September 29, 1991
Provence, France
The last person Lia expected to see waiting in her dorm room frowned as he studied the neat rows of paperbacks she kept in her bookcase. “Why are you reading novels?”
She placed her bag on the chair by the door, straightened, and linked her hands in front of her to disguise the way they were shaking. “I like them, Monsieur.”
He turned his back on her and circled the room, inspecting the rest of her belongings. She didn’t have much; it only took another minute. The only thing he touched was the unfinished shawl in her wool basket, his long, elegant fingers resting on the crocheted loops as he stared through her tiny window. No wrinkles marred the back of his Savile Row jacket or spoiled the knife-edge creases of his trousers. The smooth-shaven dome of his head and the paleness of his skin made Lia think of a lightbulb that had gone dark.
She could not ask him why he had come to the school; like all the other potentials she had been taught to speak only when spoken to. But his silence dragged at her, heavy and ominous, tugging her thoughts toward a dark sea of possibilities: He has come to tell me that I have failed. That I have disgraced my name. That I must go home.
“The mentores claim you are their finest student,” he said, as if he heard her thoughts. “You have earned the highest marks possible. Did you cheat?”
“No.” Some of the stiffness left her shoulders. “I enjoy my studies.”
He slid the window open, letting in the frigid September air, and then returned to the bookcase. She stood and watched as he made several trips, removing her paperbacks, carrying them over and tossing them out. When the shelves had been emptied, he turned and looked at her for the first time. “You will not need such things.”
Lia’s heart poured out a thousand questions, and each became locked in her throat as she stared at him. She did not have to ask anything, for there was but one answer to them all. Only one reason he had come to take her. One motive for ending her schooling so abruptly. One purpose for which she would now live, far from this place, bound in service for the rest of her life.
Maman was dead.
Lia had a few soft, blurry memories of her mother: her gentle hands, the sweetness of her voice. She had always smelled of lavender. She had tried to visit when Lia was small, but she could never stay more than a few hours. Gradually those brief reunions had grown rare, and then had stopped. Lia never cried -- Maman had told her Selvais women kept their feelings safe inside their hearts -- but now the tears swelled, hot and humiliating, bulging over the white-gold of her lashes.
He slammed the window shut and headed for the door. “We leave in thirty minutes. Pack your things.”
“How did she die?” Lia dared to ask. When he tried to walk past her, she stepped into his path. “Tell me.”
“He murdered her, of course.” Her father looked down at her, his blue eyes as cold as hers were wet. “Just as he will someday kill you.”
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