Anna said as she watched me refill my wineglass. “What’s wrong?” We’d closed the shop for l’heure déjeuner as usual at twelve thirty and, since it was the first sunny day in two weeks, brought our lunch out into the garden. The velvety ruby and pink pastel roses were open, perfuming the afternoon, and birds sang as if there were no war, as if men were not dying and mothers were not mourning, and as if I weren’t hearing voices. In addition to the wine was cold roast chicken leftover from the night before, mustard, cornichons, and a coveted baguette from the bakery. With so many supplies acquisitioned for the front and rations in effect, white flour was a luxury, but Anna had secured a rare loaf. “Nothing serious,” I said in answer to her question, and picked at the chicken. “From the look in your eyes, I doubt that. What’s wrong, little one?” I’d been hesitant to tell her.
What do You think about The Secret Language Of Stones?
