Somehow I expected Jaquot to be there, but he was not. There was no sparrow to be seen, no bird at all in the sky above me, only a plane flying high, silver in the sun, a vapour trail blossoming in its wake. I glanced down at my watch. I had been all day down by the river, yet it seemed to have passed so quickly. School would be over by now. I could go back home as if I’d been at school all day long. No one would know the difference. At supper that evening my mother and father were prattling on and on about my birthday the next day, about how birthdays seem more important every year you get older, then about how they were pleased to be the age they were, how they wouldn’t want to be seventeen again, even if they could be. They were being kind. They were simply avoiding any mention of the Joan of Arc celebrations the next day. I was hardly listening. “Good day at school, Eloise?” my father asked me. I was caught completely unawares. I had no reply. Luckily for me the phone rang.
