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High above, in the ruined château, the midnight bell began to toll, disturbing the sleeping cat. The green eyes opened and stared at me with a deeply disappointed air, then in one fluid motion the cat rose and stepped, stretching, from my lap onto the pavement. Stiff-legged, it wandered off into the shadows.
Neil watched it go, then looked across the square at the noisy corner bar. “Listen, since we’re both still up, can I buy you a drink?”
Five years ago, I would have told him yes. Five years ago, I would have done a lot of things.
Tonight I stammered some excuse about being tired, and faked an unconvincing yawn.
“Another time, perhaps,” he said.
“Perhaps.” I rose from the bench, and said good night, and his dark eyes gently called me coward.
“Good night, Emily.”
It seemed a long walk across the little square to the hotel door, mainly because I felt those eyes upon me every step of the way, but when I turned at the door to glance back, Neil wasn’t watching me at all. He wasn’t even looking in my general direction. His face was turned the other way, toward the château steps.
The black-and-white cat had returned, weaving itself nimbly around Neil’s outstretched ankles. As I watched, he leaned forward and scratched the animal’s ears absently, but he didn’t look down. He just went on looking with narrowed eyes at something… or someone… I couldn’t see.
Chapter 11
“O long ago,” she said, “betwixt these two
Division smoulders hidden;”
Next morning the young bartender, Thierry, looked a little the worse for wear. He set the basket of croissants and bread between the boys and me, and leaned against the spare fourth chair at our breakfast table.
“…but no,” he went on, “they do not come down for breakfast today. Madame Whitaker, she has the headache since yesterday afternoon—the migraine. She stays in bed today. And Monsieur Whitaker, he went out very early.”
It was still only nine o’clock, and Simon looked with interest at the empty corner table where the Whitakers liked to sit. “By himself?”
Thierry admitted that he didn’t know. “But then, I do not always pay attention. I think that he is gone to hear the Mass somewhere.”
“I’m surprised you haven’t gone to Mass yourself,” Paul said. “You could use a confession, my friend.”
Thierry merely grinned and raised his shoulders in a carefree shrug. “But I must work on Sundays,” he excused himself. “Who else would serve your breakfasts?”
Which was probably just as well. Judging by the shadows beneath his dark eyes and the rather wickedly rumpled look he was sporting after what had obviously been a wild Saturday night, I decided Thierry’s soul was very likely past redemption.
“He’s superhuman,” Simon said, with grudging admiration, as Thierry left us to attend an older couple seated by the window. “He wore us out completely last night, at the disco. You should have been there, Emily.”
I pulled a face. “I’m much too old for discos.”
Paul stopped pouring his second cup of coffee long enough to roll his eyes. “Oh, right. What are you, thirty?”
“Twenty-eight.”
“Positively ancient,” he said drily. “They’ll be fitting you for false teeth next, I guess.”
“Besides,” Simon added, “age is no excuse. Neil’s come out with us a couple of times, and he’s forty-something. He dances pretty good for an old guy.”
“Pretty well,” Paul corrected him, automatically.
“Whatever.” Simon grimaced. “Remind me to get some aspirin later.”
“I’ve got some,” I offered, reaching for my handbag. “Somewhere, that is. I don’t know why I carry all this, I can never find anything.” Rifling through the overstuffed bag, I started to remove things, one by one, piling them beside my empty plate. My bulging wallet, sunglasses, two pens, a packet of tissues, a crinkled tourist map of Chinon, a square of thick paper with printing on it…
“Hey,” said Simon, pouncing on the latter. “What’s this? You’ve been holding out on us.”
I glanced up. “What? Oh, it’s just an invitation.”
