The Lost Castle

by Kristy Cambron

  Light reflected off a surface, glinting enough to catch Aveline’s eye. Drawn to it, she passed by the remains of the grand staircase. She stooped in the alcove beyond it, the light concentrated there, and dusted soot from an object left under a pile of debris.

  Her heart caught at the smooth surface that reflected back.

  The remains of a looking glass lay with a charred gilt frame, one of the mirrors that had lined the second story of the entry hall. They, too, had succumbed to the fire, resting in a pile beneath timber and the blackened remains of a legless settee.

  Aveline wasn’t prepared. Not for the sight the mirror reflected.

  Evidence of the fire damage lingered in the walls around her, but also upon her. She’d expected some damage, but never of the severity she saw in the mirror.

  Hers was the face of a stranger staring back.

  Golden hair and eyes Aveline recognized as her own, but the skin trailing down the left side of her face was tainted—almost beyond belief. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to bear turning her cheekbone to the light. Porcelain skin was marred by waves of pink and red, in angry blotches of uneven pigmentation. She tried grazing her fingertips over the skin on the apple of her cheek, but pain seared her. She eased her touch over her jaw . . . followed the sting of burns along her neck . . . stopping at her collarbone and the exposed burns along the collar of her dress.

  Her hand shook, wobbling the glass fragment with unconscious force as the weight of her altered reflection sank in. Hers was not the face of a lost princess. The people may search, but they’d never find that girl again. The future Duchess et Vivay, the one who might have been, vanished in that moment. Instead, a new and blemished reality emerged to take the former princess’s place.

  “My apologies, mademoiselle.”

  The softness of the address jolted her, and Aveline dropped the shard of glass. It shattered, splintering into tiny pieces against the marble floor.

  Aveline hadn’t made it past disbelief to shed any tears, thank heaven, so there would be nothing to hide before she faced him. She turned, finding Robert in the doorway. His gaze flitted down to the remnants of the mirror at her feet, then back up to her face.

  “We were worried.” He drew his eyebrows together as he tilted his head back toward the road behind them. “Fan found the discarded water buckets.”

  “I . . .” She swallowed, her tongue still numb enough that it interfered with speech. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause you concern.”

  “Don’t trouble yourself. I wondered when you’d come back here. I’ve been expecting it, actually. It’s how I knew to check the ruins.” His jawline softened and he held out a book. “I brought Utopia, as you requested.”

  “Merci.” Aveline ran her hands over her skirt, battling for composure by smoothing out wrinkles from her dress. “I suppose anyone should be curious, after all this. And it looks like someone has beaten me to the task.”

  She hurried, even for taking prudent steps around timber and debris, until she joined him at the door. She hesitated at the thresh-old between the castle’s scarred remains and the world outside, hovering in the doorway as she eased the book from his grip.

  “Oui. The footprints. That would be us. Once we saw the people to safety, we’ve been watching for ongoing smoldering of the ruins and slowly assessing the damage. The castle may have sustained the most of it, but we couldn’t have the fire spread to the grove, nor the vineyard beyond. The loss was great, but it could have been far worse. No loss of life, thank heaven, and the vineyard survived. So now we see what can be saved.”

  Aveline straightened her posture, battling not to show him the full weight of her scars—the very ones he’d seen for days on end, without giving her the slightest inkling as to their severity. Or, she knew now, what would likely be their permanence as well. “Yes. That is some consolation.”

  “Mademoiselle, what you saw—” Robert confronted her then, gently, halting her from fleeing the castle steps with a tentative hand to her marred wrist. He studied her, his gaze lingering upon her burns. “I should have told you. Should have given some warning before you . . .”

  “It makes sense now. A brush without the hand mirror. A stool with no vanity. I understand why you and Fan sought to protect me from the truth. I accept it as a great kindness.”

  “A kindness.” He looked at the soot-covered floor beneath his boot and kicked at a piece of scorched wood in his path. “Is that what it was?”

  “Oui.” Aveline nodded with a fervency that surprised even her. “It is benevolence to show me the truth. That nothing has changed. The castle is scarred, yes—but it is not dead. Not yet. This place can come to life again. I think that’s why I’m here. Or why I was brought here. Maybe God’s will is tethered to both. And after this, I shall be renewed in my purpose. Or perhaps I see it fully for the first time. Your family will come back to this land. The Duc et Vivay, your father, and Philippe, my future husband, will return to find their world much altered. And when they do, they must see that we have not surrendered to this loss. They will find that we are strong, and we have already begun to rebuild.”

  Aveline turned her attention to the foyer, taking a last look at the charred stairs, birds floating in and out, the gentle cascade of the breeze lifting the remains of curtains.

  “I will not”—her voice wavered, cracking with emotion, her hands shaking so that she fumbled and dropped the book on the marble at their feet—“wallow in despair.” She tried to stoop to pick it up but paused, somehow unable to.

  For days, through pain and uncertainty, Aveline had banished tears as weakness. But standing in the broken shell of what should have been her fairy-tale world, their oppression came to call with a ferocity that this time she couldn’t hope to control. Without the luxury of pride she crumpled, burying her face in scarred fists.

  “I will not abandon what hope remains in this place. We will rebuild.”

  Though she’d expected he would discount her wave of emotion—simply retrieve the book and dismiss himself from her presence—the opposite occurred. In the next breath, strong arms enclosed her and she was gifted the gentle freedom to weep.

  Aveline released her fists, and forgetting that he was not her betrothed, she melted into the front of Robert’s shirt, falling into the security of being hemmed in. He remained silent, his heart beating beneath her palms, steadfast while she continued breaking apart. Shattering like the fractured mirror she’d dropped against the marble floor.

  They stayed there long moments. The length of time she needed to feel safe again.

  “You’ll see,” she breathed out, whispering against his chest. “She will rise again—we’ll bring her back from the ashes.”

  Robert’s chin came down to rest on the top of her head, bobbing slightly as he agreed. “I have no doubt, Miss Aveline, that you will.”

  FOURTEEN

  PRESENT DAY

  LES TROIS-MOUTIERS

  LOIRE VALLEY, FRANCE

  “A chancer is ‘a dodgy opportunist who manipulates a given situation to his or her own maximum benefit.’”

  Quinn didn’t stop playing his guitar, just kept up the finger-picking of a soft melody and smiled at the outcome of Ellie’s colloquial research.

  “I see you found the Wi-Fi password.”

  She held up her phone. “Do you want to verify my reservation? I can show it off now.”

  “We’ll trust ya for it.” Quinn tilted his head toward the iron-lattice patio chair across from him. “Have a seat.”

  Ellie wrapped her sweater around her middle and slid onto the cushion, tucking her legs under her.

  Night sounds mingled: a crackling fire in a stone pit nearby. The clink of wineglasses and chattering of guests on the tasting-room terrace up above. The drum of insects singing, the melody of doves cooing the grape vines to sleep. The soft strum of the guitar, merging sweetly with the vineyard’s song. The reign of peace was so lulling, Ellie leaned her head back against the cushion,
almost forgetting for a moment that she wasn’t alone.

  Quinn broke into her thoughts, bringing her back. “Go on. What else does it say then?”

  “Well, the dictionary used an example of how a fortune hunter might swoop in on an unsuspecting old widow and relieve her of the burden of her family jewels. Or in the present case, convince an old winemaker to share the mystery surrounding his neighbor’s fairy-tale castle. You may apply whichever example best fits the present description.”

  He replied with a light laugh only, surprising her again with how at ease he could seem in a stranger’s presence.

  Quinn had claimed little interest in the castle’s history. And none at all in disturbing its ruins. But somewhere along that road, Ellie found it was his lack of interest that most piqued hers. Maybe she’d have a better chance to learn something if she gave him no choice but to open up.

  “You think I’m a chancer? That I’m here to manipulate Titus—or you, in some way, as long as I get what I want in the end?”

  “No. Wouldn’t say that exactly,” he said, attention lost in the vineyard hills.

  “Then what would you say?”

  Quinn stilled the guitar strings with the palm of his hand and snapped his gaze to her, the firelight contrasting light and shadow across his face. “You still have that phone?”

  Ellie held it up and leaned in, ready to do business. “Right here. Just give me the castle owner’s number and we’ll call him right now. And you can even blame me for the lateness of the hour.”

  “Why don’t ya look up olagonin’ while you’re pickin’ through that dictionary of yours?”

  “Is this a trick question?”

  “Go on. Look it up. O-l-a-g-o-n-i-n,” he said, and started fingerpicking the strings again. A new tune she couldn’t make out, but somehow instantly liked.

  Ellie typed it in, hit Search, and laughed. “You were about your moaning and complaining, hmm?”

  “Somethin’ like that, at least where my grandfather is concerned.”

  “Forgive me if I’m prying, but why are you down here when your family is up at the estate house? Is it because the two of you don’t see eye to eye?”

  The familiarity of his smile faded away again, leaving the aloof Irishman who’d first greeted her along the road.

  “We aren’t on holiday, Miss Carver. There’s a strict way of doin’ life here, and I’m only just figurin’ that out. If someone doesn’t manage things, then the wine bottles are goin’ to stay empty. If the bottles are empty, we have nothin’ to sell.”

  “Ellison is fine. Or Ellie, if you prefer. Either way, you’re stuck with me for the next couple of weeks. It might go easier for us both if you can call me by my name.”

  “Alright. Quinn, then.” He nodded.

  “Fine. Quinn it is. And I wasn’t questioning why you worked late. Quite the contrary. I was asking why you missed a French country dîner with your family. Your grandmother prepared a plate for you—coq au vin. She said it was your favorite as a boy. I admit I had no idea what to expect until I tried it.”

  “And?”

  A soft breeze brushed by, carrying the chill of evening with it. Ellie leaned forward on instinct, scooting the chair a bit closer to the fire.

  “Well, I think simply calling it chicken stew would be one of the world’s great travesties. But if I’m honest, I wondered why a stranger who can barely speak to them was seated at their table instead of their own grandson. I watched your grandmother and Auntie Claire in the kitchen. They didn’t use a cookbook or a recipe card. They just did what they do best. You could almost taste the years of practice—love even, that went into the dish. You could see it, in how your grandmother served Titus at the table. And hear it, in how they tried to teach me even a few words in French. It was dismal on my part, but . . . still there. Even if you don’t speak the same language, don’t even live on the same continent—somehow, everyone understands love.”

  “And you think I missed it.”

  Ellie shook her head.

  Her thoughts turned to Grandma Vi just then. What she wouldn’t give for a dinner. For a dish without a recipe. For laughter and smiles. And for the making of memories instead of regular e-mails from Laine, reminding her of Alzheimer’s progress in stealing their world.

  All of it was wrapped up in the one thing they no longer had, and that was time.

  “You haven’t missed it. Not yet,” she whispered, stealing a breath to turn away and blot at a rogue tear weighing her lower lashes. “But you might if you’re not careful.”

  “France wasn’t on my list, if that’s what you’re wonderin’. In truth, I haven’t stayed put in any one place near a decade. I come back through to look in from time to time, usually on my way to the next stop. Titus never needed anyone before—the vines have always been his. But I’m here now.”

  “And you’re staying?”

  He shrugged the question off. “We’re tryin’ to figure things out. That’s the way it’s goin’ to have to be for right now—complicated.”

  “You mean . . . you came here because of his health.” She looked up the ridge, the far-off glow of the estate house windows welcoming even then. “You’re worried about him.”

  “That’s one way of puttin’ it. He’d say he’s old as the dirt on those hills out there. But you pick up and move when the story changes, yeah? Not altogether different from you, I’d say, flyin’ off on a whim to chase after an old castle. It seems we’ve just found some common ground. How unlikely is that?”

  Ellie shifted in her chair, just listening as he played, the level of familiarity of talking family dynamics with him shifting the air a bit more. Finally, she found it; the notes connected to a memory. She recognized the melody and eased into a soft smile, tipping her chin toward the guitar.

  “I’ve been sitting here wondering why that song is so familiar. And then it hit me: ‘Blackbird.’”

  Quinn started this time, his gaze popping up to meet hers without hesitation. “You know your rock ’n’ roll.”

  A laugh came easy. It felt good to smile at a memory of her father, instead of the usual feeling of bittersweet that accompanied the remembrance of long-ago days from her youth.

  “More I know my Beatles. Not the lyrics—just the melody, thanks to my dad.”

  “Your dad plays?”

  “He did. Always played for me.”

  “But not now?”

  Ellie shook her head and glanced away, the look in his eyes a little too open for comfort. The fire seemed a safer place to land, so she stared back at the flames, getting lost in the crackling dance.

  “No. My parents died in a small plane crash when I was eleven.”

  He edged up in his seat, strings silenced beneath his palm. “I’m sorry.”

  She shrugged, finding protection in avoiding closeness. “It was a long time ago.”

  “But a long time ago doesn’t make it easier, does it?”

  Their eyes met, somehow sharing in a bittersweet understanding exchanged over the fire. Life was real. And messy. And never as clear-cut as in the pages of fairy stories. Castle or not, there were broken people who had to live in that kind of world.

  “Look, about this morning. The castle? And the owner . . .” She held up her hand, softening her defense when he reached over to return the guitar to its case. “I’m not digging. I’m trying to apologize. And I wouldn’t have pushed at all if I didn’t have a very, very good reason.”

  “Which is?”

  Something kept Ellie from voicing it—at least not all.

  “I need something real.”

  “An iron gate and fence aren’t real enough, yeah?”

  “I mean, I want to sit down with the owner, look him in the eyes, and ask all the questions that the ruins pose out there. There must be some way to appeal to him. I know chancers may have asked before me. To be honest, I probably came here as one of them. But there’s something about this place that seems . . . almost untouched. Like you wouldn’t
even need fences and cameras to keep the rest of the world out. The castle may be asleep, but that doesn’t mean it’s dead. It still has life in it. Don’t you want to find it? Let it breathe again?”

  Before it’s too late, she wanted to add.

  “What if it’s not up to me?”

  “Is it?” She stared back. What if Quinn was the owner? He hadn’t outright denied anything. “Up to you, I mean?”

  He sighed, his gaze cutting over to get lost in the fire dance. “Look, you say you want to see somethin’ real. It’s that important to ya?”

  “Yeah. It is.”

  “Fine. You want a story, we’ll give you one.” He flipped the clasps on the guitar case and stood with it in hand. “Let’s go.”

  “Where are we going now?”

  “To town. The story you’re huntin’ is there.”

  Quinn had no sooner driven ten minutes through the valley than he’d turned the truck round a corner and eased them to a stop along a grand avenue of trees.

  The center of a little town greeted them with a grandiose nighttime bonsoir.

  A gangly canopy of trees and tent tops held in the glow of stringed lights, spreading a web of glitter against the night sky. Bordering streets were blocked off and boasted long rows of wooden stalls and tents owning royal-blue, red, and candy-striped awnings. The sound of the French life was all around: folk music from a wine tent not far off, the chatter of tourists and locals alike, bartering goods and engaging in a little provincial gossip. Carnival games elicited the enchanting high-pitched laughter of girls and boys.

  They stepped from the truck and a breeze swept by, carrying with it the perfumed scent of flowers and sweets to envelop the air. Ellie stood still, hanging on the truck door. What could possibly have been more enchanting than the view from where they stood?

  It was impossible to keep the awe out of her voice. She didn’t even try. “Where are we?”