He told Eleanor next. Not a call — he went to the estate on Saturday, alone, the particular visit of someone who has something to report to someone who has been present for the whole story and will understand it accurately.
Eleanor was in the garden.
He sat beside her on the bench and said: "She said da on Thursday."
Eleanor did not say anything for a moment.
She looked at the garden. At the beds that the groundskeeper had been tending for forty years and that had been, on a Saturday in August, where he had walked with Isolde in the carrier while Eleanor told Remi the rest of Aveline's story inside.
"Your grandfather's name was Henrik," she said. "He used to sing. Off-key and entirely confident." She smiled — the smile that was Eleanor's, rare and specific, the smile of someone who is
