He pointed to a group of wicker chairs and a wrought-iron table. “Have a seat, and I’ll be right out.”
I was disappointed but couldn’t very well follow him uninvited. Especially when I sensed he’d known why I had accepted his offer of refreshment. It appeared he didn’t want me in the house. But why? Someone who kept the grounds so well-groomed wouldn’t keep a messy house. Was there someone inside he preferred I not meet? Something he didn’t want me to see?
Gaspard came out with two glasses and a blue enamel jug. Sitting opposite me, he poured out the cider and handed me a glass.
“So are you visiting from Paris?”
“No, from Cannes.”
“Not a bad drive up, then.”
I took a long sip of the dry, crisp drink. “Just an afternoon.”
“She loves her grand parties.” I must have made a face, because Gaspard said, “You don’t like parties much, do you?” He’d guessed correctly.
“No, not at all, in fact.”
“But you came anyway?”
The curious conversation flowed easily, as if we’d been friends for a long time. Unusual for me. Was it for him, too?
I shook my head. “No, I’m a painter. I’m here to paint the castle.”
“A portrait of the castle?” he asked.
“Of a sort.” I explained about being a bit physic and then said, “Madame Calvé wants me to help her find a book.”
I caught the same frown I’d seen earlier.
“Did I speak out of turn? Please tell me you know about the book?” Worried that I’d said more than I should have, I held my breath until he answered.
“Oh, yes, I know all about her treasure hunt.”
A flicker of anger flashed in his bright eyes—or at least I perceived it as such. The expression appeared and then disappeared so quickly I couldn’t be positive, but he did seem disturbed by what I’d told him.
“You work for Madame Calvé. Perhaps I shouldn’t be discussing this,” I said.
“I don’t actually work for her.” His inflection alerted me.
Had I stumbled onto an area of conflict between Gaspard and his employer?
“I work for the castle, no matter who the owners are. I’m part of the deed.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s a bit complicated, but suffice it to say that my family has been the castle’s caretakers for generations. We own the bit of land my cottage is on, plus a few other parcels within the castle’s grounds. Our duties include tending Cabrières’s gardens and keeping the forest. It’s written into the contract each time the castle is sold.”
“That’s extremely unusual, isn’t it?”
He nodded. “But necessary.”
“Why?”
“Continuity. With the passage of time and turnover in ownership, there has to be a link from the past to the present to ensure that all continues into the future. Taking care of this land requires a fair amount of specific knowledge.”
There was something beyond what he was saying. I studied his face, and our eyes met. I sensed that by specific he meant magickal. But before I could glean any more, he lowered a curtain. On purpose? Accidentally? I wasn’t sure, but I knew he was hiding something.
My mother said certain people were old souls. They’d lived many lives, had returned to our plane often, and were more highly evolved than the rest of us, since over all those lifetimes, they’d accumulated great wisdom.
She taught me how to spot it in their eyes. And sometimes in their smiles. She also showed me the look of someone who didn’t have many more earth journeys left before he was finally—and blessedly—relieved of the burden of more incarnations.
Gaspard Le’Malf, I had no doubt, was an old soul. And I was equally sure he had more information about this castle and what I was here to find than he wanted me to know.
Before I could ask him, a high-pitched shriek rent the air.
“Papa, Papa! Look what we found!”
An excited little boy, about six or seven, came running over, holding something tightly in his cupped hands. Behind him, at a distance, was a young woman, smiling as the boy reached his father.
“Wait, wait. Nicky, where are your manners? We have a guest.”
Nicky looked over at me. He had tousled blond hair, a round cherubic face, and perfect pink cheeks. He also had his father’s eyes, wiser than his years suggested.
“Hello,” he said, very formally. “I am Nicky Le’Malf. I would shake your hand, but I have a surprise for Papa.”
“I’m Delphine Duplessi,” I said to him, with the same formal tone. “And I’d love to see your surprise.”
The boy looked at his father, who nodded.
“All right, both of you, watch now. See what Mademoiselle Gris and I found.”
So the woman was not the boy’s mother. A nursemaid, then?
“Ready?” Nicky asked.
“Ready,” I said.
Gaspard nodded. “Me, too.”
Nicky opened his hands. A butterfly, white with bright orange tips, fluttered its wings and flew out. The beautiful creature hovered in the air, at eye level with Nicky, as if communicating with him.
“Thank you,” the boy said to the butterfly, bowing slightly.
As the insect flew off, Nicky turned to Gaspard. “Papa, was that an orange-tip Anthocharis cardamines?”
Gaspard nodded.
“I have to get my book and write it down.” Nicky turned to me. “Would you like to see my book of butterflies?”
“No, Mademoiselle Duplessi has to get back to the castle.”
The boy looked crestfallen.
“If you don’t mind,” I said to Gaspard, then turned to Nicky. “I love butterflies. I’d be honored to see your book.”
Nicky ran off into the house, followed by Mademoiselle Gris.
“He’s charming. Do you and your wife have others?”
“No. We were expecting another. But my wife was in an accident. Two years ago. The car she was in . . .” He took a deep breath, as if saying the words took enormous effort.
Before he could finish, Nicky was back, shoving a book into my hands. It was a journal. And I trembled as I took it from him, because I recognized the binding style. It was Mathieu’s work. For a moment, I felt dizzy. Confused. How did this child have one of Mathieu’s books?
“What a beautiful butterfly diary,” I said.
“Last year for Christmas, Madame Calvé got it for me in Paris.”
That made sense. Madame Calvé was a regular at Pierre Dujols’s bookshop.
“Madame is very good to Nicky,” Gaspard said. “She treats him like her grandson. It’s sad she never had children of her own.”
“Not always sad,” I said. “Sometimes a child is just competition for an artist’s other creations.”
Gaspard was about to say something when Nicky interrupted.