Chapter 18: The Hunt

The old banker's château stood on the edge of a Sologne forest, three hours south of Paris.

It had twelve stone chimneys and a gravel court, and it was built to make guests feel small.

Forty hounds in the kennel yard gave off a steady, hungry noise.

Bianca met us on the steps in a green riding coat, with her hair braided over one shoulder.

She kissed my cheek.

"I am so glad you came," she said. "Truly."

Her lips were cold.

Margaux and Henri had come down in the first car, and Bastien stood a little behind them, not meeting my eyes.

Adrien got out of the second car and put my bag on his own shoulder before the footman could take it.

"Rooms are split by family," Bianca said, brightly. "Visconti in the east wing, Rocheforts in the north. Monsieur keeps the west wing for himself."

"A sensible arrangement," said Adrien.

"Is it?"

"It keeps the host close to his dogs," he said, and she laughed too loudly.

I went upstairs to a high bedroom with a canopy bed and a window onto the forest.

I set my coat on the chair and my gloves on the table, and I thought about how many ways there were to hurt a person at a hunt.

There were the horses, the guns and the dark paths.

There was the bottle at lunch, and the walk back alone.

I did not know which Bianca had chosen. I only knew she had chosen.

We rode out at three.

The forest was gold and wet, and the hounds streamed ahead of us, and the horn went over the trees in long, clear notes.

I rode at Adrien's side on a gray mare who knew more about the day than I did.

He did not touch me, and he rode so close that our knees almost met.

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