Galahad
The GPS announced our turn,and I took a narrow lane that wound between overgrown hedgerows. We’d left Paris an hour ago and had spent the last twenty minutes on roads that had needed their pavement replaced at least five years ago.
“Almost there.” Grace had been quiet for most of the drive, watching the countryside roll past—vineyards, stone walls, villages that looked like they hadn’t changed in centuries. Different from the nervous energy she’d had in London. Here, she seemed settled.
The hedgerows opened up, and the cottage appeared ahead of us. It had ancient stone walls and a slate roof with moss at the edges. Roses climbed higher than the windows from a wild garden, with herbs and flowers tangled together. An old Citroën sat in the gravel drive, next to an electric bicycle. This was exactly where I would have imagined Jean ending up. Somewhere old and simple, full of books and mementos, far from the dust and danger we’d shared.
I put the rental car into park and killed the engine.
“It’s beautiful,” Grace said, sliding out of her seat.
The front door opened before we reached it, and Jean emerged into the afternoon light, arms spreading wide and his gray beard split by a grin.
“Galahad!” He pulled me into an embrace, thumping my back hard enough to let me know he may have been old, but he was far from frail. “It’s been too long, mon ami. Far too long.”
“Jean, it’s good to see you again.”
He released me and held me at arm’s length, studying my face. His hair had gone fully gray since I’d last seen him, and the lines around his eyes were deeper, but the sharpness was still there. “You look terrible. When did you last sleep properly?”
“On the train over from London.”
“That doesn’t count, and you’re a liar.”
“Wait.” Grace’s head tilted. “You didn’t sleep at the hotel?”
“I had other priorities.” I nodded toward Jean. “This is Grace Laurent. Grace, Dr. Jean Dupont.”
Jean turned to her, taking both her hands in his. “Any friend of Galahad’s is family here, and you shall call me Jean. Come inside. You must see the place.”
I grabbed our bags from the trunk and followed the two of them inside.
“Welcome to my home.” The front door opened directly into the main room, and Jean swept his arms out. “She was built in the seventeenth century, best anyone can tell. I’ve added electricity, plumbing, and a wonderful kitchen, but I’ve tried to keep her bones intact.”
A massive stone fireplace dominated the far wall, running floor to ceiling, the hearth blackened by what had to be four hundred years of fires. The stones were irregular, with crumbling mortar in places.
“The fireplace is why I bought her,” Jean said, running a hand along the mantel. “I walked in, saw this, and knew I was home.”
Books covered every surface. Stacked on tables, lined up on shelves, piled in corners. Photographs clustered on the walls and a glass-topped display case near the window held rows of tarnished coins.
Grace drifted toward the case. “What are these?”
“Metal detecting is one of my hobbies.” Jean joined her, lifting the glass lid. “All of these are verified Roman coins. That one came from a field in England. This, from a vineyard in Spain. And this.” He picked up a coin worn almost smooth. “This is from a riverbank not ten kilometers from here.”
“Fascinating.”
“Each one is a small piece of evidence. At its peak, the Roman Empire stretched from Wales to Iraq, and ordinary people carried these coins in their pockets the entire way.” He set the coin back in its place. “They’re history you can hold in your hand.”
Grace leaned closer, studying the worn faces stamped into the metal. “How long have you been collecting?”
“I found my first coin when I was seven. It’s what led me to my career.” He gestured toward a photograph on the wall, of a group of men and women standing outside a stone structure. “I know our Galahad speaks as little as possible?—”
“I talk when there’s something important to say,” I interjected, but he ignored me.
“—but did he tell you about Task Force Grail?”
Grace looked over her shoulder at me. “The work you told me about in Afghanistan?”
“It was called Task Force Legacy, but yes.”
