Page 58 of Dagger’s Shield

“Then, you deserve an extra pour of wine tonight,” Chantal told him. He lifted his glass to her before he drank.

The coq au vin was arguably the best I’d ever tasted, yet I finished what I’d been served without asking for seconds.

The only person who showed any emotion at all was Marthe, who was clearly irritated by our lack of praise for her special dish.

We said good night without waiting for dessert and silently made our way upstairs. When we reached the bedroom, Maëlle gathered her things, saying she wanted to take a bath.

While she did, I messaged Blackjack. New development re: financials. Will brief tomorrow.

He answered in under a minute. Copy.

By the time Maëlle came to bed, the pillow was in place between us.

She switched off the lamp, and for a minute, neither of us spoke.

“Killian?” she said first.

“Yes?”

“I slept better last night than I have in a year.”

I had the pillow out from between us before she finished the sentence. She backed against my chest like she’d done it a hundred times, and I wrapped my arm around her waist.

She was quiet for long enough that I figured she was nearly asleep. Then she spoke again.

“There’s a Christmas market in Dijon. It’s in the squares around the old market halls.”

“Is there?”

“When I was small, we went every year. Maman, Papa, Marthe, and me.”

“What was it like?”

“Magical. The squares were filled with small wooden chalets, with lights strung between them. There was a carousel, and Maman let me ride until I was dizzy. We ate chestnuts out of paper cones, the adults drank vin chaud—hot spiced wine—and the bakery sold nonnettes, little iced gingerbread cakes, in tins. My mother would choose a santon—a small painted clay figure for Valais’ nativity scene. She taught me one never buys a crèche whole. It’s built, one figure a year, for a lifetime.”

“What else, mon feu?”

I couldn’t see her face, but I still knew she smiled.

“We’d walk around together for a while, then everyone would separate to buy gifts. Marthe would go with me, and I’d get to pick one present each for my mother and father.”

“How old were you when it stopped?”

“I don’t remember. One year, we didn’t go, and then it became something we used to do.”

She turned under my arm so she was facing me in the dark.

“I want to go tomorrow. All of us. What do you think?”

“It sounds wonderful. Rémy can drive your parents and Marthe, and we’ll go on our own.”

“I hope Marthe will say yes and not use Le Réveillon as an excuse.”

“First, tell her she must go so she can help you choose your mother’s gift. Second, what is Le Réveillon?”

“It’s the French Christmas Eve tradition. The word comes from réveil—waking—because the point is to stay up half the night. Here, it begins in the afternoon, in the cuverie. Every family who works for Valais comes, and there are long tables full of food that Marthe and her helpers have been preparing throughout the week.”

“Tables full of Marthe’s food? I’m excited already.”