Page 17 of Vianne

It was past twelve by the time I got home.

That word again, so right, so wrong , with all those layers of wrongness.

The light was still on in the bar, throwing a lattice of light and shade onto the moonstruck cobbles.

Louis was sitting by the door, bundled into his winter coat although the summer night was still warm.

He looked up sharply as I came in, and I saw a shift in his colours – a lurch from the grey-green of anxiety to a sudden dull burnt-orange.

‘It’s late,’ he said. ‘Where were you, heh ?’

‘I went to watch the fireworks.’

He made that sharp, percussive sound he often makes when he is displeased. ‘I told you. It isn’t safe at night. Especially for a girl in your position.’

He means my pregnancy, of course. He still thinks I am an innocent.

I want to tell him that I have been to places he wouldn’t imagine; that I have been a stowaway; a thief; an undesirable; a fugitive.

I also want to tell him that my safety is none of his business; that I have survived too long on my own to be in need of a protector.

Instead, I said: ‘I’ll make some tea. It always helps when I need to relax.’

He made the sound again, but I was already making for the kitchen.

There was a shelf of herbal teas, but I have always made my own, according to requirements.

My mother was no cook, but she knew about herbs and their properties.

Valerian, to aid restful sleep. Rose petals, for sweetness.

Silver leaves, to enhance the taste, and a handful of good fresh mint.

And now, a pinch of Guy’s chocolate spice completes the soothing decoction:

‘Come on, Louis. It will help you sleep.’

He drank the tea in silence, and I thought he seemed less troubled. ‘Were you with Lacarrière again?’ he said, putting down his empty cup.

I nodded.

‘Is it serious?’

‘Not in the way you mean. We’re friends.’

‘Just friends.’ His voice was a growl, but I thought his eyes were kinder. ‘Don’t think I’m trying to interfere, but you’re here under my roof, and I—’

‘I’m fine, Louis.’ I smiled at him. ‘I’ve been looking after myself for a long time.’

‘ Heh .’

I poured another cup of tea. The vapour rose like meadow mist. My skill, my mother always said, was see, not only what people are , but what they need : and there is such a need in Louis, as yet unacknowledged, to love and protect.

But I am not his daughter, nor can I feed that hunger.

Instead, I scratched a little sign on the side of the teacup; the sun rune, Sól , for comfort, and sweet dreams through the night.

My mother’s voice at the back of my mind whispers that this is dangerous.

We should not form attachments. It makes it harder to move on.

And yet, what harm can there be in spreading a little sweetness?

After all, I’m not staying long. Just till the wind changes.