out of the water, watching loose bits of chamomile swirling around in my cup, only to whip my head back at the garden and to a set of tyre grooves I was sure weren’t mine.
My stomach sank.
I leaned out the window, and saw what Mama and I couldn’t have seen from the kitchen table: Charlotte’s car parked around the side. I waited for her to walk in, quickly wondering how many seconds it would take to walk that distance from the car, but I knew she wasn’t outside—I knew she couldn’t be outside. I had been at the window for a while; I would have seen her drive up.
It was then that I noticed her driving gloves lying on the bookcase near the door. Bright blue, just like her divan. She had come to visit and was in the chateau, somewhere, and she’d heard us talking—the Résistance, Luc and Gérard.
Catchfly.
I whipped around, hands grasping the sink, eyes wide. ‘Charlotte,’ I called out, shakily, but there was no answer. I raced down the corridor, opening doors as if she were hiding in one of the bedrooms, but she was nowhere in sight.
The cellar door was last. ‘Christ,’ I said into my hand. ‘She knows.’
I breathed heavily against the wall, staring at the door. Mama said she’d handle Charlotte when the time came, but this was more than just the paints, and she’d become fragile in her own way and as delicate as a snowflake on glass.
I put my hand on the door, closing my eyes. ‘God, let this be quick,’ I said to myself, and I walked down the creaking old wood stairs into the dark cellar.
‘Charlotte?’ A lit lantern flickered next to the wall, lighting up the mural I’d painted down there months ago, the blazing red paint still shiny and wet-looking from the cadmium in the oil. ‘Charlotte,’ I said, again. ‘I know you’re down here.’ I swallowed. ‘We need to talk.’
The dog trotted up from behind only to back up and growl like a dog ten times her size, rabidly gritting her teeth at something set in the wall. ‘Come out.’
From an obscure cleft beside the chest of paint, Charlotte emerged into the flickering light. Her lips snarled and her hair was as ratty and stringy as I’d ever seen it, wild as the snakes on Medusa’s head. I took a step back when I saw a tube of paint in her hand.
She slapped the tube into her palm, over and over again. Slap! Slap! Slap!
The dog growled at her from between my legs as Charlotte stopped in front of the mural, her face looking pasty white and her eyes silver-grey, gazing at the painted wall.
‘Let me explain—’
‘I want no explaining—’ she ran the tube over the painted stones, an evil eye shifting toward me ‘—from you.’
I collapsed to the ground, the chill from her icy eyes numbing my legs—never had I seen her look this way. Nothing could have prepared me for such a sight. She started mumbling about the Paris exhibition and comparing my art to hers, studying the lines of the letters, tracing the bends with her fingertip, the dog nipping at her heels. ‘I couldn’t tell you—I knew you wouldn’t understand,’ I said as she walked up the stairs. ‘Come back, sister, come back and talk to me.’
The kitchen door cracked from having been slammed shut. The dog ran in circles, barking and squealing. Tomorrow, I thought. Tomorrow I’ll talk to her. Maybe then I’d miss the worst of her breakdown, and she’d listen to what I had to say.
*
I stood outside Charlotte’s boutique that morning, waiting for her to arrive. After a while, I started to wonder if letting her leave Mama’s was a bad idea. What if she’s at the cemetery, delirious? What if she drank herself to death? As delicate as Charlotte was, how could I have left her alone? My hands shook when I realized it was well past ten o’clock and she wasn’t coming. I should have followed her. Flower carts wheeled past and people rushed by, chatting, some laughing, a morning noise that built and built. I rubbed my shaking hands together, beginning to pace. I’d have to go to her apartment. Yes, that’s it, I thought. I’ll find her in her apartment.
There was a commotion down the way; women took their children’s hands, moving into the street, making a path. Someone yelled that the Milice were coming; then I heard my name. ‘Adèle!’ Gérard charged through the