Siri Mitchell - Chateau of Echoes

We turned around and headed back toward the mainland. The return seemed much easier than the hike out to the point had been.

When we’d passed the worst of the slippery boulders and when the danger of falling into the ocean had passed, Cranwell stepped up onto a boulder beside me and gave me a half hug. “Thanks.”

Not needing him to know that I’d almost had a heart attack from fear of heights, I shrugged as if it were nothing. Still, it had felt exhilarating to stand on the edge of the continent. If I’d had to decide right then, I would have said I was glad I’d done it.

As we sped back to the hotel, I began working on my hair. I figured it would take at least an hour to pull all the knots from it. Much as I had enjoyed the sea spray, it had only served to lacquer the tangles together.

Cranwell glanced over at me. “Don’t comb them out. Let’s go back tonight.”

Working on a particularly stubborn knot, I frowned. “I’m sure the park closes at sunset.”

“It doesn’t matter. We can hike in.”

“That’s dangerous.”

“Nonsense.”

Although I was proud of myself, as far as hiking out to the point went, once was definitely enough. “Why can’t we just go out for dinner like normal people?”

“Because there’s nothing to be gained by living an ordinary life.”

The knot wouldn’t budge. “I’m not hiking back out to the tip of the point.”

“I’m not asking you to. I just want to see what it looks like in the moonlight.”

Oh, please. I threw him a sharp glance. He wasn’t usually so cheesy.

Finally, I jabbed my fingers into the knot and pulled downward in desperation. It didn’t even budge. Cranwell had a point; if we went back out, it would be a waste of time to untangle everything.

“What do you say?”

“Fine. Let’s do it.”

Dressing warmly for our evening adventure, I wore nearly everything I’d brought: a cotton turtleneck under a jewel-toned wool crew neck. It was one Peter had bought for me in Peru. I pulled tights on before I slipped into wool flannel pants, then tugged on the same lug-soled leather boots I’d worn earlier that day. Gloves and a hat were tucked into the pockets of my pea coat.

Cranwell met up with me in the hallway. He had a wool scarf tossed around his neck and underneath his black coat, he wore a roll-neck sweater and those tight-fitting jeans.

“Don’t you think you’ll slip and slide in those?” I was looking pointedly at his black loafers.

He held up a pair of well-worn hiking boots he’d kept hidden behind his back. Smiling, he gestured me ahead of him and down the stairs.

We ate dinner at a crêperie. Defying logic, this crêperie, like all the others I’d visited in France, took forever to serve our dinner. I can make a crêpe in three minutes; two crêpes take me ten minutes at the most. And between the two of us, two crêpes are all that we’d ordered.

Did I mention that we were the only customers in the restaurant?

It felt very naughty to step over the chain that roped off the park from the main road.

“Do you think there’s a guard?” His question might have sounded cautious, but Cranwell was already out in front, leading the way at a quick pace.

“No. This is Europe. If you want to be stupid and kill yourself, they don’t care.”

Cranwell broke his stride to look over his shoulder at me. “Then come on.”

At his prodding I started moving again, grabbing onto the hand he was holding out to me. It made me feel more safe. “Can’t we walk in the shadows?”

“Why? You just said there’s probably no one here.”

“Just in case.”

Cranwell relented, and we walked to the left toward the shade offered by the shelter of the restrooms. As we were engulfed by the shadows, I began to feel better. It was a beautiful night. We could hear the surf pounding the distant rocks, the full moon shone bright, and the stars were out in scores.

But then I heard something. Stopping suddenly, I pulled his hand to my side. Then I dragged him toward the building. “Someone’s coming.”

He stopped for a moment and listened, his eyes directed toward the left.

My loose hand found a fistful of his jacket.

He placed me behind his back, sheltering me against the wall.

Involuntarily, my hands wended themselves through his arms and around his waist. My eyes tightly shut, I tried to distinguish human sounds from the relentless assault of the surf. I could hear nothing but the beating of my heart.

His hand gripped one of my arms, stopping it, keeping me still. His body went tense with the effort it took to listen.

The sounds of the night became deafening: the surf, the wind, the sound of my heartbeat in my ears, Cranwell’s breathing, the sound of a footfall on the concrete path.

My hands flew up toward Cranwell’s chest, and I hid my head between his shoulders. I couldn’t stand to look.

Cranwell covered my hands with his own and it was then, when I felt the warmth of his skin on mine, that I realized how cold my own hands were.

He noticed too, for he pulled my arms forward, bringing me closer to his back, and then he cupped my hands and began to blow into them.

The warmth of his breath spread from my fingers to the rest of my body as if a furnace had suddenly fired. It took the sound of another footfall to steer my focus from Cranwell to the precarious situation we were in.

“Freddie-”

Before he could say another word, I clamped a hand over his mouth.

Another footstep fell.

Cranwell gently pried my hand from his mouth.

I buried my head deeper between his shoulder blades.

He began to kiss my fingers. My knees sagged, and I leaned into his back.

Another footstep fell.

It sounded as if it were almost opposite us, but my eyes were screwed so tightly shut I couldn’t see. Didn’t want to see. I was flying, I was soaring. What could possibly interest me on earth?

The next footfall sounded like it had passed us. And by that time, it was all I could do to keep standing. Cranwell had worked his way to my ring finger.

And then he came to my ring. Peter’s ring.

He slowly released my hand and walked away down the path through the hills.

The sudden lack of support made me pitch forward, but I caught myself before falling. Sliding down the wall, I shivered from the sudden absence of his warmth. I sat there for a full five minutes, trying to recover my breath and put my thoughts in order.

Robert Cranwell was a very dangerous man.

E ventually, I joined him on the old concrete slab, hunched into my coat with my hands shoved in my pockets.

“Are you cold?” He leaned my direction as he spoke, but he didn’t look at me.

“No.”

He crooked his arm for me, keeping his hand in his pocket. I hooked my arm through his and then returned my hand to my own pocket. Standing there, facing the wind, I reminded myself again that he flirted with everyone. Clearly he was involved in a relationship with Sévérine. The wind blew any romantic fantasies out of my mind.

“I’m sorry, Freddie. I had no right to do that. You always seem to be the victim when my old nature rebels against the new one.”

I could think of no reply.

Cranwell walked us to an area of rocks that jutted up from, its neighbors but was sheltered from the prevailing winds. He climbed up onto the highest of them. I nestled into the rock below it, leaning back against his legs, and drawing my own up in front of me.

Then Cranwell began to talk. “I’m not used to having a relationship with a woman that isn’t based on things physical. Freddie, I like you. You’re like no one else I’ve ever known. In my former life, the highest honor for that designation would have been to sleep with you. Of course, now, that should be the furthest thing from my mind. But it’s not. And I don’t know how to tell you how I feel about you without using my body to show you.”