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“You heard what George said. They tied up every loose end and plugged every loophole. They have witnesses and every—”
“George said he was going to talk to them.” I cling to this hope with all my heart.
“No,” he says, his voice suddenly firm. “He told us he had no power over them. He’s just being polite, saying he will give it a try. But it won’t—”
I interrupt him again, feeling cornered by his implacable logic. “Why are you dismissing this out of hand? He’s the seigneur, he can use his—”
“Use his what? Charm?” He barks out a short bitter laugh. “You’ve met Morris and Sweeny. Talked to them. Tried to negotiate over your debt. Do you really think he can appeal to their better nature? They don’t have one.” Hal’s voice snaps and crackles with anger. “I overheard them talk about him and his wife, they called her a bitch. And I believe you were in your shop when they dragged up my family history and called me and my father names.”
He’s the one now gushing a torrent of words, getting louder and more desperate. “If they’ve gone to so much effort to defraud us, do you think they they’re just going to meekly go away when George talks to them? The man who fired them from the Municipalité? How can you be so naïve?”
His angry feet tear up a path through the tall grass in some field. I have to jog to keep up with him.
“I’m not naïve, I’m just saying we have two weeks’ respite, let’s wait and see if George can do something.”
“And if he can’t?”
“Then we’ll have to rethink.”
“Rethink?” He throws the word into the dark ahead of him, as if demanding an answer from the stupid universe.
“Slow down, I’m not going to run after you.” I stop, a hand to the stitch in my side.
He stops but doesn’t turn around. He just stands stock still, breathing hard. Several minutes pass before he comes back to me.
“Are you okay?”
“Just a stitch,” I say. My throat tightens on my tears. “Please don’t hate me, I couldn’t bear it.”
He pulls me to him. “Oh Elodie, my love. I could never hate you.” His hug is stiff, his arms feel like too many elbows and his heart beats a wild, hard rhythm that clashes with mine.
Eventually, Hal finds us a fallen log and sits beside me. “Fine, let’s think of all the options.” He sounds calm, but I can tell from his voice he has already made up his mind.
And so, it proves, with nothing but moonlight and the sound of some night birds.
Hal goes through the arguments, but he’s only doing it for my sake, waiting for me to agree with him. We talk and talk and talk.
And then it comes to an end. I am in the middle of saying the one thing that is tearing my heart in two. “How can I do this to him? My own grandfather …” And I see Hal’s face change.
It’s as if something has drained out of him.
He turns his face away from me and thinks, for what feels like ten minutes. When he finally turns his face back to me, a different man looks out of his eyes.
“Come on, it’s late.” His voice sounds flat as he gets to his feet and offers me a hand to help me up.
There’s a new reserve in him, like a glass bubble that keeps him insulated and stops me from trying to touch him. A vague fear stops the words in my throat. I just stand and wait while he glances around then takes out his phone to check the map.
“This direction I think.”
He touches my elbow to nudge me in the right direction.
We walk for maybe an hour, or it feels like an hour, in a frozen silence. Whenever our feet take us over rough ground, he takes my arm, just above the wrist to make sure I don’t stumble, then lets go. The night air, warm and gentle, occasionally bends the tall grass, and there are birds or something making sounds in the forest behind us, otherwise our steps are the only sound on this wordless walk.
At last, we come to a stream and Hal follows it until we reach a small stone bridge. On the other side is the beginning of Catcher Lane. Hal stops. “Do you know the way from here?”
“Yes, of course. We’re five minutes from home.” I look up at him, hoping he’s ready to talk.
“Good,” he says in the same quiet but flat voice. “Can you make your way home from here?”
