The chestnut tree is full of spiny globes. They aren’t fully grown, but one of them has dropped prematurely and lies in the grass nearby. I pick it up, feeling the prickle of its spines in my palm. The sun has dipped below the trees now, and a dusky twilight has descended on the lake. I get to my feet and stand at the edge of the bluff. The chestnut makes a tiny splash when I throw it into the water. It floats like a miniature mine, bobbing above the darker shadow that marks the submerged rock.
Restless, I go down from the bluff and walk along the lakeside. I haven’t been this far before, never felt any desire to go any further. Now, though, I feel compelled to plot the extent of the farm’s boundaries.
The track ends at the bluff, and a little further along the woods come right to the water’s edge. I pick my way along it to the far bank of the lake, then carry on until I reach the end of the farm’s land. Strands of rusty barbed wire weave along the edge of the tree line, nailed into the trunks. There isn’t much to see on the other side except wheat fields. There are no paths or tracks down here, and if there’s any reason for the barbed wire I can’t see it. The wheat is hardly likely to trespass, but that isn’t the point.
Arnaud’s marking his territory.
If I needed more proof it comes only a few minutes later. I start to follow the fence, and only at the last second notice a hard-edged shape nestled in a tuft of grass. It’s one of Arnaud’s traps, jaws spread wide and waiting. I didn’t think he’d have bothered to put them all the way down here, but he obviously isn’t taking any chances. Neither am I: I look around until I find a stick and thrust it into the trap’s jaws. They snap shut hard enough to splinter the wood.
The thought of more of them hidden away snuffs any desire to explore further. In the fading light I use my walking stick to probe ahead of me as I head back to the lake. I come out on the opposite side to the bluff, and stand for a few moments to take it in from this new perspective. The banks of the lake are overgrown with reeds and bulrushes, but from here I can see a patch of shingle tucked behind a grassy hummock. I make my way over, my feet crunching as they sink into the thin covering of pebbles. The water shelves quickly, shading to dark green as it deepens. I crouch down and dip my hand in. It’s cold, and a mist of sediment stirs when my fingers touch the bottom.
This would be a good place to swim from, I think. Most of the lakeside is muddy, but I could wade out from here. I swirl my fingers through the water, silvering the broken surface. The air hasn’t lost its daytime heat, and the thought of stripping off and plunging into the cool lake is beguiling. Only my bandaged foot stops me, but I’ve waited this long. The stitches are almost ready to come out, and when they do I can celebrate with a long-overdue swim.
If I’m still here.
I stand up and flick the water from my hand, sending tiny ripples shivering across the lake. An insipid moon has come out as I return to the bluff for Mathilde’s book, then head back through the woods. The sanglochons are quiet tonight, the statues silent as ever. It’s only my mood that makes them seem watchful and sinister, but I’m still glad when I emerge from the trees.
The stars are scattered like powder across the darkening sky, a stark reminder of our insignificance. When I reach the barn I linger outside, not yet ready to go up to the loft’s airless heat. I’m debating helping myself to another bottle of Arnaud’s wine when the sound of breaking glass comes from the house.
It’s followed by another. There’s yelling and hysterical laughter as I hurry to the courtyard. As I reach it the kitchen door is flung open and Arnaud bursts out. In the spill of light I can see he’s holding the rifle. I stop dead, certain that if he sees any movement in the darkness he’ll shoot.
‘No, don’t!’
Mathilde rushes after him. He ignores her, striding towards the track that leads to the road. Rowdy cheers follow another shattering of glass that I now realize is a window breaking. Mathilde tries to hold Arnaud back but he shakes her off, and then they’re both out of sight. I hurry across the courtyard as Gretchen appears in the doorway. She’s holding Michel, her face white and anxious.
‘Stay there,’ I tell her.
Without waiting to see what she does, I set off after Mathilde and Arnaud, crossing the cobbles in an awkward half-run, halfhop. The shouting is coming from the woods behind the house. There are several voices, whooping and jeering, and now I can make out what they’re saying.
‘
‘
