Chapter 24
EVA
The farmers sit around the long table like a row of storm clouds. It’s a mild day in early October, but they’re wearing wool caps. Their work boots are planted wide. Their arms are crossed.
Every pair of eyes says the same thing, I don’t trust you right now. Change my mind.
The union president, Rémy Dumarais, a wiry man with a weathered face, clears his throat. “We’ve read the new duke’s proposed tourism plan. These hiking trails and eco-camping sites will cut into our summer grazing land.”
“It’s Castellane land,” I point out. “Just to be clear.”
“We’re aware, Your Grace,” Lara Barbis, across from me, says.
“But the dukes have always let us graze there,” Rémy argues. “Always. My grandfather—”
I hold up a hand. “And that tradition will continue.”
His eyes narrow. “That’s not the impression we get from the plan.”
“We’ll make it clearer then,” I reply. “The trails will be discreet. The camping areas are small and placed so that the cattle can still roam as always. Economically, nothing will change for you.”
A few hats tilt backward in silent doubt.
Lara’s son, broad as a doorway, leans in. “You expect tourists not to bother the cattle?”
“The duchy of Arrago has a similar program, and it works fine,” I say. “Hikers and nature lovers tend to be a responsible bunch. They’ll be briefed. There’ll be signage. And the trails will be routed to keep human and bovine traffic apart.”
Murmurs ripple around the table.
I suppress a bitter smirk. Not at them—at myself. I just missed a chance to score points against Alex by siding with the farmers. One jab at his plan, and they’d be eating out of my hand.
But instead, I defended him. “The duke isn’t trying to take anything away from you,” I say. “It’s about diversifying the estate’s income to support us all. Including the grazing tradition.”
There’s a subtle shift in the room. Eyes become less defiant. Postures soften.
And just like that, I’m Alex’s mouthpiece.
Why, Eva? Why?
He’s a jerk. Millie and I are leaving as soon as the verdict drops. I have no reason to carry his water. Yet I keep going.
“You’ll still have every hectare you’ve had before,” I declare. “And the estate will still cover the maintenance of the pastures.”
Rémy exhales through his nose. “So, you’re guaranteeing this?”
“Yes,” I say. “On behalf of the duke, yes.”
More murmurs. Not hostile—relieved.
I slide the stack of maps across the table. “Here’s the grazing overlay against the proposed trails. See for yourselves. The overlap is minimal. Barely a few meters in some spots.”
They lean over the papers, tracing the lines with blunt fingers.
Young Nico looks up. “If that’s true, maybe it’s not so bad.”
“It’s true,” I say.
We’re almost through the agenda when the door opens.
Pauline steps in. Tailored jacket, pencil skirt, calm face. Her eyes seek me.
My stomach flutters. She wouldn’t be here unless the verdict’s out. I already know what it is, and I’ve been bracing for it. Pauline and I spoke this morning on the phone while I was in the car on the way here, and she was on the steps of the courthouse.
I pressed her to be brutally honest. She admitted that she agreed with Derek’s reading of the signs.
Unfortunately for us, Judge Gérard Vaurin turned out to be, in her words, a “radical textualist.” For him, the letter of the law—in our case, the entail—outweighed the spirit. He was likely to name Alex duke.
And now she’s here. It’s done. The moment this meeting ends, she’ll take me aside and deliver the news in that low, apologetic voice of hers. I’ll tell her she did what she could.
I’ve run the odds a hundred times over the last three weeks. They went from slim to narrow to improbable. We were always fighting uphill, but Pauline believed we had a good shot. Me? Deep down, I’ve known which way this would go. Still, the sight of her makes my throat dry.
I force my gaze back to Rémy, who’s still poring over the maps. “Shall we set a date for the next meeting?”
Pauline moves to the side of the room, folding her hands. Waiting.
I keep my voice calm and my smile easy, even as my heartbeat quickens.
“Two weeks from today? Same place?”
They agree.
“The duke will be cochairing the next meeting with the union president,” I say. “He can give you more details then.”
Lara’s gaze shifts from Pauline to me. “And your legal fight, Your Grace? Any news?”
“Looks like I’m about to find out,” I say, keeping my tone light.
I gather my papers and tuck them into the folder with careful precision. A strange calm settles over me—resignation laced with fatigue.
When I look up, Pauline meets my eyes. I smile at her. Whatever she’s about to say, I’ll hear it standing.
Pauline and I leave the trade union hall in silence.
The farmers mill around, tossing me speculative looks. I don’t slow down. My nerves tighten at what’s coming.
We head across the street to the bistro. Inside, it smells of espresso and toasted bread. Pauline claims a corner table.
I drop into the seat opposite her and wave over the waiter. “Water and a coffee, please.”
“Same,” Pauline adds.
The drinks arrive. I wrap my fingers around the cup.
“All right,” I say. “Hit me. I’m ready.”
Inexplicably, she smiles. “There’s no verdict.”
“Excuse me?”
“Judge Vautrin was late this morning,” she begins and then stops.
“Go on,” I urge.
“Vautrin’s never late, so it was odd. But Derek didn’t look worried. He was lounging there, oozing smug from every pore.”
My lips twitch. “And?”
“Then Vautrin arrived, looking like someone told him his dog had died. And instead of reading the verdict, he said he was recusing himself.”
I almost drop my spoon. “You’re serious?”
“Personal reasons.”
I squint at her.
She shrugs. “That’s all he said. No elaboration. Case adjourned.”
“How strange…”
“If you ask me, he looked shaken, scared even,” she says. “Maybe he or his wife was diagnosed with something nasty and given a month to live?”
“Maybe.” I lean back, processing the implications. “So… We’re in limbo.”
“For now.”
She sips her water, then leans in with a sly glint in her eyes. “But I’m about to make your day even better.”
I arch a brow.
She sets her glass down with a tap. “Replacement judge is already on the rotation list. Adelia Sarrazin.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell.”
Pauline drinks coffee, grinning.
The suspense is killing me.
“Should I be impressed?” I ask.
“You should be relieved.”
“Explain.”
“Sarrazin is the anti-Vautrin of judges,” she begins. “Less pedantic. Less obsessed with precedent. Less a statute recitation machine, more a human being.”
“And that’s good for us, right?”
She pauses for effect, then proclaims. “Better than good, Eva! She’s perfect. If I could choose the judge, she’d be my pick.”
“Really?” Her joy is contagious, and I perk up cautiously.
Pauline’s grin widens. “Did I mention she’s a mother to a teenage daughter, and a feminist?”
“No, you didn’t.” My smile is as broad as hers now. “A feminist, huh?”
She does a gleeful shimmy, shoulders and bust shaking. “Cha-cha-cha! Adelia Sarrazin has been known to roast male colleagues in open court for interrupting her.”
“You think she’ll be more sympathetic—”
“I don’t think, I know.” Pauline points at me with her spoon. “Sarrazin will consider your arguments through current legal philosophy, not just weigh them against a sixteenth-century statute long overdue for repeal. She’ll see you, and she’ll see Millie.”
The pressure in my chest eases, and my fingers tremble. I set my cup down before I spill it.
“What was Derek’s reaction when he heard Sarrazin’s name?” I ask.
She gloats, “Picture him frozen mid smirk like his brain crashed or he ate a rotten egg. I wish I’d filmed it! Could’ve sold tickets.”
A laugh escapes me. “You enjoyed that way too much.”
“I endured three weeks of his condescending commentary,” she fires back. “I earned that moment.”
I finish my coffee. It’s not as good as Stéphanie’s, and it’s gone lukewarm, but it tastes like hope.