Chapter 7
The chill in the air bites at my cheeks and gives me a whole new appreciation for my thick jacket. I take a bite from the baguette I’d brought as I take note of the shops on the main street of Carcen. A puff of white smoke mists across my lips. I make quick work of finishing my food before I set on down the road Madeline instructed me to. The suitcases I’m lugging behind me are really acting like deadweights on my already jellied legs. Of the many farmhouses that line the small gravel road, none of them are the chateau, and I start to worry I may have taken a wrong turn somewhere. Or that Madeline told me to make a turn after the third house and I didn’t quite understand. A man is tending to his garden in his front yard. He’s the first person I’ve seen since I left the center of Carcen.
“Excuse me.” I stand right in front of him, waiting for him to look up at me.
“Oui?” he repeats.
My temple throbs. Of course, he only speaks French.
“Chateau des éveillés?” I ask, hoping he will understand me.
“Ah.” He nods and points down the road.
“Thanks.” I blow out a short, sharp breath. More walking, fabulous. I really didn’t realize I was signing up for this. I continue to lug my suitcases down the bumpy road. I swallow the lump in my throat as the road comes to an abrupt end and I’m standing in front of the grandest structure I’ve ever seen.
“Chateau des éveillés,” I breathe, staring in awe at the wrought iron gates linking the pillars together and Chateau des éveillés written in twisted metal across the gates. I’d done it, I’d left my crappy apartment in New York for an adventure of a lifetime—and it’s only just the beginning. Here comes Aurora Allard 2.0.
The old gate is held closed with a padlock. The silver on the lock glints—a new addition to the old gate. I wonder if Jean-Luc put this here as his way of staking claim to the chateau. I snort a laugh. If he thinks a silly little padlock is going to keep me away, he is sadly mistaken. The mailbox to the left of the gate is stuffed full of unread mail, like a chipmunk storing acorns for the winter. The trees are overgrown, vines curling down to create a protective shield around the chateau, locking it away from the outside world. Yikes. Six months is not a long time to get this place looking less like a haunted mansion and more like the cozy bed-and-breakfast I’d spent the flight over here planning. I check the padlock—definitely needs a key to open, and I don’t remember Timothé giving me a key. Where am I going to get bolt cutters now? How do I even say bolt cutters in French? Crap. This whole speaking French thing is going to be difficult.
I pop open the lid of the box Madeline gave me, there’s gotta be a key in here somewhere. I shift a few pages aside hoping to catch a glimpse of a small silver key. But it’s the dark brown one, with a handle curved in a clover shape that catches my attention. It’s intricately designed with fleur-de-lis welded into the empty spaces creating its own portrait within the brass handle.
“This must be the key to the chateau,” I whisper in awe, running my fingers over the cool brass. I pick up the smaller key lying next to it and unlock the padlock on the gate, the giant metal links falling to the floor with a thud. The gate groans as I push it open, a giant being awakened after years spent dormant. The thin webs of tree branches line the long driveway. “Spooky,” I whisper.
The sun shines so bright I have to lift my hand to shield my eyes from the glow illuminating the whole chateau. For the second time today, my breath is taken away. It’s like something out of a Bridgerton novel.
“Oh my god, I can’t believe this is mine,” I whisper. My jaw drops in awe. It’s the most glorious thing I’ve ever seen. All the crappy images I found online while waiting at the airport are nothing compared to the real thing. Giant carved stone statues hold up the balcony on the second level of the chateau. Sandy-colored giant bricks line the walls along with many broken windows, and two turrets stand on each side. With the last of my energy, I tug my luggage down across the gates, closing it behind me. I cross the pathway to the mailbox. Thankfully, the metal lid doesn’t have a lock. Suck it, Jean-Luc, I got here first. I fight the giant pile of letters attempting to pour out of the slot of the overstuffed mailbox and pull as many as I can out. The sound of paper ripping has me releasing the letters all too late. “Pear and fig sticks,” I mumble, looking at the torn letter in my hand. Well, I hope that wasn’t important. Since pulling letters isn’t working, I try to stuff them back into the box. I’ll come back for them another time. I lift a soggy envelope up and stare at the yellowed paper. This rates high on my gross meter.
As I make my way down my new driveway, I nearly trip three times on overgrown tree roots lining the unkept gravel driveway. Note to self, next time I walk down this driveway, don’t be pulling my weight in suitcases behind me. A broken ankle is the last thing I need, especially when I have such a tight deadline to fix this place up. The never-ending driveway eventually gives way to a sweeping staircase at the base of the chateau. Scrunching my nose, I stare at the stone steps, my mouth falling open. Wow. Just wow.
I don’t suppose there is an elevator in this place? I mean, this place is as old as a dinosaur—How could there be an elevator? I’m going to be lucky to find running water and a working toilet. My grumpy inner bitch rages. With a sigh, I resign myself to the fact that I’ll need to lift my incredibly heavy suitcases up the bazillion stairs to get to the front door. Where is a hot French guy when you need him? I pick the lighter of the two suitcases and lift the heavy weight up the frost-tipped stairs to the landing at the top, hoping with each thud I don’t accidentally crack the stone steps. One hundred thousand euros to fix this place up doesn’t seem like a lot if I keep breaking things. I give a cheer when I get it up the final step and rest on it to catch my breath. My gaze catches on the second heavier suitcase with the box on top, and I wince.
“You know what. I’ll come back for you,” I tell the suitcase and snort a laugh. Yeah, not likely.
I take a tentative step forward and run my frozen hands over the giant wooden doors, noting the bumps and ridges. There must be carvings on the door. But even the glow of the sun isn’t enough to illuminate the intricacies. I hold onto the rail for support, my legs protesting doing the stairs again, but I need to retrieve the key from the box. I never thought I was unfit, but today this staircase has humbled me. I’ve proven I’m more couch potato than moderately active on the BMI scale. I grab the really old, heavy key from the box and do the stairs again before I rest my arm on my knees, catching my breath before I stand and slide the key into the lock and turn it two times to the left. I wait to hear a distinctive click before pushing the door open. The hinges groan like someone stretching after sitting down for a long period of time. The chill in the house is a few degrees colder than outside; I pull my jacket tighter.
I close the door behind me, leaving my bag outside; there is no way I’m dragging it around in here. Sunlight streams in through the broken windows as I take in the giant, high-vaulted ceiling. A crystal chandelier glints, reflecting tiny rainbows of sunlight. The smell of stale air itches my nose, making me sneeze. Using the sleeve of my sweater, I wipe the frozen tip along it. Yuck. Maybe I need to leave the door open; this air feels like it’s still from last century. Broken nineteenth-century furniture dots the sitting room and foyer. I take note of the melted candles perched all around the place. Unused fireplaces mark every room, which would provide some much-needed heat on a day like today. The air inside the chateau is surprisingly not as stale as I expected, thanks to the broken windows. I keep walking around until I find myself in the kitchen. I turn the tap and wait to see if water gushes out of the spout. The pipes groan and shake behind the wall. OOO-KAY, so no running water, and from what I can tell, no electricity either. Heating is also nonexistent. Resting my head against my shoulders, I take a deep breath in. The six-month limit suddenly feels like nowhere near enough time.
From my quick glance around, I realize the chateau is completely uninhabitable, so I definitely won’t be able to sleep here tonight. I wheel my suitcase inside the chateau; it will be safe here for the night. I close the chateau door and lock it, and an eerie feeling makes the hairs on my arms stand on end. My other suitcase stares back at me from the bottom of the staircase; it holds all my essential items I’ll need over the coming days. The sound of a branch breaking in the distance has me tucking the box Madeline gave me under my arm and running—as fast as I can with a heavy suitcase dragging behind me—back to the main street of Carcen, where I saw a hotel earlier that’s now calling my name.