I rapped several times, then pressed my ear against the planks. Not a sound. I put down my bags and rummaged for my big iron key to let myself in.The door creaked open. Mother was standing before me like some ghostly apparition, dressed in a tattered nightdress and cap, a counterpane comforter hanging over her shoulders. “It’s you,” she said, reaching out for a wall to steady herself.I embraced her. She was bone-thin in my arms.“I’m better,” she said, but visibly quaking. “You didn’t lock the door.”“I will if you want, Maman,” I said, bringing in all my things. We’d never locked it before. Was she in a fever?“Why the bags?” she demanded.“I’m staying for a while,” I said, setting the string bags on the sideboard. They were filled to bursting with food from Athénaïs’s abundant table—sweetmeats, figs, cheese from the Auvergne, fried sheep’s testicles, a roast partridge in cabbage—all wrapped in cloths and tied up with pretty ribbons. “Like I promised.”
