The Winter Ghosts - By Kate Mosse Page 0,48

the sooner you’ll be back.’

Although far from happy, Guillaume realised there was little he could do. He explained to his father and brother. For the first time, Breillac spoke directly to me in the old language of the region, in a voice that resonated with tobacco and old age.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’

A look passed between the brothers, then Guillaume spoke again to his father, before translating for me once more.

‘He is anxious you should not stay. This is a bad place for you to be, he says. An unhappy place.’

‘Oh, come along.’ I smiled. ‘Tell your father I appreciate his concern, but I’ll be fine.’

Breillac stared at me with eyes as hard as buttons.

‘Trèvas,’ he growled, jabbing at me with his finger. ‘Fantaumas.’

I turned to Guillaume. ‘What’s he saying?’

He flushed. ‘That there are spirits in these mountains. ’

‘Spirits.’

‘E’l Cerç bronzís dins las brancas dels pins. Mas non. Fantaumas del ivèrn.’

Breillac’s words were vaguely familiar, though I couldn’t place them. I turned again to Guillaume.

‘He says that although they sing of the Cers wind crying in the trees when the snows come, it is the voices of those trapped in the mountains.’ He hesitated. ‘The winter ghosts.’

A shiver crept down my spine. For a moment, we stood motionless, each wondering what the others might do. Then I clapped my hands together, as at the punch-line to a splendid joke, and laughed. The spell Breillac’s words had cast over us was broken. I refused to be scared by an old man’s superstitions. And Guillaume and Pierre laughed, too.

‘I’ll keep an eye out,’ I said, slapping Guillaume on the back. ‘Tell your father not to worry. You get off now. Tell him I’ll be here waiting, no question of it.’

Breillac fixed me with a hard stare and the intensity of it shook me a little, I don’t mind admitting. But he said nothing more, and after a moment, he turned and beckoned for his sons to follow.

I stood in the middle of the road watching as they grew smaller and smaller. Guillaume and Pierre, steady, sure-footed giants; their father a small, wiry figure walking between them, his shoulders rounded, as if bowed down by the years.

The sight of them moved me. It can’t have been regret, for one cannot mourn what one has never had. The Breillacs were a family. They belonged to one another. I had never experienced that. I’d been connected to my parents by a shared surname and an address, but nothing more than that. I couldn’t recall a single occasion when George, my father and I had done anything together, even taken a simple walk over the Downs from Lavant to East Dean.

George had been my family. He, alone, had loved me. I stopped as another thought marched into my mind. I smiled. Perhaps, in time, Fabrissa might come to love me. The idea shimmered for a moment, glorious and bright, then burst like a firework on Guy Fawkes Night.

Filled with renewed determination to find her, I strode back to the car. I leaned across from the driver’s seat and retrieved my rubber torch from the glove compartment. My Baedeker was still lying on the passenger seat, its pages swollen with the damp and snow blown in through the broken windscreen. I shook it out of the door to loosen the fragments of glass stuck in the crease of the spine, then studied the map. This time I found Nulle. A tiny dot on the map, the name was buried in the fold of the pages. It was hardly surprising I’d missed it before.

I located Miglos, the village Guillaume had mentioned earlier, and traced a triangle with my finger to fix my route. I frowned. The distances on the map, and what I could see with my own eyes, did not appear to match up. I realised why that might be. Guillaume said there had been mining in the area - quarrying, I presumed - twenty years ago. That would account for certain differences. I flicked to the front of the Baedeker and found this edition had been printed in 1901.

Aware I was wasting time I could not spare, I decided to use the sun as my guide. Once I was on the far side of the valley, I had faith that the bright yellow paintwork of my Austin would mark my starting point.

What else did I need? I was warm enough in the borrowed fur hat and gloves, but my Fitwells were not designed for such terrain