‘We should, uh, go,’ I say. ‘Have you triedGalette des Rois? The king’s cake?’ I don’t give him time to answer. I’m out of my seat and edging away. ‘It’sfeuilletépastry layers filled withfrangipane andcitron. It’s a tradition to serve it January sixth to celebrate the Feast of the Epiphany…’ I’m rambling, and worse, I’m rambling about a cake, for crying out loud. A very nice traditional Christmastime cake, but still.
‘Anais.’
‘Usually there’s afèvehidden in the layers and whoever finds it is celebrated as the king or queen for the day. And, one year, Manon swallowed it and she…’
Noah laughs. ‘Is this how I am when I’m prattling about authors to you?’
My jitteriness soon evaporates as I make sense of what he means. Is Noah just as anxious and unsure as me, so he fills those awkward moments with inane chatter that I’ve put down to him being some sort of literary grandstander? An egotistical maniac? But, really, it’s his nervousness around me?
I swipe a lock of hair back at the same time Noah steps forward, and manage to elbow him straight in the face. ‘Mon Dieu!Sorry, Noah.’ My cheeks flame. How am I so bad at this?
He rubs a spot on his forehead. ‘I’m fine. But, for safety’s sake, would it be all right if I put my arm around you as we walk?’
I bite my lip before saying, ‘You’d better. These elbows have got a mind of their own. But first—’ I step forward and grab the collar of his jacket to pull him close. I gaze into his eyes and see the same desire reflected back.Kiss him!My body vibrates with longing. I close my eyes as I?—
‘Anais!Bonsoir!’
My eyes snap open and I jump back from Noah. ‘Père Noël?’ I try to shake the muddle from my mind.
‘It’s me, Timothee, under all this padding.’ He slaps his oversized belly. What unfortunate timing!
I cough, clearing my throat as I’m sling-shotted back to reality. ‘Ooh, of course, Timothee. How’s the new job going?’
‘It’s hectic. Kids are theworst. Zac has it much harder being stuck in the photo booth where they rip his beard off or scream in his ear. But the stall owners give us plenty to eat, so it’s not so bad.’
I laugh, thinking of these twentysomething backpackers who probably have no real experience with children and are having to play the part of Father Christmas for hours on end every day.
A spotty-faced teenager rushes by and yanks Timothee’s red velvet cap off before letting out an evil cackle and making a run for it. ‘Give that back!’Timothee yells. ‘Guess that’s my cue to leave!’ He chases after the teen, his white curly wig flapping in the wind behind him.
‘I don’t know,’ Noah says, ‘Something tells me he’s not the real Santa.’
I laugh. ‘I think you might be right.’
The earlier spell is broken, so I clasp his hand and lead him away from the chaos of the market, my lips tingling at the almost kiss.
36
15 DECEMBER
The next evening, I’m tossing and turning in bed, unable to sleep. My mind spins from Noah to the hotel soft launch and lack of bookings, to money and everything in between. Eventually, I give up and wrench the covers back. I pull on my robe and find the key for the secret library.
I go through the books once more, looking for titles by men this time. I’m hoping to stumble on a range of books by the same author, an entire collection. I take my time but find nothing that fits.
There must be one clue, something in this room that will point the way to who she was. I sit at the desk and pull open the drawers. At the back I find a small notebook, more like a jotter than a journal. There is a scribble of names; could be character names? Maybe guests from the hotel? Did she use her assumed name when she dined downstairs in the restaurant, make up a whole fiction for her past? Or were her meals ferried to her here?
I flick through the jotter.
Chateau Beauchêne in disrepair.
It stands out because the handwriting is different from all the other samples. It’s as if someone left her a note on her jotter. I take my phone and google the name of the chateau to see if it’s a real place. I get a hit and click the link.
Chateau Beauchêne in the region of Bergerac is now derelict, almost a ruin.
I speed read the article that mentions it was once owned by a prominent family at the turn of the twentieth century before the owner, Benjamin Marceaux, let it fall into disrepair after the disappearance of his wife, Chloe. It goes on to say Benjamin Marceaux was a famous novelist who couldn’t bring himself to write ever again after his wife’s mysterious disappearance.
Chloe!Is she our writer?
The lights in the room flicker.
