Élodie's Curse

The day had been long, my head and stomach were well filled. My boss had sent me and two colleagues to a training session. Now we were driving back home on the highway. Full and satisfied, I sat in the backseat of the company car, listening to the steady hum of the wind and watching through the window as the landscape slowly faded into twilight.

I had to think about my strange dream. The Orient Express. The blue gemstone. The mysterious woman named Miray. It had all been three weeks ago now.

Since then, I had only had my usual dreams: I was late for work, I was hungry and all the food was spoiled, things like that. I hadn’t had a dream of that kind since.

A week ago, I tried to recreate the situation from back then. Just like that day, I first devoured a huge döner from my favorite snack bar, then took a hot bath, and finally lounged on the sofa in front of the TV until I fell asleep. That night, I dreamed that I shared my apartment with a talking goat. After that, I gave up trying and accepted that that dream was a one-time exception.

We overtook a heavy transporter, its yellow warning light flashing through the side window and blinding me. I closed my eyes and tried to remember Miray’s face. Her short, tousled pixie cut with the blue streaks. Her cheeky smile. The ice-blue eyes – or were they silver-gray? The image of her was slowly fading.

The car suddenly swerved sharply, and my head bumped into something hard.

“Ow! Damn it!” said a voice beside me that sounded familiar.

“Miray?” I grumbled, holding my aching temple. I opened my eyes. It was broad daylight, and I was in the backseat of an old limousine. Next to me sat Miray, squinting and rubbing her head.

“Dian?” she asked, dazed. “Fancy bumping into you! Where are we?”

I looked outside. The sun was high in a blue sky, but in the distance, clouds were already piling up into an anvil, announcing a storm. We were driving along a country road that ran between a dense forest and a wheat field. It could have been anywhere. Nothing gave a clue about our location.

Or let’s say: almost nothing.

“I think we’re in France in the late 1930s,” I revealed, grinning proudly.

Miray looked at me, astonished. Finally, my childhood passion for car cards was paying off.

“We’re sitting in a beautiful Citroën Traction Avant. A true classic that was produced in France starting in 1934, if I’m not mistaken.” I ran my hand over the seat. “Do you smell the leather? This car can’t be old yet!”

We looked forward. In the driver’s seat sat a man in his thirties. Under his chauffeur’s cap, he had short black hair. He watched the road intently as he drove the vehicle.

Miray tapped him gently on the shoulder. “Excuse me, where are we going?”

“To Madame and Monsieur Vignaud, Mademoiselle,” he replied emotionlessly.

“And who are they?”

He gave us a brief glance in the rearview mirror.

“Your aunt and uncle, Mademoiselle.”

Miray looked at me, surprised. “Looks like I have family here.”

After half an hour, we reached a long, crumbling wall. Then we passed through a solid iron gate and drove along a narrow forest path. At the end of it, I could already see a manor house. With its ornate facade and a tower on the side, it could have been a castle.

The closer we got, the more details became visible. In front of the house was a large semicircular area of white gravel. In the center was a fountain that hadn’t been in operation for some time, as the overgrown moss revealed.

A scaffold covered part of the building, and the rest of the facade presumably still awaited renovation. I looked up at the roof and noticed a huge clock set into a dormer above the main entrance. It was hard to miss. I would have expected it more at a church or school; here, it seemed out of place. Moreover, it was missing its hands. Only twelve marks for the hours and an axle in the middle indicated that it once told the time.

Our hosts were already waiting for us at the main entrance, a man and a woman, both around forty and dressed up for their visitors. They waved to us as the car drove around the fountain. Next to them stood two teenage boys, obviously twins, nicely dressed in their best Sunday clothes. Behind them on the main steps waited three housemaids in uniform, alongside a butler in a black suit.

No sooner had we gotten out than the lady of the house ran towards us with open arms.

“Miray, my favorite niece!” she exclaimed, hugging her tightly and giving her a smooch on both cheeks. The head of the household followed, greeting his niece rather stiffly and formally.

“Hello, Auntie! Hello, Uncle!” Miray croaked nervously. To her, the people in this dream world were just as unfamiliar as they were to me. I admired how she tried to play it off.

“What a joyful message we received from you!” the aunt exclaimed enthusiastically.

Miray gave me a questioning look. I shrugged my shoulders cautiously.

The aunt looked me up and down, then turned back to her niece. “He does look nice! Aren’t you going to introduce us to your fiancé?”

Surprise was written all over Miray’s face. She stared at me with her mouth open. I grinned back. There were far worse fates, at least from my perspective.

Finally, she forced a smile and extended her hand to me. “Of course,” she exclaimed, pulling me to her. “Where have I left my manners? This is Dian, my fiancé!”

She looked at me and continued, “Dian, this is my aunt, Madame Vignaud, and my uncle, Monsieur Vignaud.”

“Parbleu, please don’t be so formal!” protested the aunt. “You can call us Zoé and Henri!”

She embraced me and gave me a kiss on both cheeks, while her heavy perfume almost knocked me out.

“After all, you’ll soon be part of the family, mon cher.”

Zoé waved her sons over and introduced them to me. Their names were Éric and Frédéric. They shook our hands reluctantly. It was obvious they would have preferred to be playing in the garden and having adventures rather than standing around in their best clothes to greet their cousin and her entourage.

Next, it was the staff’s turn. The butler, who always stood discreetly within call, was named Jérôme. He was an older, but still spry gentleman. When Zoé introduced him, he nodded and greeted us.

The three maids were named Agnès, Denise, and Paule. They were standing behind the Citroën, struggling to lift our luggage out of the trunk. We had already met Laurent, the chauffeur. He leaned casually against the driver’s door, chewing on a toothpick and watching the maids at work. As soon as the last suitcase was unloaded, he tossed the chewed stick away like a cigarette butt, closed the trunk, and drove off.

Our hostess took us by the hand, her grip as firm as a vise.

“My niece is engaged, how romantic!” she cooed. “You must tell me how you met at dîner!”

Miray wiped the tip of her nose. “Oh… It’s really nothing special,” she murmured, embarrassed. “We’d only bore you terribly with it.”

“Mais non!” Zoé laughed brightly. “I love such stories.”

She led us into the house and left us with the butler.

Jérôme led us up the wide main staircase and past a balcony into a long corridor. The walls were whitewashed, smooth, and unadorned. There were no pictures, no tapestries, no tables with flower vases. On both sides, doors were lined up at equal intervals, practical, functional, and boring. Everything was clean and well-maintained, but it felt as sterile as the hallway of a business hotel.

First, we went into Miray’s room. It matched all the clichés one might have about a bedroom in a manor house. The deep red wallpaper and dark oak parquet almost overwhelmed me. A canopy bed was prepared, its white curtain decoratively tied to the posts. Between the two windows stood a secretary, and on the side wall, a heavy oak wardrobe. The room felt both comfortable and hospitable, yet somehow unreal and almost like a set.

Agnès carried Miray’s suitcase into the room and placed it on a trunk. Meanwhile, Jérôme pointed to a door next to the wardrobe leading to the adjoining room.

“Madame instructed me to lock this door since Monsieur and Mademoiselle are not yet married,” he explained, clicking his tongue softly. “I’m afraid I’m becoming forgetful.”

Then he led me to the neighboring room. It was almost identically furnished, except everything was on the opposite side. Paule awaited me with my suitcase. When she saw me, she curtsied briefly and looked at me shyly.

“Agnès and Paule will be at your service at any time,” said Jérôme. Then he excused himself and left us to take care of the dîner.

“Would you like me to help you unpack, Monsieur?” Paule asked.

I thanked her but declined. I preferred to find out on my own what was in my suitcase. Paule made another curtsey, left the room, and quietly closed the door behind her.

Someone knocked on the other door.

“Dian?” I heard Miray’s voice.

I invited her in.

“Is your maid gone?” she asked, looking around my room.

“Yes. I preferred to unpack my things without her.”

She nodded. “I also sent Agnès away. There was nothing unusual in my suitcase, just clothes and what one needs for a trip. I hope we find a clue in yours as to why we’re here.”

I opened my luggage, but we found nothing more than an elegant suit, nightwear, a bathrobe, contemporary casual clothes, and toiletries.

Disappointed, I looked at Miray. “What task do you think we have to solve this time?”

“We’ll find out soon enough,” she said with a shrug. “The dîner is more of a concern to me right now. Aunt Zoé will question us about our engagement. What on earth should we tell her? Certainly not that we met on the Orient Express – thirty years ago!”

I stroked her shoulder. “When the time comes, I’m sure a story will spontaneously come to us.”

Miray was about to respond when there was a knock on the room door. Before we could answer, it swung open, and the twins burst in.

“Maman says we should show your fiancé the house,” Éric said excitedly.

“Maybe you can even help us solve the case,” Frédéric added.

Miray’s eyes lit up. “What case?” she asked, as if she had been waiting for this keyword.

“A theft!” Éric said. “Four bags of cement have disappeared from the construction site.”

“Cement,” she repeated dryly. “We’re here to find missing bags of cement.”

I had to laugh. “Well, then show us the crime scene.”

The twins led us to the back of the house. The building looked even more dilapidated there than in the front. In many places, the plaster had crumbled, revealing the bare brickwork. Part of the wall was scaffolded. Stones, cement bags, and other materials lay nearby.

The house bordered a park that had also seen better days. Bushes grew wild, and weeds overran the flower beds. Beyond was a forest that once invited strolls. A thicket of ivy, shrubs, and dead wood now made this impossible.

Between the forest and the house lay a lake. The water was murky and mossy, a few ducks floated lazily. They watched us warily and quacked among themselves.

Behind a side wing of the building, a shed caught my eye. Its base was built of rough fieldstones, with a wooden frame and roof resting on it. On its front was a large gate, painted with red and white stripes.

Éric noticed my gaze. “That used to be a stable for horses,” he explained. “Now our automobile is there.”

“And Laurent has a small workshop there,” Frédéric added. “He’s very skilled.”

Miray didn’t pay further attention to the shed. The theft wouldn’t leave her alone, as it was our possible ticket home.

“Who could be interested in stealing cement?” she asked the twins.

“No idea,” Frédéric mumbled. “Maybe the dead girl?”

His brother nudged him on the shoulder. “Maman says we shouldn’t talk about her when we have guests,” he scolded.

The adventure was starting to get interesting after all. “What dead girl?” I pressed.

The twins hesitated until Frédéric spoke up. “She drowned many years ago in the lake,” he said, pointing to the ducks.

“And now she’s come back as a ghost and is stealing cement?” asked Miray. “Why would she do that?”

Frédéric looked down sheepishly. “Because we took her lion.”

“Her lion.” Miray pursed her lips.

Éric nodded. “A few weeks ago, we found a small iron lion by the shore, totally dirty and rusty. We took it with us.”

“And where is it now?”

“We gave it to Laurent. He promised to restore it.”

Miray looked at me, puzzled. I shrugged. Stolen cement bags, a rusty lion, a dead girl. Many loose ends that just didn’t seem to fit together.

Jérôme approached us. “The dîner begins in two hours. The gentlemen and lady would surely like to freshen up beforehand.”

I nodded enthusiastically. That was perfect timing, as I was extremely hungry.

We returned to the house and went to our rooms to prepare for the evening. I took the elegant black suit from my suitcase. It fit as if it had been tailor-made, and it probably even was.

After changing, I knocked on Miray’s door.

“I’ll be ready in a moment!” she called.

A few moments later, she opened the door and stood before me. She wore an elegant, midnight blue evening gown that sparkled magnificently. The sleeves reached her wrists, and a deep neckline left room for a small diamond necklace. Her short hair was styled festively, and her face was subtly made up. She looked beautiful, and I regretted at that moment that we weren’t really engaged.

“Will you accompany me to dinner, mon cœur?” she asked me with a charming smile and extended her hand to me.

I nodded, offered her my arm, and she hooked hers through it. Together, we descended the grand staircase and entered the dining room. It was large and unusually elongated.

The dining table was massive and impressive, but it looked almost lost in the middle, with enough space for two more tables. For a stately dining room, it seemed odd. It looked more like a hall set up to accommodate as many people as possible.

The Vignauds were already seated at the table, engaged in conversation. Zoé was fussing with the collars of her sons while Henri gave final instructions to the staff.

When they noticed us, they fell silent. All eyes were on us.

Zoé broke the silence. “You truly are a wonderful couple!” she exclaimed and applauded. Embarrassed, we thanked them and took our seats opposite them at the table.

The three maids served the first course, a deliciously fragrant onion soup with a slice of bread generously topped with melted cheese floating in the middle. As I hungrily began to eat, Jérôme filled our glasses.

The table conversation started with small talk about the weather and our journey. But I knew that Zoé actually had something else on her mind and would soon ask the inevitable question. I tried to preempt her choice of topic.

“Zoé, forgive my curiosity,” I began, “but this manor house, it’s quite… unusual in some ways.”

She paused. “Unusual?”

“Well, for instance, there’s that huge clock on the roof. Or the corridor with all the bedrooms. And the dining room? There’s enough space here for an entire platoon!”

“Very observant, Dian,” Zoé praised me with a smile. “You’re right! The building wasn’t originally a manor house; it was a girls’ boarding school for the upper class.”

“Why was it closed?” Miray asked. “Does it have to do with the drowned girl?”

Zoé shot her sons a stern look. “It seems two chatterboxes couldn’t keep their mouths shut.”

Then she took a deep breath. “Yes. The girl had sneaked out of her room one night. The next morning, she was found in the lake. The police called it a tragic accident.”

Henri set down his wine glass before continuing: “It was a scandal for the boarding school. The parents came and took their daughters away. The reputation was ruined. Eventually, the money ran out, and they had to close. The house stood empty for many years and began to fall into disrepair.”

“Henri bought it four years ago,” Zoé continued, pride in her voice. “We named it Manoir de Vignaud and began renovations. Much was broken, the windows shattered, the roof leaking. We’ve already remodeled part of the rooms to be worthy of a manoir. Currently, we’re having the facade and the rest of the upper floor renovated. But there’s still much to do, as you surely noticed.”

She sighed.

“It’s said,” Frédéric said excitedly, “the ghost of the dead girl still haunts here.”

Zoé slammed her fist on the table. “Enough, Frédéric! You’re scaring your cousin with your ghost stories.”

The first course was finished. Agnès and Denise cleared away our dirty dishes while Paule rolled in a serving cart.

“A specialty of our cook,” Zoé announced happily, “homemade Boudin Noir!”

Paule served me a plate with several thick slices of darkly fried sausage, a portion of mashed potatoes with fried onions, and caramelized apple slices as a side. I had never eaten anything like it, but it tasted as appetizing as it looked. When Denise offered me seconds, I gladly held out my plate.

Zoé seized the moment of our distraction. “Miray, Dian, you must finally tell us how you met! And when is the wedding? We’re invited, right? So, where did you meet?”

Miray nervously twisted her water glass, then looked around the table, embarrassed. The moment she had dreaded was here. I wanted to help her.

“In London,” I began.

“Playing poker,” she blurted out at the same moment.

Our eyes met. With a barely noticeable nod, I let her know I would take over. She nodded back gratefully.

“We met in London,” I recounted calmly, “at a poker tournament. Round by round, we advanced, each a tough opponent in their own right. Until fate finally brought us to the same table. We had a fierce duel. But then…”

“Then?” Zoé asked eagerly. She was hanging on our every word.

“Then…” Miray continued, inserting a dramatic pause, “then I got greedy. I went all-in with nothing in my hand, and Dian called.”

She caught my gaze as if we had really experienced it.

“I lost everything. But what does money matter when I could win his heart that night?”

She smiled cheekily. I almost burst out laughing, which would have exposed the fairy tale we had so shamelessly fed our hosts.

We looked at Zoé. She had a peculiar expression on her face, one that showed she was touched but also somewhat skeptical. Finally, she smiled contentedly.

“These are the kind of stories only life can write, aren’t they, Henri?” she gushed, looking at her husband. Just as he was about to respond, a sharp scream echoed through the house.

We looked at each other in shock.

“That was Paule!” Denise shouted, dropping the dirty plates onto the serving cart and running out. We jumped up from our seats and hurried after her.

Paule was sitting by a window in the salon, completely slumped over and pale as a ghost. Denise knelt beside her, fanning her with a handkerchief.

Jérôme went over to the two maids. “What’s all the commotion about?” he asked gruffly.

Paule pointed a trembling hand outside. “The ghost!” she croaked. “By the lake! The ghost of the dead girl!”

We ran to the windows and stared out. In the moonlight, we could clearly see a figure by the water. She wore a tattered white dress and walked slowly along the shore. As she reached the trees, a cloud obscured the scene. A moment later, the apparition was gone.

Henri was as white as a sheet. “That can’t be!” he stammered, his hand resting on the windowpane. Zoé also looked out into the garden, stunned.

The twins, on the other hand, beamed with excitement. “Didn’t I tell you, cousin?” Frédéric triumphed, tugging at Miray’s dress. Éric kept his eyes on the lake, not wanting to miss a second appearance of the ghost.

Jérôme was now outside, running to the lake and looking around. After a while, he glanced back at the house and threw his hands up in resignation before returning with slumped shoulders.

We spent the rest of the evening in silence. Paule stood apathetically in a corner of the dining room until Jérôme could no longer bear the sight and sent her to the kitchen. He and the other two maids quietly served the last course, a Crème Brûlée with barberries. The tension crackled in the room. When I dropped my spoon, everyone flinched and looked at me reproachfully.

After finishing dessert, we decided to end the evening and retire to our rooms. The festive mood was gone.

I lay in bed, unable to sleep. Outside, thick clouds had covered the moon, plunging the room into darkness. The house was unfamiliar and old, its walls creaking and cracking as it cooled from the hot day. I didn’t really notice it. My thoughts revolved around the question of what our task might be.

Undoubtedly, the haunting by the lake was part of it. But was it really the ghost of the drowned girl we had seen? A real specter? Or was there a logical explanation?

Eventually, I dozed off until a freshening wind whistled through the window cracks and rattled the panes. A deep rumble in the distance announced the storm that had been lurking on the horizon all day. It quickly approached, the lightning became more intense, the rumbling louder. Rain began to lash against the thin glass.

A lightning bolt struck nearby. For a moment, the room lit up. The branches of a tree cast the shadow of a monster on the wall. Immediately after, a crashing thunder. It made the windows rattle, its echo reverberating through the house like a cannon shot.

“Pull yourself together,” I scolded quietly, taking a deep breath. “You’re acting like a little kid afraid of a thunderstorm.”

I turned to the other side and tried to finally find sleep.

The large grandfather clock in the salon struck one. Seconds later: a dull thud, so strong that the walls shook.

It came from inside the house!

I snapped my eyes open. My heart pounded in my chest. Two more thuds followed. A slow, rough rhythm, the footsteps of a giant.

I groped for the switch. The nightlight came on. I jumped out of bed, wanting to flee. My knees buckled, weak as jelly. I clung to the table, forced myself to stand, and ran into the corridor.

Zoé was already there, in her nightgown, looking at me with terrified eyes. Behind her, Henri, putting on a coat.

Another door opened, and Miray looked around. “What is this, the trampoline finale of the sumo wrestlers?”

The next dull thud, it made the walls creak.

Éric and Frédéric came running out of their room, rushing to their mother. She looked at them grimly.

“Are you behind this?”

The boys shook their heads. Then they clung to her as if she were a lifebuoy.

Another thud. The light flickered briefly.

Footsteps approached us. The three maids turned into the corridor, then Jérôme, gasping for air, with Laurent trailing behind him. They had left their rooms in a panic, still in their sleepwear. They looked at us, pale.

“What is that?” Zoé asked.

“I don’t know, Madame.” Jérôme put his hands on his hips and breathed heavily.

“The sound seems to come from everywhere,” Laurent added. “You can hear it throughout the house.”

“It must be the ghost!” Frédéric exclaimed, his eyes sparkling. Paule screamed and covered her face with her hands. Denise immediately took her into her arms comfortingly and glared at the boy.

Miray headed to the grand staircase. Jérôme, Laurent, and I followed her. As soon as we reached the landing, another tremor shook the house.

“It seems to be louder here,” she noted.

Laurent leaned over the railing. “I think it’s coming from the basement!”

Miray bobbed her head. “We should split up. Jérôme and Laurent, you go downstairs! We’ll look around on this floor.”

Jérôme nodded and descended the stairs. Laurent hesitated briefly, then slumped his shoulders and followed him.

We walked to the other end of the gallery and reached a door that had been provisionally constructed from rough slats. Behind it lay the part of the building that was currently being renovated.

Miray found a light switch. A few dim lamps, hanging from cables from the ceiling, flickered on and illuminated the construction site. The old plaster had been stripped from the walls, doors removed from their hinges, and the ceiling torn open. Rubble covered the bare floorboards.

Another tremor. Plaster trickled down like a brief rain shower. I got goosebumps.

We ventured further into the construction site until we reached the end. There we stood, waiting for another thud.

But none came.

The lightning that flickered through the dusty windows and the distant rumble of thunder indicated that the storm was also passing.

“Well, that’s that,” I muttered.

Miray nodded. “Let’s go back to the others.”

At the landing, we met Jérôme and Laurent coming up. They glanced at us and shrugged.

Together, we returned to the Vignauds. Relief was written all over their faces when they saw us.

“We couldn’t find anything downstairs,” Laurent reported.

“We didn’t find anything either,” Miray added. “The noise just stopped.”

Zoé nodded. It was clear she wanted a better explanation, just like all of us.

“I don’t know how yet,” she finally said with a quiet sigh, “but we should go to sleep. Maybe we’ll learn more tomorrow.”

When I was back in my bed, I turned off the nightlight and stared into the darkness. Zoé was right: After that scary experience, I probably wouldn’t be able to sleep a wink ever again.

I turned my head to the side and saw a narrow strip of light under the adjoining door. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who had lost a good night’s sleep.

Quietly, I went to the door, knocked, and waited until Miray’s voice invited me in.

She sat upright in bed, the blanket pulled over her legs. Her robe was neatly folded on the desk chair, and she now wore a sleeveless white nightgown. For the first time, I saw her arms, and I couldn’t help but notice her strong muscles. On her left upper arm was a small scar from an old injury.

“A ghost that knocks? How considerate!” she teased.

I glanced back at the door. Why did I want to come to her in the first place?

“I can’t sleep,” I whined. “What do you think that was?”

“No idea!” She threw her arms up. “But there will be a rational explanation. Or do you believe in ghosts?”

“Not really. But what’s rational about these dream worlds anyway?”

Miray yawned and brushed a strand of hair from her face. “Looks like the witching hour is over, Dian. Let’s continue tomorrow. I need my beauty sleep, and you can haunt Canterville Chase a bit more and hone your ghost skills.”

Embarrassed, I stared at her bedspread. I would have loved to just lie down next to her. Not because I was scared. I just wasn’t keen on sleeping alone in my dark room. But I knew I couldn’t possibly do that.

So I murmured a “Good night,” shuffled back to my room, and quietly closed the door behind me.

I lay awake in my bed for a while, continuing to stare at the narrow strip of light under the door until it went out. Eventually, I fell asleep.

A ray of sunshine woke me up. It shone directly on my bed and made the events of the previous night feel like the memory of a bad dream. I got up, stretched, and went to the window.

Outside, I spotted Miray. She had thrown on some improvised sportswear and was jogging in the garden, skillfully dodging the large puddles left by the thunderstorm rain.

My stomach growled. Time for breakfast! I freshened up and hurried downstairs.

In the foyer, I ran into Jérôme. His face was crumpled, he had dark circles under his eyes, and his suit didn’t look as immaculate as it had yesterday.

“Breakfast is served on the terrace, Monsieur,” he said sleepily, pointing to an open veranda door.

Outside, Henri and Zoé were already seated at the table. Their voices sounded hoarse as they greeted me. Paule clumsily curtsied and adjusted my chair, while Denise took the coffee pot from the serving cart. She bumped it against a cup, which tipped over and shattered on the stone floor. Agnès gave her a look that spoke volumes and disappeared wordlessly to fetch a dustpan and brush.

Shortly after, Miray joined us and plopped down on the chair next to me. She beamed as if she had spent the night somewhere else.

“I hope you left me something,” she said, grabbing a croissant and biting into it with relish.

“Looks like you slept well,” I noted.

She nodded and pointed to two jars of jam.

“So, did you meet Sir Simon last night, Dian?”

I pointed to the jar of apricot jam.

“Sir Simon?”, I echoed.

She waved her finger and pointed to the other jar.

“You know, Sir Simon, the ghost of Canterville.”

I handed her the strawberry jam and grumbled, “What does this have to do with a story by Edgar Allan Poe?”

“Oscar Wilde,” she corrected me and nodded in thanks.

Zoé burst into loud laughter. We stared at her in surprise.

“You act like you’ve been married for years!” she exclaimed, nudging Henri.

I was about to respond when Laurent came running toward us from the side wing. He was waving his arms excitedly.

“Monsieur, Madame,” he called, “come quickly! You have to see this!”

We looked at each other in surprise, then jumped up and followed him. He led us to the far side of the wing. There, he stopped and pointed at the house wall before burying his hands in his short hair.

In large, red letters, the name ÉLODIE was scrawled on the plaster.

Henri was beside himself. “Is this supposed to be a bad joke?” he shouted angrily and stomped back into the house with clenched fists. His wife watched him with concern.

“Is that the name of the dead girl?” Miray asked.

Zoé shook her head. “No, her name was Claire. The name Élodie means nothing to me.”

We sat at the breakfast table for a while longer, but our appetites were gone. The croissants remained in the basket, the coffee went cold, and a wasp helped itself to the jam. Finally, we got up and withdrew.

In my room, Miray stood at the window, hands resting on the windowsill, silently looking out.

“What an adventure,” I sighed. “We have a ghost by the lake, that blood-curdling thumping in the night, and now this name on the house wall.”

“The wrong name,” she murmured. Then she turned to me. “Not the name of the girl who drowned in the lake. None of this makes any sense!”

She fell backward onto my bed, and I sat down next to her. Together, we stared into space, pondering. She was surely thinking about the haunting, but something else occupied my mind.

“Miray?” I began. “What happens if we can’t solve the task? Will we be trapped here forever?”

She looked at me, opened her mouth, but didn’t say a word. Suddenly, she jumped up.

“That won’t happen, Dian! We’ll crack the mystery. Come on, let’s look for clues by the lake!”

We left the room and stood on the landing when the doorbell rang. Agnès hurried over and opened the door to a man of about forty, strongly built, expensively dressed, and with the red, puffed face of a choleric. He took his cigar out of his mouth and blew a cloud of smoke toward the maid in greeting.

“Took your sweet time, girl!” he growled. “Come on, take me to your master, he’s expecting me.”

“I’ll announce you immediately, Monsieur Farges!” said Agnès. Without changing her expression, she led the visitor into the salon and walked away.

We descended the stairs and watched Farges from a safe distance. He strutted through the room with the confidence of a man who had never had to ask for permission in his life. He wasn’t just in the room; he claimed it for himself.

As Paule entered, he curtly instructed her to bring him a cognac. As she passed by, he gave her a casual slap on the behind, as if she were nothing more than a piece of furniture. The maid curtsied obediently and hurried away with her head bowed.

“But from the good stuff,” Farges called after her, “not that swill Henri serves his guests!”

Then he noticed us. His gaze lingered on Miray. A broad grin spread across his face. He dropped the cigar into an ashtray and smoothed his thinning hair.

“Ah, what a delightful sight!” he purred, stepping closer. “Antoine Farges, broker. For you, ma chère, just Antoine. And what may I call your enchanting self?”

“Miray,” she growled, “the niece of Madame and Monsieur Vignaud.”

“Enchanté,” he cooed, taking her hand and giving a mock kiss to her fingers. Then his gaze slid to me, cold and dismissive. “And that must be your brother, I assume?”

“No. Dian. My fiancé.”

The oily grin instantly vanished from his face.

At that moment, Paule returned with a tray holding a well-filled cognac snifter. Farges grabbed the glass and took a sip.

“Well, there’s better,” he grumbled.

The maid curtsied and stood discreetly in a corner, ready for new instructions.

He took another sip and eyed me as if I were a horse at the livestock market. “Your fiancé, then? He looks like a poor wretch, Mademoiselle Miray. Don’t waste yourself on such a good-for-nothing! A woman like you deserves better.”

Miray raised an eyebrow. “You, for example?”

He nodded patronizingly. “Mais bien sûr! I have more to offer than he does.”

“That’s right.” Miray took a step toward Farges, her eyes drilling into his. “Arrogance, disrespect, and the manners of a bully. All traits I find repulsive.”

That hit home. Farges’s face turned deep red. He raised his hand, half threat, half reflex. Miray didn’t flinch an inch. On the contrary, she seemed to hope he would hit her.

His hand began to tremble, then he let it drop. He downed the rest of the cognac as if it were water, and swung the empty glass like a club.

“Is there nothing to drink in this damn house?” he barked at Paule. “Girl, bring me the whole bottle!”

At that moment, Agnès returned and asked Farges to follow her. As soon as he turned his back to us, we exchanged glances, amazed at the spectacle we had just witnessed.

“That was very brave of you, Mademoiselle,” Paule whispered from her corner. She was trembling all over. “It seemed as if you weren’t afraid of Monsieur at all!”

“Afraid? Of him?” A crooked grin flashed across Miray’s face. “Authority is all he has, Paule. Talking back must have been a new experience for him.”

She nodded toward the front door. Then she walked off, and I followed her outside.

Our search for clues began at the lake. It looked as neglected as the rest of the estate. Reeds and rushes overran it. A narrow, completely overgrown path led along the shore and ended in dense undergrowth. Only now did I realize that the body of water was much larger than I thought. Perfect for spending a few hours with a rowboat and a fishing rod.

Miray crossed her arms. “Well, if there were any tracks here, they were trampled by Jérôme or washed away by the storm,” she growled. “We won’t get any further here. Let’s examine the graffiti next.”

The name still stood in huge letters on the wall of the side wing. Jérôme had fetched a bucket and a hand scrubber and had begun to wash off the letters. With little success so far.

Miray examined the smear as if looking for a signature from the unknown artist. Then she moistened her index finger and wiped it through the paint.

“This isn’t really getting us anywhere,” she murmured.

I disagreed. Miray had gotten so caught up in her search for clues that she seemed to have missed something obvious: An important trait of our unpleasant visitor.

“It can only be Farges,” I voiced my suspicion aloud.

“Farges?” She looked at me puzzled. “Why do you think that?”

“It can’t be a coincidence that he shows up just now. Didn’t he say he’s a broker? He probably wants to soften Henri up with the haunting to sell the house cheaply. Maybe he has a buyer, or he wants it himself.”

Miray raised an eyebrow. “You mean he played the ghost at the lake?”

I nodded. “And he smeared some name on the wall. It had the intended effect.”

“The name?” She rubbed the paint between her fingers. “I think it was written with animal blood. And that can only come from the kitchen here.”

“From the kitchen? What makes you think that?”

“The homemade Boudin Noir from last night, remember?”

“Yeah, what about it?”

“Well, that’s fried blood sausage.”

I looked at her in horror. “Yuck,” I exclaimed, “and you let me eat that?”

Miray shrugged. “It seemed to taste delicious to you, the way you shoveled it in and even wanted seconds.”

She pounded her fist against the wall, but not even a creak was heard.

“What do you think about the thumps, Dian? They definitely came from inside the house.”

“Farges must have snuck in. And then he made the noise with a heavy hammer or something like that.”

Miray tilted her head back and looked up at the tower’s peak. “I had the impression the banging got louder the closer we got to the tower. Let’s see what we can discover there.”

In a corner of the dining room, half-hidden behind a sprawling room palm, we found the entrance to the tower. The massive oak door was unlocked, and behind it lay a stone spiral staircase. The plaster had crumbled from the wall in places, and a light draft carried the smell of mustiness and damp mortar.

The steps led us up one floor to another door. When we opened it, we found ourselves back in the construction site we had crossed during the night.

One more floor up, the staircase ended at a narrow wooden door. Next to it leaned a wooden ladder, old but stable. It reached about four meters high and led through a hatch to the attic of the tower’s peak.

Miray suddenly grabbed my hand. Her fingernails dug into my palm, her eyes fixed on the hatch.

“Dian,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, “I’m not climbing up there, okay? Can you do it?”

I looked at her in surprise. Where was the brave Miray who had just confronted a full-grown hothead?

“You’re afraid of heights?” I asked, concerned.

She just nodded.

“Then wait here. I’ll go check what’s up there.”

The ladder creaked and bent under my weight, but it held. I squeezed through the hatch and entered a circular, empty room under the open beams of the conical roof. A row of windows ran along the wall, offering a wide view over the lake and the park. Some panes were broken from the weather. Pigeons and bats used the place as a refuge. Their droppings covered the floor, and the stench almost took my breath away.

“I don’t think anyone’s been up here for a long time,” I called down and had to cough. “Let’s get out of here.”

I climbed down the ladder. When I reached the bottom, Miray stepped aside. Her gaze briefly brushed over me, then she looked at her feet. “Thanks,” she said curtly, then she was already at the wooden door, turning the handle.

The hinges squeaked and creaked as she pushed the door open. Behind it lay a large, dusty attic. We felt around for a light switch, but there was nothing there, no switch, no lamp, no wiring. Through a few oval dormer windows with fogged panes, some light fell sluggishly on old bed frames, broken chalkboards, and crooked school desks. Relics from the boarding school’s time, dumped and forgotten. In the distance, a clockwork ticked, slowly and evenly.

Miray grimaced. “There’s nothing here but junk,” she grumbled.

I nodded. “Maybe the noises came from the basement, like Laurent suggested. In such old houses, you can never be sure.”

We closed the door and followed the spiral staircase down until we reached the cellar vault at the other end. A labyrinth of corridors and chambers awaited us, filled with supplies and wine bottles. Cables and pipes stretched like veins over the ceiling and walls. We passed a laundry room and a coal storage before reaching the kitchen. From there, an iron door led back to a secluded part of the garden.

We circled the building and sat down on the edge of the fountain in the front.

“Nothing,” Miray grumbled frustratedly. “Nothing, nothing, and nothing again. No traces of the ghost by the lake, no clues on the smeared wall, and nothing that would explain these nighttime noises. We’re fishing with pool noodles.”

I nodded. Then my stomach growled. Loudly.

Embarrassed, I looked at her. “Do you think Jérôme will bring us something to eat? Coffee and cake, or something?”

She groaned. “Don’t tell me you’re hungry again!”

Her gaze wandered to the clock on the roof.

“This stupid thing without hands is driving me crazy. Every time I want to check the time, but…”

Suddenly she widened her eyes, staring upwards.

“Damn! How did I miss that?” she exclaimed. “The ticking! And there’s no electricity!”

I looked at her, confused.

“The clock is mechanical, Miray,” I said, as if I actually needed to explain it to her. “It doesn’t need electricity; you just have to wind it.”

She grabbed my arm. “That’s what I mean! Who bothers to wind a clock that doesn’t have hands?”

We rushed back into the house, hurried up the spiral staircase, and flung open the door to the attic. Now we just needed to follow the ticking.

We found the clockwork in a dark corner, an open framework full of gears, rods, and chains that moved almost imperceptibly slowly. In the background, a pendulum swung in a steady rhythm, and a small dial on the frame showed the time.

Right next to it stood a makeshift wooden structure, perhaps a little taller than me, and hastily put together. On top lay heavy cement blocks, each on a kind of flap secured with a latch. A chain connected the structure to the clockwork.

I immediately understood what it meant: The chime no longer struck a bell; instead, it set the mechanism in motion. The latches opened the flaps one by one, and the blocks fell to the ground. Thud! Like on a giant drum.

A soft rattling, a fan wheel turned, then the clock ticked on innocently.

“There’s our ghost!” I exclaimed. “It’s just a clever mechanism!”

Miray nodded. “And everything’s already set up for the next witching hour.” She ran her finger over the frame. “Can you somehow disable the apparatus?”

“Nothing easier than that!” I pointed to a small lever next to the dial. “That turns off the chime. That should do it.”

“Very good! Looks like we have a plan,” she said, grinning with satisfaction. “Tonight we’ll lie in wait for our Sir Simon.”

We left the attic and went through the basement back into the garden. Behind the barn, we discovered a narrow path that ended at a slope on the property’s edge. A weathered bench stood there, overlooking a large pasture. We had time to kill, so we sat down, let the sun warm us, listened to the buzzing of bees, and watched the cows graze.

I thought about the breakfast. About our exchange of words. About Zoé, how she laughed and said we were already acting like an old married couple.

“You know…” I blurted out, “you’re pretty practiced at playing the role of the fiancé.”

I meant it as a compliment, but as soon as I said it, it didn’t sound like one. Embarrassed, I glanced at her. She looked at me as if I had opened a door that was better left closed.

“For your information,” she said dryly, “I’m single. Always have been.” She looked at the pasture and murmured softly, “Some people just aren’t made for relationships.”

I plucked a blade of grass and twirled it between my fingers. “Then we’re in the same boat,” I tried to console. “I’m single too.”

“Glad we cleared that up,” she grumbled, resting her chin in her hands and sinking into her thoughts.

Towards evening, we returned to the house for dinner. The table in the dining room was lavishly set, the conversations forcedly superficial, Zoé’s laughter exaggeratedly carefree. No one dared mention the ghost by the lake, the nighttime thunder, or the writing on the wall. That made the atmosphere even more tense.

I picked at my food. Before the dîner, we had searched our luggage for flashlights, a lighter, anything that would give us light. In vain! We were left with only the dawn light to prepare our plan. The thought of then spending the rest of the night on a pitch-dark attic waiting for a ghost robbed me of my appetite.

The sun had already set behind the house by the time we finally finished dinner. We didn’t have much time left until it would be completely dark. We stood up and excused ourselves.

“You’re leaving already?” Zoé asked, disappointed.

I nodded and fibbed, “We’re falling asleep on our feet. Last night was pretty short.”

Zoé grinned mischievously. “Yes, yes, the country air has caused many a short night. Sleep well, you lovebirds!”

We snuck to the construction site door, opened it quietly, and slipped through. Darkness greeted us. We couldn’t turn on the light because we wouldn’t have been able to turn it off again at the other end. So we waited until our eyes adjusted to the darkness.

Finally, we reached the tower. From below, the soft voices of the Vignauds reached us, the clattering of dishes, the scraping of chairs. We crept up the stairs and stood before the door to the attic. Carefully, we pushed it open. Its creaking must not betray us.

In the sparse light that fell through the windows, I could only make out shadows. I went to the clockwork, my hands feeling along the frame until I found the lever and turned it.

After that, we carried an old bed frame into a corner, placed a mattress on it, and set up two school desks in front of it for camouflage. Once the preparations were complete, we dusted off our clothes, took off our shoes, and lay down in the squeaky bed.

“Now we can only wait,” I sighed.

“Mhm,” Miray agreed, “but if a polite ghost knocks on the door this time, you go and check.”

The moon rose and shone through the oval dormer windows. In the masonry, I occasionally heard the soft scratching and rustling of a mouse. The steady ticking of the clockwork, it almost had a hypnotic effect on me. I had to yawn heartily.

“Take your hand off me!” Miray whispered indignantly.

“My hands are right here,” I protested, holding them out into the pale moonlight. “See?”

She held her breath. “Then whose hand is that?” she whispered.

Her voice sounded serious.

Dead serious.

My heart started racing. I screamed, slid to the side, and almost fell out of bed.

And Miray – she laughed loudly. “Just kidding, Dian!”

“Thanks,” I gasped, moving back next to her. “That took at least ten years off my life.”

“But now you’re awake, aren’t you?”

Time crawled by, and the attic noticeably cooled. We moved closer together to warm each other a little. Feeling Miray so close gave me an unexpected sense of security. As eerie as the situation was, a part of me hoped it wouldn’t end too soon.

For a moment, I must have dozed off. A loud rattling pulled me from my half-sleep. It came from the clockwork. Gears ground, the striking mechanism clicked, but the frame with the weights remained motionless. Our sabotage had worked.

“No hauntings tonight,” I whispered into the darkness.

“Yes,” Miray whispered back. I could almost see her grin in the dark. “Sir Simon won’t like that. Let’s see who comes to check it out now.”

Minutes passed. Then an hour. Then two.

But no one came.

Eventually, Miray snored softly. I let her slumber, planning to wake her only if something happened. Then I too drifted off again.

A shake woke me from sleep. I grumbled softly and turned onto my back. Warm daylight streamed through the windows into the dusty air. I looked up at wooden beams and roof tiles.

Oh right, the attic…

“Wake up, Dian!” I heard Miray’s gentle voice. “Looks like Sir Simon stood us up. Let’s go down before Zoé comes looking for us.”

I nodded, stretched, and looked around. The morning sun reflected off the clockwork frame. I went over and examined it. The lever was still flipped, and the weights rested on the flaps of the wooden frame next to it. The construction looked improvised, but it was clearly made with expertise.

“Whoever built this knew what they were doing,” I said and was about to return to the bed when I stepped on something sharp.

I cried out loudly.

“What is it?” Miray asked, startled.

“A stupid idea to walk around here in socks,” I grumbled, pulling a large, round wood splinter from my foot. “Luckily, it wasn’t a rusty nail.”

“What is that?” she asked. “Let me see!”

She took the piece of wood and examined it from all sides. Then she started to grin.

“Congratulations, Dian! You’ve found the missing puzzle piece. Now I know who the mysterious Sir Simon is.”

I paused. “It’s just a splinter!”

“That’s not a splinter!” She held the bent piece of wood up to my nose. “That’s a toothpick someone chewed on.”

My eyes widened. Could it be true?

“It’s Laurent!” I exclaimed in surprise. “When the maids were unloading our suitcases from the car, he was standing there chewing on something like this!”

“Exactly, Laurent!” She snapped her fingers. “He wasn’t with us when the ghost appeared at the lake. He was able to get animal blood from the kitchen and smear it on the wall. He was able to steal the cement bags. And he’s skilled enough to build a device like that.”

“Finally, a hot lead, Miray!” I clapped my hands. “But what do we do now?”

“Now?” She pointed outside. “Now we take advantage of the early hour and search the old barn before Laurent shows up there. Maybe we’ll find more clues.”

I shivered a little as we walked through the garden to the stable. The door at the far end wasn’t locked, so we went inside and found ourselves in a small workshop. A partition door separated it from the stable area, where the Vignauds’ car was currently parked.

My gaze immediately fell on a massive drill press. It stood next to a workbench that was impeccably organized. On the wall hung hammers, pliers, screwdrivers, chisels, and other tools, all neatly arranged and in their proper place. A large shelf stored various woods, pipes, and other materials. It smelled of wood, gasoline, and lubricants. A smell I was all too familiar with.

In front of the window was a desk like one you’d find in an office: a large work surface with drawers on each side. A black desk lamp arched over a worn brown leather writing pad, which was covered with hastily scribbled notes and several burn marks.

Miray opened one of the drawers, rummaged through it, and pulled out a small medallion on a necklace. She opened the locket, nodded briefly, and handed it to me. Inside were two small portrait photos, one of Laurent on the left, and one of a woman of the same age on the right. I closed it again and found an engraving on the outside.

“L & É,” I read aloud. “The ‘L’ must be for Laurent.”

“Mhm,” Miray nodded. “And the ‘É’ could be for Élodie. It looks like they were a couple.”

She took a small metal figure from the drawer.

“That must be the lion the twins found by the lake. What do you think?”

It was indeed a small, roaring lion made of cast iron, mounted on a metal plate with a thread. I immediately recognized what it was. Fascinated, I turned the piece in my hand, weighed it, and examined it from all sides.

“That’s the hood ornament of an old Peugeot! What a beautiful piece, really solid work. But it’s badly rusted, it must have been in the water for a long time. Also, the left front paw is broken off.”

Meanwhile, Miray had found a folder with newspaper clippings and spread it out on the table.

She tapped on a photo. “Do you recognize her?”

“Yes, that’s the woman from the medallion. Who is she?”

“It’s Élodie! About three years ago, she was hit by a car at night. The driver fled, she died at the scene.”

She pointed to another article.

“And here it says that on the same evening, Henri’s Peugeot was stolen while he was at a soirée with a business partner.”

“A hit-and-run accident and a Peugeot that was stolen from Henri. Do you believe in coincidences?”

Miray snorted. “Certainly not! Laurent probably believed that Henri had something to do with it too. But suspicion alone wasn’t enough for him…”

“…so he got himself hired by the Vignauds as a chauffeur to secretly look for clues,” I completed.

She nodded. “Then the twins brought him the lion! He also recognized that it was the hood ornament of a Peugeot. That was the proof he was looking for: The car that killed Élodie wasn’t stolen, it was sunk here in the lake.”

“That makes sense,” I said. “But why the haunting?”

“To show Henri that he had uncovered the secret. The ghost at the lake revealed that he had found the Peugeot. And the name on the wall, Henri should know all too well from the newspaper.”

“And the machine? The clattering at night?”

Miray shrugged. “Henri is a man with money and influence, Laurent just a chauffeur. The police wouldn’t believe him. Maybe he wants to get Henri to confess voluntarily?”

“Wrong,” a strong voice sounded behind us. “The pig blackmailed Henri. Well, it didn’t do him any good.”

We spun around. Farges stood in the partition door, a pistol in his hand, the barrel pointed directly at us.

“Oh, splendid! Monsieur Farges!” Miray groaned. “A quick stop at the stable before you carry on with your pub crawl?”

“Sarcasm, ma chère?” He smiled thinly. “Do you really think that’s wise in your situation?”

He waved the pistol a little, and we slowly raised our hands.

“After that ridiculous haunted night, Henri called me to him,” he continued. “On his desk was a letter, a pathetic ultimatum: He was to sign a confession, or the press would get wind of it. Henri was terrified, as always. He wanted me to take care of it for him.”

“What did you do with Laurent?” Miray asked coldly.

Farges grinned a wide grin. “The crétin walked right into my trap last night. I had something for him, but it wasn’t a confession. Now he’s sitting nicely behind the wheel of his car, taking a little nap.”

He gestured with his thumb behind him into the stable.

Miray lifted her chin. “Why do you do Henri’s dirty work anyway? What’s in it for you?”

Then her eyes widened.

“Ah, now I understand! Henri wasn’t driving, was he? It was you! You were the business partner who was with him at the soirée. You had a few too many drinks and then went for a little drive in his Peugeot with him.”

“You’re a clever girl,” Farges nodded patronizingly, as if she had solved a school assignment.

Miray didn’t let up. “After the accident, you threatened Henri: if he didn’t play along, you’d tell the police he was driving. So you stuck together, sank the car in the lake, made up the story about the theft, and gave each other the perfect alibi of being at the soirée all evening. Everything would have been fine until Laurent discovered the secret.”

Farges laughed loudly. “You’re starting to intrigue me. But unfortunately, your career as Commissaire Maigret is about to end.”

“What are you planning to do?” I exclaimed excitedly.

Farges’s smile turned cold. “What am I planning? Well, what do you think? You’re going to join Laurent in the car shortly. And then the barn will be a regrettable victim of the flames. By the time the fire department arrives, he and all the evidence in it will be nothing but a pile of ashes.”

He slowly swung the gun towards Miray.

“Go on, Mademoiselle. Take a rope and tie up your fiancé. Then it will be my special pleasure to personally tie you up.”

“Give it up, Farges,” Miray said, unimpressed. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

He burst into loud laughter. “Hurt me? Mademoiselle, are you crazy? You seem to forget who has the gun here!”

Then everything happened quickly. With lightning speed, Miray grabbed Farges’s arm and pushed it aside so the muzzle pointed away from us. A shot rang out, and a window behind us shattered. Before Farges could react, she knocked the revolver out of his hand. The gun fell to the floor, and Miray kicked it over to me.

In the same breath, she turned into him and threw him down with a hip toss. He crashed loudly to the ground, but Miray kept his arm in her grip, twisting it and pinning his body with her foot. Farges writhed under her control, gasping, trying to break free. But it was no use. Her hold only tightened until he groaned and gave up his resistance.

“And what good is your gun to you now?” she asked dryly.

I picked up the revolver and pointed it at Farges as she pulled him up by the arm.

“You are truly to be pitied, Monsieur,” he growled at me. “No man can stand a she-man like that for long.”

“I don’t need your pity, Monsieur Farges,” I replied with a grin. “I’m grateful that she just saved my neck.”

Suddenly, Agnès appeared in the doorway. “Was that a gunshot?” she exclaimed excitedly. She looked around, noticed Farges, and her eyes narrowed to slits.

“Please run into the house and call the police,” Miray requested. “Monsieur Farges would like to make a full confession.”

“Very well, Mademoiselle,” Agnès said. She turned to the door, paused briefly, and looked at him. “And this time, Monsieur, the girl won’t keep you waiting!”

Then she ran off, while we continued to keep Farges company.

In her room, Miray sat on the bed, stuffing the last things into her suitcase. Mine was already packed in my room. I leaned in the doorway, watching her, but a thought wouldn’t leave me.

“Tell me, how did you handle Farges? That looked a lot like martial arts.”

She nodded sheepishly. “It was. Just don’t ask me which kind.”

I had long noticed that Miray was strong and kept fit. But this new side of her surprised me.

“That’s why you weren’t afraid of him in the salon yesterday when he tried to hit you.”

Another nod.

“And Mr. Martens, back then in the luggage car of the Orient Express… You helped out there too, didn’t you?”

She playfully blew over her fist and grinned.

“Well, I find that very impressive, Miray!”

“Do you?” Her grin faded. “I actually despise violence.”

The contradiction puzzled me. “Then why did you learn it?”

She became serious. “I didn’t choose this, Dian. Two dreams before we met, I found myself in a fighting school somewhere in the depths of Asia. The school was completely isolated, like a monastery in the middle of an endless wasteland. I was stuck in this nightmare for almost ten months until I managed to defeat the master in combat.”

I froze. Until now, the dreams had only lasted a few hours. The idea that one could be trapped for almost a year was unsettling.

My gaze shifted to her shoulder. “The scar on your upper arm, is it from there?”

A smile flitted across her face. “Someone’s been looking at me very closely.”

Embarrassed, I looked away.

She nodded. “Yes, it’s from a fight. My opponent swung a torch, I wasn’t paying attention, and he burned me. Since then, I’ve carried the scar in my dream journeys. A reminder to be more careful.”

“So, if Farges’s shot had hit one of us…” My hand ran through my hair. “We could have died?”

She shrugged. “Let me know when you find out.”

Then she closed the suitcase, stood up, and rang for the maids.

While Agnès and Paule carried our luggage to the car, we said our goodbyes to Aunt Zoé, Uncle Henri, and the twins. After that, we shook hands with the maids before Jérôme opened the door of the Citroën for us.

“I’m afraid our chauffeur is currently indisposed,” he said, clicking his tongue softly. “You’ll have to make do with me.”

“How is Laurent?” I asked, concerned.

Jérôme started the engine and looked over at me. “A concussion and a few bruises, Monsieur. The doctors say he should be able to leave the hospital in a few days.”

I nodded. “Please give him our best wishes.”

“Certainly, Monsieur.”

I hesitated briefly. “And Farges?”

Jérôme put the car in gear with a crunch. “Monsieur Farges? After his confession, he will have the privilege of enjoying the hospitality of justice for quite some time.”

The car began to move. We looked back and waved goodbye until the Vignauds’ house disappeared behind the trees. Shortly after, we passed through the large gate and turned onto the country road.

“Are you ready?” Miray asked, pointing to her arm. A green circle adorned her tattoo on her wrist.

I nodded. “Until the next dream, Miray.”

One last time, I looked deep into her eyes. They were ice blue, not silver gray. I would never forget it again.

Then we touched our wrists, and everything went dark.