“I’ll tell you the story tonight on the way to Monaco.”
“I’m not going anywhere near Monaco.”
“Suit yourself. But if you change your mind, Mistral departs the marina at Porto at midnight.”
“Have you checked the weather forecast?” Christopher smiled and said, “Bon voyage.”
38
Haute-Corse
By the time Ingrid reached the three ancient olive trees, she was moving along at a brisk pace. She paused long enough to bid Don Casabianca’s goat a pleasant afternoon—the poor thing really was quite harmless—then turned onto a footpath that carried her up the slope of the hill and into a pine forest. The wind was getting up, promising a rough crossing to the mainland later that night. She wondered whether the Englishman named Christopher Keller would be joining them. She had been tempted to tell him the truth about the nature of her relationship with Gabriel—and about the job she had done in Moscow—but that was not her place. Besides, she had a feeling Christopher had done a dirty job or two himself.
After thirty minutes of sustained effort, she realized that she had no earthly idea where she was. Pausing, she checked her location on her phone and saw that the village was just beyond the next hill. She spotted it a moment later as she stood gasping for air atop the ridge. The bells of the church were tolling two o’clock.
She was careful not to turn an ankle during the descent down the opposing slope and entered the village at an unhurried walk. A single street spiraled its way past shuttered houses to a broad and dusty square. It was bordered on three sides by shops and cafés and on the fourth by the church. The rectory was next door, and next to the rectory was a crooked little house.
She took a table at one of the cafés and ordered a coffee from the indifferent waitress. In the center of the square, several men in crisp white shirts were locked in a hotly contested game of pétanque. Two sullen mothers sat on a bench beneath the limbs of a plane tree while their sons chased one another with sticks. Another child, a girl of eight or nine, was knocking on the door of the crooked little house.
The door opened at once, and a small pale hand emerged, clutching a slip of blue paper. The girl carried it across the square to the café. Ingrid gave a start when the child sat down at her table.
“Who are you?” she asked.
The young girl wordlessly handed Ingrid the slip of paper.
I’ve been waiting for you . . .
Ingrid looked up. “Who lives in that house?”
“Someone who can help you.”
“With what?”
The girl said nothing more. Ingrid could not remove her eyes from the child’s face. The resemblance was uncanny.
“Who are you?” she asked again.
“Don’t you recognize me?”
“Yes, of course. But it’s not possible.”
“Speak to the old woman,” said the child. “And then you will know.”
* * *
By the time Ingrid reached the opposite side of the square, the woman was standing in the doorway of the house, a shawl across her frail shoulders, a heavy cross around her neck. Her skin was pale as baker’s flour. Her eyes were pools of black.
She placed a hand to Ingrid’s cheek. “You have a fever.”
“I’ve been running.”
“From what?” The old woman opened the door wider and beckoned for Ingrid to enter. “Don’t be afraid. You have nothing to fear.”
“Tell me about the girl first.”
“Her name is Danielle. She lives here in the village. One day she will take my place.”
“She looks exactly like . . .”
“Like what?” asked the old woman.
“Me,” replied Ingrid. “She looks the way I did when I was her age.”
“That hardly seems possible. After all, the child is a Corsican. And you, of course, are Danish.”
Before Ingrid could reply, the woman drew her into the house and closed the door. A candle burned at the small wooden table in her parlor. It was the only light in the room.
The woman lowered herself slowly into one of the chairs and pointed toward the chair opposite. “Sit,” she said.
“Why?”
“A small ritual to confirm my suspicions.”
“About what?”
“The state of your soul, my child.”
“My soul is just fine, thank you.”
