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“W-who are you?”

“For my sins, I’m Hugo Bastide.”

Still I stared. Now that I looked closer, he was several years older than Étienne, perhaps in his early 30s, but surely this couldn’t be a cousin—not with how similar they looked!

He helped me up, his hands strong and capable, and my shock must have been written all over my face.

“I’m Étienne’s older brother. And from the fact that he came himself to leave you here—you must be his wife Léonie. I’m sorry we’re meeting like this.”

“But—he doesn’t have an older brother!”

Hugo’s mouth twisted up in a bitter smile.

“Yes, he does. I live here.”

“You live here? But why? I’ve never seen you. . .”

“This is where he puts the people he’s ashamed of.”

“Why is he ashamed of you?” I asked, and Hugo reached beside him for a cane.

Oh.

“I’m—sorry,” I said. “I s-still don’t understand⁠—”

“All my brother cares about is the honor of our family name. And he’ll do anything to preserve it. Those who don’t have the strength to preserve our family name, or who project an image of weakness, are cast out.”

I was still, still so naive and ignorant of the world around me that I could only stare.

“That doesn’t seem fair. That doesn’t seem like something Étienne would do.”

Hugo looked at me for a moment, his eyes flicking past the léger written on my forehead. But instead of instantly correcting me, he only gave my hand a brief squeeze.

“Come inside,” he said. “Tell me what happened that you have been left here.”

I was nervous looking up at the dark lodge, but relieved to see Hugo turn on lights as we entered.

At least I wouldn’t be wholly alone.

Inside was a little less scary than I had feared—the walls were faded green wood, and everything was a bit worn, but things were good quality, a solid wood table, big fireplace, and a window that looked out over the meadows.

I had never been down this low in the valleys, not overnight, and it was so strange and unsettling to have the mountains looming tall over me. Étienne loved living on the peak. Said it made him remember the mountains were wild, but he was the master of them.

“I’ll let you have my room on the first floor,” Hugo said. “You don't need to be going up and down the stairs in your condition.”

In my condition, I thought numbly. Yes, my condition of my husband hating me now.

My condition of loving a man who believed everyone but me. A man who should have trusted me instead of his family.

What was he doing right now?

Did he miss me? Or was he going to sleep convinced I was a whore, a slut, an unfaithful wife?

Was Faustine comforting him. . .

I opened my mouth to protest Hugo’s kindness, but only a croak came out as the enormity of my situation was crashing in on me.

“Thank you,” was all I could manage.