At the end of the avenue, past a clearing where many lanes met, past an iron gate and two vast gardens where all manner of herbs and flowers hunkered, still and sweet-smelling in the sloping shadows, stood the gray mass of the château, flanked by towers. A moat circled it, gleaming darkly. A wide sweep of steps led up to the entrance. My oldest cousin, Étienne, who later became a trapper in the New World, had once been a potboy in a château like this. Serfs were sent each night, he said, to stamp on the bullfrogs in the moat so the master could sleep. Drawing near, I imagined the wet crunch of small bodies, torches reflecting in rank water, and I prayed to the Virgin that I would not be called upon to smash frogs. The front door was high like a church’s. I longed for the hearth light within, for soup and a bit of crust, but the meaty, sullen maid would not open it. “Milady’s asleep,” she scolded through a crack, “and I have no instructions for you. The stable’s in the courtyard out back.
What do You think about The Ghosts Of Kerfol (2008)?
