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“Drink,” he ordered.

I looked up at him and decided I couldn’t face a row. I drank the glass in one go.

“Va-t-elle manger quelque chose?” Madame Gombert asked Dylan.

“Vous pouvez essayer de lui demander,” Dylan sighed.

“I’m not hungry,” I said, startling them both.

“You should eat something, ma petite. I shall make you whatever you would like to eat—crepes, waffles, eggs. What would you prefer?”

I shuddered and shook my head as my stomach roiled.

“Non, merci,” I whispered. Knowing that all their eyes were on me, I stared down at the pine table. I hated being the focus of attention, hated that I was making them miserable too. What could I do? Where could I go?

“Can I go for a walk?” I asked, my voice quiet and flat.

“I don’t think so, Emily, not when you’re like this. I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Dylan said kindly, but it took all my self-control not to start crying again.

“I want to go to the church in the village,” I whispered.

“Okay. I’ll drive you. Now?”

I nodded.

“Let’s go, then.”

“But you haven’t had your breakfast.”

“If you’re not going to eat, then neither am I,” he said, and his voice was soft and without censure.

Frowning, I looked up at him, the white noise loud, distracting me. I always found it so difficult to concentrate when it was at this cadence.

He gave me a weak smile. “Shall we go?”

Dylan wasn’t playing fair. I didn’t want him to be hungry.

“No. I’ll have some eggs, then,” I said.

Dylan’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.

Yeah. I’m familiar with reverse psychology too.

“How would you like them?” Madame Gombert asked.

“Scrambled please.”

“Scrambled?” Madame Gombert looked confused. “I do not know this.”

Dylan shook his head, and he looked to Lulu.

“Oeufs brouillés,” Lulu said.

“Ah. Merci, Lulu.”

I managed three bites of my breakfast. My stomach objected, and I thought I would throw up. Dylan finished his eggs and bacon, and he cleared both our plates. He grabbed the car keys from the kitchen worktop.

“Do you want to come, Lu?” he asked.