His wife had said something similar twenty years earlier.

A stranger had offered condolences after the funeral, and Elias had gone outside because he could not bear to hear another person say they were sorry.

He had spent most of his life afterward becoming someone to whom nobody offered condolences.

It had seemed simpler.

He moved the brazier closer.

“Come forward.”

Clara hesitated, then shifted across the hay.

Not much.

Enough for Luc to feel warmth.

Elias removed his coat.

She stiffened.

“I’m not coming closer.”

He slid the coat across the floor.

“Put that around both of you.”

She looked at it.

“Why?”

“Because your dress is wet.”

“You expect me to trust you?”

“No.”

“Then why—”

“I expect you to use a coat.”

She stared at him.

Eventually she reached for it.

The fabric was still warm from his body.

That seemed to frighten her almost as much as anything else.

Elias looked away while she settled it around herself.

Trust was sometimes easier when not observed.

He gave her five minutes.

Then he asked, “Who is Luc’s father?”

Clara’s jaw tightened.

“You know.”

“I know what I was told.”

“Henri Valcourt.”

Adrien’s only son.

Thirty-two.

Married.

Elias remembered that.

He had met Henri once in Paris years earlier.

A beautiful, bored young man who laughed too loudly and lost heavily at cards.

“And Luc’s mother?”

Clara’s expression hardened.

“I am.”

Elias did not react.

“Valcourt said you were employed in the household.”

“I was.”

“As governess.”

“To Henri’s daughter.”

“Henri has a daughter?”

“Had.”

The word sat between them.

Elias looked at her.

“What happened?”

“She died.”

“When?”

“Last spring.”

“How?”

Clara said nothing.

The barn seemed suddenly colder.

“Clara.”

“She fell.”

“From where?”

“The west terrace.”

“How old?”

“Five.”

Elias closed his eyes for a moment.

Six.

Five.

Too close.

“Accident?”

“That is what they told people.”

“And what do you say?”

Clara looked toward the fire.

“I say children are often blamed for the things adults refuse to admit.”

Elias waited.

The wind pushed snow through a crack in the wall.

She finally continued.

“Her name was Émilie.”

The way she said it changed the room.

Not the voice of a governess remembering a former charge.

Something closer.

Something intimate.

“She was quiet,” Clara said. “Not shy. Quiet. There is a difference. Shy children want to speak and are afraid. Émilie had learned there was no use speaking.”

Elias said nothing.

“She watched everyone. She knew which footsteps meant her father was drunk. She knew when her grandfather had guests she was expected to disappear. She knew her mother would not defend her.”

“Henri’s wife.”

“Margot.”

“Where is she now?”

“Switzerland.”

“Convenient.”

Clara looked up sharply.

“Do not judge her.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You were.”

Elias accepted the correction.

Clara’s hand rested against Luc’s back.

“Margot was frightened too.”

“Of Henri?”

“Of the house.”

“People aren’t usually frightened of houses.”

“They are when houses belong entirely to one man.”

Adrien Valcourt.

Elias saw the name differently now.

A man at the centre of a system rather than a family.

Clara continued.

“After Émilie died, Henri began drinking more. He blamed Margot. Then he blamed me. Then he blamed the servants. Anyone except himself.”

“Was he responsible?”

Clara looked at Elias.

“He was on the terrace.”

Not enough for an accusation.

Enough for suspicion.

“Did you see it?”

“No.”

“Who did?”

“Margot.”

Elias leaned forward.

“And?”

“She told Adrien.”

“What happened?”

“Adrien sent her away.”

“Why?”

“To recover from grief.”

Clara almost spat the phrase.

“Officially.”

“And unofficially?”

“She had become inconvenient.”

Elias looked toward the barn door.

His mind was working now.

Tracing something other than footprints.

“Then Luc was born.”

Clara nodded.

“Henri came to me after Émilie died. At first I thought he wanted comfort.”

She stopped.

Her face became unreadable.

Elias did not ask for details.

People told more when given room.

“I had loved him once,” she said.

That surprised him.

“Before?”

“Years before. Before he married Margot.”

“And after?”

“I loved the memory.”

That was a sentence Elias understood too well.

“He said everything had changed. He said Émilie’s death had shown him what kind of life he was living. He said he was leaving.”

“For you?”

“For himself, supposedly.”

Her smile was faint and exhausted.

“But men often rename desire as courage.”

Elias glanced at her.

“And you believed him.”

“For a month.”

“What changed?”

“I became pregnant.”

Of course.

The oldest truth.

The most predictable cruelty.

“He denied Luc was his?”

“At first he offered money.”

“And then?”

“His father became interested.”

Elias frowned.

“Why?”

“Henri had no surviving legitimate child.”

Now Elias understood.

“Heir.”

“Yes.”

The word carried no triumph.

Only horror.

“Adrien wanted Luc.”

“Not me.”

“Henri?”

“Henri wanted whatever required least courage.”

Elias looked at the embroidery on the blanket.

“The crest.”

“Adrien ordered it made.”

“When?”

“Before Luc was born.”

The detail was chilling because of how ordinary it sounded.

A piece of linen.

A symbol stitched patiently by someone who probably never knew what it meant.

“He planned to acknowledge him?”

“No.”

Clara’s answer was immediate.

“He planned to take him.”

Elias stared at her.

“How?”

“He had documents prepared.”

“What documents?”

“Adoption. Guardianship. Medical statements.”

“Statements saying what?”

“That I was unstable.”

There it was.

The word Valcourt had used.

Elias felt something settle in his stomach.

“They told the doctor I had become irrational after Émilie’s death. That I was obsessed with Henri. That I had imagined a relationship.”

“Was there proof?”

“Letters.”

“You kept them?”

“Henri did.”

“Why would he?”

“I don’t know.”

She paused.

“Perhaps some part of him wanted to be caught.”

That was possible too.

Cowards sometimes left evidence because confession required strength they did not possess.

“Where are the letters?”

“Gone.”

“Destroyed?”

“I thought so.”

Elias noticed the wording.

“Thought?”

Clara looked at him.

“When Margot left, she gave me a key.”

“To what?”

“A deposit box in Rennes.”

Elias’s attention sharpened.

“What is inside?”

“She said if anything happened to her, I should open it.”

“Did you?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“Letters. Financial records. Statements from servants.”

“About Émilie?”

“Among other things.”