But there were bells here, fragile silvery threads of sound coming from beyond the open window across the room.
She slowly swung her feet to the floor, stood up, and crossed to look out the window.
A column of men, women, and children straggled down the road, coming from the direction Philippe had indicated as the workers’ village.
The first light of dawn broke over the distant field, torching the orange-red blossoms with fire as she threw the casement window open wider and knelt on the cushioned window seat. She gazed curiously at the small throng of people walking down the road. Men and women dressed in coarse clothing and wooden shoes, the women with braided hair or heads covered with shawls or scarves.
Catherine hadn’t expected to see the children. Children of all ages staggered sleepily in the wake of the grown-ups, the smallest clinging to their mothers’ skirts or carried in their arms.
The pickers followed a cart drawn by two shaggy horses, and as the animals tossed their heads, Catherine heard again those silvery bells fixed to their harnesses. The driver of the cart stopped before a field of geraniums and the throng following him grabbed their large woven baskets from the cart and flowed leisurely into the field. She could catch the sound of laughter and chatter carried on the clear morning air, the scent of the flowers beckoned with irresistible allure.
Catherine turned dreamily away from the window and began to dress.
A short time later she was standing on the small hill overlooking the geranium field. The scent was almost dizzying. She watched the pickers pluck the dew-covered blossoms and toss them into their baskets. Babies were now tottering among the rows of flowers or lying in theirown baskets while the older children picked the blossoms with the same amazing speed as their parents.
All except one child. A small boy slightly apart from the rest of the pickers had paused and was staring at her as intently as she was staring at the field below. The boy was no more than nine or ten, with tousled curly black hair, and winged black brows, dressed in a coarse blue shirt and ragged trousers.
She glanced away from him and drew her shawl closer about her as she sat down on the dew-wet grass of the hillock. She was soon absorbed in watching them pick and then throw, pick and throw. Why, there was a curious rhythm to their movements, as if they were moving to the beat of a drum only they could hear. She found herself unconsciously straining to hear the—
“Hello. I’m Michel. Who are you?”
She turned her head to see the curly-haired boy who had been watching her from the field. His face was too thin to qualify him as a beautiful child. His skin was browned to the color of sandstone, and his eyes were the clearest blue she had ever seen. He gazed at her with a gravity that was curiously unchildlike.
“My name is Catherine.”
“You’re new here.” His face lit with a smile of unusual sweetness. “Would you like to pick with me today?”
She was startled. “I wasn’t thinking of picking the flowers. I’m here to watch.”
“You should come down to the field. It will help you. The rhythm is very good today.”
Her gaze flew to his face. Rhythm? It was almost as if he had read her mind. “What do you mean?”
He knelt beside her and dug his hand into the earth. “Here, feel it. Put your hand here.”
Bemusedly, she put her palm on the earth.
“Do you feel it?”
“What am I supposed to feel?”
“The earth sighing, trembling, giving up its soul.”
“Soul?”
“The flowers. Everything has a soul, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know. Is that what the priests told you?”
He shook his head. “But I know. Can you feel it?”
She did feel a stirring beneath her palm, but it surely must have come from the breeze disturbing the grasses, their roots slightly moving in the soil. “I don’t think so.”
He frowned in disappointment. “I thought you might be one of the ones who felt it right away. Don’t worry, you’ll feel it later.”
He was so earnest she found herself smiling at him. “You’re so sure that—”
“Run away, Michel.”
