Siri Mitchell - Chateau of Echoes

The women I labeled as ENArques; they seemed less Silicon Valley and more Wall Street. ENA, Ecole Nationale d’Administration, was the only other school in France that rivaled X.

They were all pleasant, but in a detached, judgmental sort of way.

The moment I saw them walk up the front steps, I completely changed the menus I had planned to offer them.

Even though I love cooking, I hate it when people criticize my food. And had I served anything classically French, I know they most certainly would have. If I had served duck, then I would have had to serve a Saumur-Champigny wine. Had I served foie gras , then I would have had to offer Sauternes.

So I decided to serve them food they might never have tried before. Not knowing how it “should” be, they’d have no reason to snub it. Their first evening with me, they sampled the delights of prawn-stuffed avocadoes with cumin sauce, green enchiladas, fajita-style flank steak, and salsa verde. I served flan with cinnamon sauce for dessert. And a Chilean wine that I’m sure they would have protested against had they known it cost fewer than 10 euros.

As it was, Sévérine relayed to me nothing but their compliments.

The next morning, I made the most delicate of New Orleans-style beignets, sifting a generous portion of powdered sugar over the heaping platter. I actually waited until I laid eyes on Sévérine before I began to fry them; I wanted to ensure that they would still be piping hot when they were served. I saved enough batter to make a half dozen for Cranwell and myself. It had been ages since I’d last made them.

The couples sat in the dining hall through lunch, debating and laughing until they finally jumped into their car and roared down the drive for their afternoon adventures.

For dinner that evening, they started with an American-style shrimp cocktail, which was followed by broiled salmon paired with a cranberry and cilantro relish. In celebration of the next day, Halloween, dessert was a pumpkin cheesecake served over a pool of rich ginger crème.

For their last morning, they ate tottering stacks of hotcakes served with authentic Vermont maple syrup.

By the time they drove away, I was exhausted. I had meant to spend that day putting the chateau back in order, but dawn had brought a raging storm, and the accompanying gloominess inspired lethargy rather than industry. Thankfully by nightfall the storm had blown past and left in its wake a clear, if cold, darkness.

As I walked across my rug from the bathroom to my bed that evening, I glanced out the window and noticed the haziest of rings surrounding the moon: frost. And the moisture left from the storm would make the damage worse. My garden needed protection. I still had tomatoes and herbs that I wanted to cook with. I hurried to my armoire, threw on my robe, and got out my slippers, then I pounded down the stairs, running out the front door to the garage. I stopped only long enough to gather an armful of rags. When I got to the garden, I tucked them around my plants. I had just finished wrapping a rag around the last tomato plant and had risen to step across the row to the herbs when I heard a footfall on the flagstones of the pathway.

I froze. I’d never before felt frightened on my own property.

“Freddie.”

My knees almost buckled in relief. It was just Cranwell. “What?”

“Lucy and I were out for a walk. Can I help you?”

“I’m trying to save these from the frost.” I tossed a handful of rags at him, and Lucy jumped to grab at them. “Drape these across the chives.”

He immediately stooped to the task.

We worked together in silence until the plants at last were covered. He gave me his hand as I stepped back over the rows. Releasing it as I set foot on the path, I was suddenly very aware of my thin cotton batiste chemise. Had the moon not been full, I would not have been so worried, but as it was, the moonlight sharpened every image it touched. I comforted myself with the thought of my robe. The medieval-inspired blue-gray velvet garment fit tightly over my torso but fell loosely from my waist and from its bell-shaped sleeves. I was safe.

“Freddie.”

“What?”

“Come here.”

Why did I find myself suddenly backing away? All week I’d been aware of his lips. All month, I’d been fascinated by his eyes.

He took a step closer as I took a step back. Unfortunately, his steps were bigger than mine. And I tripped over the hem of my robe. He slipped an arm around my waist and steadied me. “Freddie. You shimmer in the moonlight. You look like a fairy.” His gentle fingers immersed themselves in my hair. Began to swim through it. It had been so long since anyone had done that. I wanted to melt.

I moved my head so his hand slid to my cheek. The sleeve of his pea coat felt rough against my neck.

He pulled me closer. “You beguile me.” His face hovered above mine. His nose nuzzled my cheek; his breath frosted my eyelashes.

His words were so soft and gentle it was as if he’d whispered them inside my head.

My arms rose of their own volition and wrapped themselves around his waist.

He cradled my face between his hands and stood back and looked at me. Then his hands slid to my neck and he brought my face close and kissed my forehead.

My eyes fluttered shut.

He kissed my eyelids.

I sighed.

He kissed my nose.

A frenzied burst of barking came from Lucy.

We broke apart, staring at the dog.

Her stance was rigid, and she was glaring fixedly at the end of the forest.

I knew what it had to be: one of Alix’s admirers. Alix ruined everything.

His eyes were full of regret. And-were it possible-shame. “Stay here.”

I couldn’t find the voice to tell Cranwell not to worry. I was floating. I was sinking. I couldn’t remember the last time my head had spun so fast.

He took Lucy with him and walked straight toward the forest. They rustled through the woods for about five minutes, but of course, they didn’t find anything. Or anyone. The moonlight from behind drenched his form in its glow as he emerged from the woods. I couldn’t see his face; it was shadowed, but I could feel the heat of his gaze.

I stood, rooted to the brick pathway for a moment. Then I turned and fled.

As I neared the back door, I came upon Sévérine. Emerging from the shadow cast by the forest, she had just become visible as she slipped around the corner of the chateau. Her figure appeared ghostly in the moonlight, but still, it seemed as if her hands concealed something long and quite real behind her back. I gasped as I looked into her glittering eyes and then continued in a stumbling run, pulling open the door and continuing my flight upstairs. And there’s no other word to describe it, for when I reached my room, I bolted the door behind me.

In that last conscious second before sleep claimed me, a searing thought flared in my mind: What had Sévérine been doing in the forest?

my fourteenth year

year thirty-eight of the reign of Charles VII, King of France

day of Sainte Anne

My lord had not come to me for several months, but this past night he came. He placed me on the bed as normal, and let the curtains drop around it, then I heard him pull a chair close to the fire and he began to speak. He told me of Salaün. He was a simple soul who lived alone in the woods of the Lesneven region. He was avoided by all and lived the life of a hermit, only begging bread and repeating Ave Marias without cease. He lived in harmony with nature and slept outside. He never bothered a soul. At forty years, he fell ill and was found dead near a fountain. He was buried and quickly forgotten, until one day, a Lys flower was noticed growing from his tomb; Lys are the symbol of purity and innocence. They opened it up and found that the root of the flower was growing from the mouth of Salaün. In fact, the leaves had “Ave Maria” written on them in gold. And that is why the tomb of a simple hermit has become Notre Dame du Folgoët.