CHAPTER 1
Clemence
The mountains had never been a problem. Blinding sunlight.
The deepest shadows. Isolation. Snow. All that just felt like a part of who she was now.
Of course, people did vanish, but after what had happened in Casablanca, the mountains had never been where she felt lost. And here, at night, she was so much closer to the stars.
Perched up high, the kasbah had once been a fortress built to withstand attack.
Now a sanctuary, it spelt safety for Clemence, and was still firm enough to resist assault, albeit of a possibly different kind.
But one day. One day it would come.
She stood gazing out of her open bedroom window, hoping to catch the subtle changing of the light. These daily rituals kept her steady: exactly as expected, the mist burned off, the high Atlas Mountains began to shine, and the scent of wild herbs drifted into the air.
A perfect day.
She wrapped the turquoise robe around her, fastened its ties, then left the main house and crossed the terrace, pausing for a moment to run her fingertips over the climbing roses and sniff their scent.
Blowsy, crimson, and almost at an end, their petals dropped at her touch.
Like blood, she thought. At the annexe she unlocked the door, slid the bolts, and went inside.
Something was wrong.
She heard the clamour of the birds first then, inhaling sharply, spotted two small copper-coloured butterflies dancing around one of the windows.
Overlooking a private courtyard with access to the mountains beyond, the window should not have been open.
She glanced around the room, taking in the tray of uneaten breakfast – cooling French coffee, two pieces of freshly baked baguette, butter melting in the early sunlight – and the white robe lying crumpled on the rug.
‘Fingers crossed,’ she muttered, then ran to the bathroom.
A tap had been left running but no one was there, so she turned the tap off and went to the living room, where she also found no sign of her.
‘Madeleine,’ she called, aware of the tremble in her voice, but all she could hear in response were the birds.
The woman had bolted.
Then, right then, she felt the panic. As the distant past reared up, her mouth felt dry, the old fear fluttering as if it were one of the butterflies. She dashed outside and called for Ahmed.
‘Help me,’ she pleaded, and held out her hands to him as he approached. ‘She’s gone.’
He enclosed her hands in his much larger ones and then let go. ‘She can’t have gone far, Madam. I carried her breakfast in only half an hour ago. Has she eaten it?’
Clemence shook her head.
‘Then she can only have been gone half an hour at most,’ he said as they left the terrace.
‘Did you unlock the window?’
Ahmed nodded. ‘She complained about the room being stuffy.’
Her heart sank. ‘We have to keep her inside her rooms. She can’t be allowed out alone. Not ever. I thought I had explained.’
‘You did. But the window is so stiff, I didn’t think she’d have the strength to push it wide open.’
‘I’ll have to install bars. Or a wrought iron screen would at least look better. Assuming we find her.’
‘We will.’
But Clemence wasn’t so sure. Madeleine could be devious. ‘You head down the track,’ she said. ‘And I’ll check the grounds.’
She turned her back and set off to search the entire complex. With few remaining perimeter walls, her kasbah was at the same altitude as the last of the trees, and nothing much grew above it, the mountain sides barren and rocky.
Looking down it was different; looking down it was lush.
Imlil – a collection of little villages – huddled where three rivers merged into one, and the year-long supply of water ensured the terraced hillsides were cultivated.
From her vantage point now, she could mainly see the walnut and pine forests, where she walked and collected cones for the fire, and below them, the orchards of apples, quince, almonds, and apricots.
She pulled a face at the thought. No one could ever entice her to eat an apricot.
Beyond the trees the agricultural land was where villagers grew vegetables, potatoes, and onions, plus alfalfa for feeding a few cows.
But there was no chance Madeleine could have walked that far.
The air blowing down from the mountain top was thin and pure and, feeling the cool of it on her cheeks, she glanced up at the rocky slopes.
Where had she got to? ‘And in a nightdress,’ she muttered.
‘Pour l’amour de Dieu!’ No wonder she had felt so harried these last few months with Madeleine to look after.
Keeping her eyes peeled, she investigated every shrub and every trellis in her garden.
This would happen now, just when she wanted to prepare for her granddaughter’s arrival.
And she had no idea how that was going to turn out.
She passed through the bougainvillea-clad pergola, peered behind the rosemary hedge, checked in between the palms, and went back into the private courtyard where the walls were drenched in jasmine. Nothing. No sign of her at all.
She ran towards the steep downward track Ahmed had taken, leading to where she kept her 1950s Hotchkiss jeep close to Imlil.
They’d need it if they had to take the two-hour journey to Marrakech.
But if they had to climb the high barren mountain peaks and canyons to search, it would have to be on foot.
She swivelled round and then round again.
Please, please, let us find her soon. They had to, for the heat and the mountains were cruel if you didn’t know your way.
So, so, cruel, and Madeleine did not know her way, and the longer she was out there, the greater the danger.
And Clemence could only beg God that if Madeleine began to talk, people would just shrug their shoulders and pay no heed.
‘Oh, it’s only her,’ they’d say. ‘The French woman.’