Part 5
Claire entered it into her tablet.
“Telephone number?”
“No.”
“Did she live on the estate?”
“In the village.”
“Which village?”
“Saint-Aubin.”
There were several Saint-Aubins in France. Perhaps he meant the one six kilometers away. Perhaps he expected vagueness to become a dead end.
Claire slipped a finger beneath the sleeper collar. Louis stirred but remained quiet.
The skin at the base of his neck looked clear.
That did not fit the simple heat explanation Étienne had been offering. If the rash involved only the upper back, shoulder, and side beneath clothing, location mattered.
She paused before proceeding.
“Was he placed anywhere other than this bassinet today?”
“No.”
“Held by guests?”
“No.”
“Taken outside?”
“No.”
“In another room?”
“No.”
“Was the bassinet cleaned?”
“No.”
“Was the mattress replaced?”
“No.”
“Any pest treatment in the wing?”
“No.”
“Painting, polish, fragrance, linen spray, insect repellent?”
“No.”
Each answer came faster.
Claire looked at the cabinet again.
The exposed sliver of silver had disappeared. Étienne’s body blocked it, but she could not tell whether he had moved the object or merely shifted.
“Please stand where I can see both of your hands,” she said.
His expression sharpened. “Excuse me?”
“You moved near an object you refused to identify.”
“This is absurd.”
“Then make it less absurd.”
He lifted both hands slightly, palms forward, mocking compliance. His gold watch and rings gleamed. The dark tattoo across his right hand became fully visible, fine black geometry intersecting at the knuckles.
“You see?” he said. “No weapon. No hidden poison. Only hands.”
“I didn’t use either of those words.”
“But you wanted me to hear them.”
“No. You wanted to say them.”
For a moment, neither moved.
Then the door opened again.
This time the estate manager stood outside.
“Monsieur, the minister’s driver says they must leave before eleven.”
Étienne did not turn. “Handle it.”
“He asked to thank Madame.”
“My mother is not receiving anyone.”
The manager looked at Claire. His gaze settled on the stethoscope, then the bassinet.
“Is the child unwell?”
“No,” Étienne said.
“I’m still assessing him,” Claire said.
Two answers, overlapping.
The manager’s face remained professionally blank.
From farther down the corridor came the click of low heels.
Étienne turned toward the sound.
The manager stepped back and pulled the door closer to the frame, almost closing it.
“Do not lock it,” Claire said.
He looked at her.
“Leave it open.”
No one answered.
The low heels stopped somewhere beyond the paneling. A woman’s voice spoke, too soft for Claire to understand. The manager replied. Another pause. Then the footsteps receded.
Étienne closed the door himself.
He did not lock it.
“My mother has a heart condition,” he said. “You will not alarm her.”
“She asked for me.”
“She regrets that.”
“Did she tell you?”
“She doesn’t always understand the consequences of her impulses.”
Claire folded the upper edge of the ivory blanket back into place without revealing Louis’s skin. She was not going to conduct the examination while arguing over him.
“What consequence was she afraid of?” she asked.
“She was not afraid. She was anxious.”
“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”
“She has become suggestible.”
“Since when?”
His eyes narrowed. “You are not here to evaluate my mother.”
“Then bring her in and let her tell me what she saw.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because she will turn a minor rash into a family crisis.”
“Has she done that before?”
He gave a brief humorless laugh. “My mother can turn a delayed lunch into a succession dispute.”
It was the first hint of ordinary family resentment in him, something petty and recognizable. Claire almost trusted it more than his controlled denials.
Almost.
“What did she say when she called the clinic?” she asked.
“I wasn’t present.”
“She asked for me specifically.”
“That was Dr. Renard’s decision.”
“No. He said she asked.”
Étienne’s face went flat.
Claire continued. “Why would she know my name?”
“She met you.”
“Once.”
“My mother remembers people who are useful.”
“Did she think I would be useful tonight?”
“She thought you would reassure her.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then she chose badly.”
A clock somewhere in the corridor chimed the quarter hour. The sound was low and resonant, followed by a mechanical settling inside the walls.
Louis’s fingers flexed near his cheek.
Claire looked down.
She had no evidence of immediate danger beyond the unseen rash, but delaying the examination now served only Étienne. She could not let the tension between adults become an excuse for inaction.
“I’m going to inspect his back,” she said. “I’ll move slowly. He may wake. You can stand on the other side where he can hear your voice.”
“I don’t want him disturbed.”
“The visit cannot continue without disturbing him slightly.”
“He has had a long day.”
“So have I.”
The answer slipped out before she could stop it.
Étienne looked at her, and to Claire’s surprise, a corner of his mouth almost moved. Not a smile. Recognition of irritation, perhaps.
Her mother would have called the remark unprofessional. Marianne would have called it proof of life.
Claire loosened the blanket again.
Étienne came to the opposite side of the bassinet but kept his hands at his sides.
“Talk to him,” Claire said.
“He is asleep.”
“He may wake.”
“What should I say?”
“Anything familiar.”
He stared at her as if she had asked him to sing in public.
Claire waited.
Finally he said, “Louis.”
The infant did not react.
Étienne tried again, quieter. “It’s all right.”
His voice changed on the second sentence. The polished control thinned, revealing something tired and almost tender. Louis’s mouth shifted toward the sound.
Claire watched Étienne’s face.
He loved the child. That did not make him safe. Love and danger lived together more often than people liked to admit.
She began to roll Louis gently onto one side, supporting his shoulder and hip through the blanket. His head remained stable. The movement was small, careful.
Étienne’s hand lifted.
“Don’t,” he said.
Claire stopped.
May you like
“Don’t what?”
“Turn him.”
