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She came back holding a straw hat with a wide brim. She insisted on applying sun cream to the backs of my legs and my neck, and I didn’t argue. It was nice to be fussed over. I’d missed it.

“Do you have some money?” she asked.

“I don’t need any money.”

She grabbed her handbag and took out her purse.

“Here.” She tried to hand me a twenty euro note.

“I can’t take your money!” I held my hands up in horror.

“Dylan will give me the money,” she said. “I don’t want you without money. You can buy ice cream or something.” She gave me an uncompromising look.

“Thank you,” I accepted, vowing not to spend it and to give it back to her when I returned.

“You have your phone?”

My cracked phone was upstairs in my bag. “It’s not charged.” I turned and hugged her. “Madame Gombert, I’ll be fine.”

“Don’t go too far. Just the village.”

“Okay.” I grinned and set off out the front door. She watched me go.

The sun shone on the upturned faces of the sunflowers in the field opposite the manoir as I strolled out of the iron gates. The fresh smell of lavender scented the warm summer breeze. It was such a beautiful day, a day when it was difficult to believe bad things happened. I walked along the road beside the meandering, narrow river that flowed toward the village.

At the village square, I stopped. All was quiet. The buildings, now shuttered, looked ancient and weather worn and were made from the same sandstone as the manoir. Many had window boxes with bright-red geraniums. It was beyond picturesque. I wandered through the small square toward the old church, which stood at one end. The old, weathered oak doors were open so I stepped inside. It was cool and surprisingly light and minimalist inside. There were wooden pews and a stone-and-marble altar stood in an ancient stone apse at the east end of the church. The atmosphere was peaceful, and I knew it had been this way for centuries. To each side, there were white statues of the Virgin Mary and Jesus, beneath them, wrought-iron stands, with long, tapered votive candles flickered.

I sat down on one of the pews, absorbing the quiet serenity that flowed through the building. My mind emptied.

After a while, I noticed the quality of the light had changed. The sun had moved; time had passed. I got up, startled. I didn’t want to be gone too long, as I knew Madame Gombert and Dylan would worry.

Outside, it was still sunny, but late rather than early afternoon. I walked back through the square, where more people, locals and tourists, were milling around.

As I walked away from the village, I noticed two young men walking in the same direction as me.

“Fuck’s sake, Pat!” the taller of the young men swore at the smaller. He turned to swat him, and as he did, he saw me.

“Hi.” He beamed. He had brownish overlong hair and gray eyes. He was medium height, and he looked to be about the same age as me. He wore a yellow T-shirt, long denim shorts, and flip-flops.

His sidekick turned to look at me. He was younger, shorter, and had the most incredibly bright-blue eyes, which assessed me coolly. He was dressed similarly, and I wondered if they were brothers.

“Hi,” I said nervously as I walked up beside them.

“You English?” the tall brother asked.

I nodded.

“Us too. My name’s Jack, and this is Patrick. We’re staying up the road in a gîte. We’ve just been canoeing.” He had a warm, open, friendly face.

“Hi, I’m Emily,” I said. “I’m staying up the road too.”

We all turned and continued to walk together.

“You just arrived?” Jack asked.

“This morning.”

“We’ve been here for ten days. It’s okay. Bit quiet. You here with your parents?”