much, of course, but the tiniest sense of danger had been erased when he stood his ground, making no move to approach the bed.

  Or her.

  “Bonjour.” He offered the greeting on a respectful half bow.

  Awareness that she was indisposed fell swiftly, prompting Aveline to pull the blankets up to her chin. Her body reacted to the move, tiny twinges of pain searing the hands she’d moved.

  The man righted his posture in reaction to her grimace, then turned away.

  “You may come up. She’s awake.” He called down a set of stairs in the corner of the room, then stalked back, took the pitcher, and handed it off to someone in the shadows of the stairs. “Bring fresh water. She’ll have need of it.”

  Aveline released the death grip of her right hand clutching the bed linens but still kept covered, as any proper lady would. They were not alone. She hadn’t any other answers, save for that. But it was enough to start breathing evenly again.

  He held a hand out and took a half step forward when she shifted in the bed, perhaps anticipating that the next thing she’d do was try to stand. “Please, don’t get up.”

  “Why?” Her voice sounded foreign, graveled, as if someone else had muttered the single word instead of her.

  “It’s ill-advised. You’ve had quite a shock.”

  Aveline sat up, eager, but her head still swimming. She leaned back against a wooden headboard, battling the dizziness with the only anchor she had at the moment. “So it did happen?”

  “Yes. It did.” His nod and pursed lips confirmed the somber truth.

  He didn’t need to explain further. The castle had been eaten up by flames. Party guests scattered, mauled by flying stones, satin shredded by glass. Their entire world had been turned on end in the blink of an eye. Odd that all could be confirmed in such a tiny, unfeeling word as it.

  “You needn’t worry,” he said, taking a cautious step forward. “You’re safe here with us.”

  Aveline nodded, her next question coming without pause. “Where am I?”

  “We’ll explain all.” He turned toward the pitcher on the bureau, poured water into a glass tumbler, and brought it to her. “Here. First—drink. Before you try to speak.”

  Aveline reached for it, her arms feeling as if an extension of someone else’s body, until even the slow movement tore pain down her left arm. It stole her breath this time. She slammed her eyes shut, blocking out the man for long seconds as she drank in deep, steadying breaths.

  “Slowly,” the man w
hispered, matter-of-fact. She opened her eyes to find him standing over her, water glass in hand, waiting.

  She took it—every movement slow, painful, exhausting—and drank, the coolness of water a balm to the gravel in her throat.

  “You’ve taken a blow to the head. And you’ll need to move with care until your burns are fully healed. The length of your arm up to your shoulder and neck, and down the leg to the ankle.”

  Under normal circumstances, Aveline would have blushed for a gentleman to talk of such things as a lady’s leg and ankle. But she looked to her arm as she handed the water glass back, finding it wrapped in taut linen strips that extended from shoulder to wrist. The only skin she could see was pink and inflamed—angry hues that blistered a red line against the porcelain skin of her wrist.

  “We’ve had a woman to tend you. Her mother was a healer, so she’s quite versed in how to care for your injuries. Everything was done with proper care—for a lady of your station.”

  Aveline’s body eased back to life then. It seemed every pulse of damaged cells strained to declare their injury at once. The left side of her face, her neck, her arm and leg too, down to the foot—it all burned, the skin searing hot and dry at the same time, as if embers had been raked under the surface.

  Every movement brought tiny waves of torture. She raised tentative fingertips, brushing them against something rough—the apple of her cheek no longer covered with the softness of youthful skin. The place her lady’s maid would have dotted with powder and rouge the night before felt foreign, almost chapped now. The skin cracked along her brow, even as she closed and reopened her eye.

  “My face too.” She wanted the pain to stop, but only slightly less than she wanted the truth. “Is that what I feel?”

  “Just try to be still . . . You’re alive. And you are safe. That’s what matters.”

  He reiterated the statement, that Aveline was safe. But he seemed less sure of something this time, as if he could see fear overtaking her. Her left side may have burned with pain, but the rest of her felt brought back to life, with sparks of energy that made her want to jump from the bed and run down the stairs if she didn’t get straight answers.