Трейси Шевалье - The Virgin Blue

‘We went to see it yesterday. It used to be my ancestors' farm.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. There's something I need to get from it.’

‘What?’

‘I'm not sure,’ I replied, then added quickly, ‘but I know where it is.’

‘How can you know where it is when you don't know what it is?’

‘I don't know.’

Lucien paused, peering into his empty shot glass. ‘What do you want me to do?’ he asked after a moment.

‘Come with me to the farm, to look around. Do you have any tools?’

He nodded. ‘In my truck.’

‘Good. We might need them.’ He looked alarmed and I added, ‘Don't worry, we don't have to break in or anything – there's a key to the lock on the door. I just want to look around. Will you help me?’

‘You mean now? Right now?’

‘Yes. I don't want anyone to know I'm going there, so it has to be at night.’

‘Why don't you want anyone to know?’

I shrugged. ‘I don't want people to ask questions. To talk.’

There was a long silence. I braced myself for his no.

‘OK.’

When I smiled, Lucien returned it hesitantly. ‘You know, Ella,’ he said, ‘that's the first time you've smiled all evening.’

It was beginning to rain when Isabelle entered the woods. The first drops filtered through the new leaves on the beech trees, shaking them gently and filling the air with a soft, rustling sound. A musky smell rose from the dampening mix of dead leaves and pine needles.

She began to climb the slope behind the house, calling Marie's name occasionally, but more often standing still and listening to the sounds behind the rain: crows cawing, the wind in the pines further up the mountain, horse hooves on the path towards Moutier. She didn't think Marie would go far – she didn't like being alone or away from home. But she had never been shamed before either, in front of so many people.

It comes with your new hair, Isabelle thought, and with being my daughter. Even here. Yet I have no magic to protect you with, nothing to keep you safe from the cold and the dark.

She headed further up, reaching a ridge of rock halfway up the mountain and turning west along it. She knew she was being drawn to a particular place. She entered the little clearing where she and Jacob had kept the goat all summer. She had not been back since Jacob traded the goat for the cloth. Even now there were signs that an animal had been kept here: the remains of a shelter of branches, a ragged bed of straw and pine needles, droppings dried into hard pellets.

I thought I was so clever with my secrets, Isabelle brooded sombrely, looking at the goat's bed. That no one would ever know. It seemed a long time ago to her, a winter away.

Once she had visited one secret place she knew she would go to the other. She did not try to fight the impulse, even knowing it was unlikely Marie would be there. When the ridge descended towards the gorge she threaded her way through the rocks to the spot where Pascale had knelt and prayed. Here there was no trace of the secret: the blood had been absorbed in the ground long ago.

– Where are you, chérie ? she said softly.

When the wolf stepped from behind the rock, Isabelle jumped and screamed, but did not run. They faced each other, the flames of the wolf's eyes alert and penetrating. It took a step towards Isabelle and stopped. Isabelle stepped backwards. The wolf stepped forwards again and Isabelle found herself moving backwards down through the rocks. Fearful of falling, she turned round but kept glancing over her shoulder as she walked to make sure the wolf came no closer. It kept the same distance from her, slowing down or stopping when she did, speeding up when she did.

It is driving me like a sheep, Isabelle thought, forcing me to go where it wants. She tested this by veering to one side. The wolf jumped to that side and ran close to her until she turned forwards again.

They came out from the rocks to the path by the edge of the trees that led from Moutier to Grand Val, the way back to the farm. Trotting towards her from the Moutier direction was the Tourniers' horse, carrying Petit Jean and Gaspard. It was the horse she had heard moving in the barn and, she now understood, galloping along the path earlier.

Isabelle turned to look at the wolf. It was gone.

Lucien had an old Citroën truck stuffed with tools – exactly what I'd hoped. It rattled and coughed down the main street so loudly I was sure the entire population had come to their windows to watch our departure. So much for discretion.

It had just begun to rain, a fine mist that slicked the streets and made me pull my jacket tight around me. Lucien switched on the windshield wipers; they scraped against the windshield, setting my nerves on edge. He drove cautiously through town, not that he needed to: at nine-thirty not a soul was on the streets. By the train station, the only place showing any signs of life, he turned onto the road toward Grand Val.

We were silent during the drive. I was grateful that he didn't ask a lot of questions the way I would have if I were in his position: I didn't have any answers for him.

We turned into a small road which dipped under the railroad tracks and headed up a hill. At a cluster of houses Lucien swung onto a dirt road I recognized from our walk that morning. He drove about 300 yards, stopped and switched the engine off. The windshield wipers came to a blessed halt, the truck coughed several times, then with a long wheeze went dead.

‘It's over there.’ Lucien pointed to our left. After a moment I could make out the outline of the farm fifty yards away. I shivered; it was going to be hard to get out of the truck and walk up there.

‘Ella, can I ask you something?’

‘Yes,’ I replied reluctantly. I didn't want to tell him everything, but I knew I couldn't expect him to help me blindly.

He surprised me. ‘You are married.’ It was more a statement than a question, but I confirmed it with a nod.

‘It was your husband who called the other night, during the fondue.’

‘Yes.’

‘I was married too,’ he said.

‘ Vraiment ?’ I sounded more surprised than I'd intended. It was like his telling me he suffered from psoriasis: it made me feel guilty that I'd assumed he wouldn't have the kind of life I did, with stress and romance.

‘Do you have children?’ I asked, trying to give him back his life.

‘A daughter. Christine. She lives with her mother in Basle.’

‘Not too far from here.’

‘No. I see her every other weekend. And you, do you have children?’

‘No.’ My elbows and ankles started to itch, the psoriasis demanding attention.

‘Not yet.’

‘No, not yet.’

‘The day I found out my wife was pregnant,’ Lucien said slowly, ‘I had been planning to tell her I thought we should separate. We'd been married two years, and I knew things weren't going well. For me, anyway. We sat down to tell each other our big news, our thoughts. She went first. After she told me I couldn't tell her what I'd been thinking.’

‘So you stayed together.’

‘Until Christine was a year old, yes. It was like hell, though.’

I don't know how long it had been growing in me, but I realized suddenly that I felt nauseous, my stomach swimming in concrete. I swallowed and took a deep breath.

‘When I heard you on the phone with your husband it reminded me of phone calls I used to have with my wife.’

‘But I hardly said anything to him!’

‘It was your tone.’

‘Oh.’ I stared out at the dark, embarrassed.

‘I'm not sure my husband is the right man to have children with,’ I said then. ‘I've never been sure.’ Saying it aloud, to Lucien of all people, felt like breaking a window. The very sound of the words shocked me.