Just as the lake was cradled within mountains that rose sharply from its shores, the canal was framed tightly by rose and gray-green stucco buildings. Pots of geraniums, hanging from wrought iron balconies and bridges, reflected as red dots in the still waters as the entire street replicated itself upside down in the blue mirror. Moored boats floated in water and clouds. Here and there snow-white swans drifted by, asleep, heads bent under wings. Henry was amazed they hadn’t been stuffed for Sunday dinner. Annecy’s aura was so peaceful, so intact compared to the destruction of Vassieux. Maybe Madame was all right after all. Henry had never really made it into Annecy before. He’d hidden in Madame’s elegant house on its edge. But he remembered that the canal linked the lake with a river. Her walled mansion was by a river. So he followed the canal. Along the waters came the sound of conversation, laughter, dickering. He began to see people with baskets, filled with fish or handfuls of rutabagas or onions.
