led to an ornate door with decorative wrought iron. They drove counterclockwise around the circular driveway.
A man opened the door and held out a hand to help her out of the car. “Your voyage was fine, Madame?”
“Thanks,” Elm said. He closed the door behind her and the car drove away before Elm could thank the driver, say good-bye, or debate tipping him.
“This way, Madame,” the man said, gesturing with his hand up the stairs. When Elm reached the last step the large door opened.
While she waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness within, she found herself questioning what she was doing there. Really, it was all very silly, a gothic novel. Now all that remained was for Count Dracula to approach her from behind and ask her if she wanted to stay for dinner.
Instead, a small man wearing khakis and a polo shirt appeared at her right. “Ms. Howells,” he said. “So nice to meet you. I am Michel. We spoke on the telephone?”
She recognized the voice from their brief conversation. His accent sounded less pronounced in person, and he had a warm smile. His face was angular, his body compact.
“You would like to freshen up, after the journey? You are not experiencing vertigo?”
Elm shook her head. “I don’t get carsick, luckily,” she said. “I wouldn’t mind freshening up though, thank you.”
He pointed to a door along the hallway and Elm went in and closed it behind her. A powder room, wallpapered with violets, a pedestal sink, and a toilet paper stand. Elm sat down on the closed toilet lid and put her head in her hands. What was she doing here? She was embarrassed and frightened. She could no longer pretend she was here for a joke, or out of curiosity. She couldn’t even relate the story afterward, in a “look what stupid thing I did” way. Traveling across an ocean on a lark wasn’t funny. It was obsessive, pathetic. Crazy.
Her heart was pounding; French espresso was much stronger than coffee at home, and she felt a knot of anxiety. She went to the bathroom, then washed her hands and face in the sink. The soap was lavender, a scent her mother used. She’d washed all her makeup off, she realized, so she applied some lipstick, which just drew attention to her unshadowed eyes and unblushed cheeks.
Outside, she found Michel conversing softly with another man. He looked up at her as she came out. “Mattieu will get you a beverage. Would you like a coffee?”
“No, thank you,” Elm said. “Just some water.”
“Why don’t we go to my office?” Michel said, using one arm around her back to herd her down the hallway. Their steps echoed on the marble. On the walls, Elm noticed a sort of fabric wallpaper that reminded her of the tapestries she’d seen hanging in castles in the Loire. The gothic novel, the castle in France, James Bond films: her mind was trying to make sense of this place, to render the unfamiliar recognizable.
The office was sparsely furnished, a large desk polished to mirror-like shininess and a large Aeron chair. In front there was a seating area with two suede chairs and a small table between them. Michel gestured to one and sat in the other.
“So,” Michel said.
Elm smiled. Out the window she could see the round driveway she’d just come from. She looked at the windows—unbarred. Other than these two men, she’d seen no signs of life. She had expected … She didn’t know. Pregnant women walking around, two-headed goats, identical Labradors. Not silence.
“Are you all right?” Michel asked.
Elm tried to reassure him, but then a lump in her throat rose faster than the words, and suddenly she was crying.
Michel reached over and handed her a box of tissues. Then he took her hand in his. Elm had not held hands with anyone besides Moira in years. Colin didn’t like public displays of affection, and said it was difficult to walk attached to someone. Elm didn’t really like them either. They seemed boastful. And yet, here was this stranger, holding her hand while she cried for no reason. Or, rather, for the same reason she always cried.
Michel said nothing. His hand was cool; it didn’t squeeze. “I’m sorry,” Elm said. She wanted to pull her hand away, but she didn’t know how to do it without being rude.
“There is nothing to be sorry about,” he said. “People come here and they tell me that they feel silly, or desperate or embarrassed. They’re worried