7. Ryan #2
“That’s pretty far, isn’t it?” Camille gives me a nod. “What was he doing down here then? Did he come here for work?”
“Not at first,” he answers, setting his glass down. “He was a student at Université de Montpellier. He was just 21 when our story begins.”
I blink at him, the soft candlelight dancing on his angular features. “Our story?”
Camille’s expression shutters for a millisecond before returning to normal. Orange reflections from the flames flicker across the table’s polished wood.
“A figure of speech,” he says softly.
“It just sounded very dramatic,” I reply.
“Perhaps the history warrants some drama.”
My brow raises, and I laugh. “That’s exactly the kind of ominous shit you say that makes me think I should’ve stayed in America.” I lean back in my chair, the plush velvet cushion whispering beneath me.
“And yet you did not.”
“Unfortunately, I’ve always had poor judgment.”
Camille lets his gaze linger on me for a beat too long, drifting downward toward my mouth before returning to my eyes. The air between us seems to thicken.
“Perhaps.”
I shove another bite of fish into my mouth to keep from turning that single word into something filthy.
After I swallow, I steady my voice. “So, he was a student. What was he studying?”
His fork clinks lightly against his plate, a gentle punctuation in the hush. “Chemistry.”
“Really?” I pick at a sprig of parsley.
“You sound surprised.”
“I don’t know why I am.” I shrug. “I guess I’ve just never thought of him as someone who was once—,” I wave my fork vaguely, “—a person? Like I haven’t really thought about how he lived his life. In my head, he’s always been…” I trail off. “Dead.”
“That is a remarkably thorough biography,” Camille mutters. A bit louder, he asks, “You truly know nothing about him?”
“No. I didn’t really know he existed until recently. I mean, sure, I knew my dad had to have had parents, but he never talked about them.”
“Hm.”
“So, tell me more? Please?”
Camille begins again, “From what I have learned, Alberte was a capable student. Intelligent, particularly adept with laboratory work, though perhaps not exceptional enough for his name to be widely known in academic circles.”
“Ouch.” I grimace theatrically.
“It is not an insult. Most intelligent people are not geniuses.” He lifts a slender brow.
“I guess. So Alberte was studying chemistry in Montpellier. Then what?”
“He meets a doctor.”
My fork pauses halfway to my mouth. “A doctor?”
“Yes.”
“Like a medical doctor?”
“Among other qualifications.”
“What was his name?” I ask, tone neutral.
“Henri Voclain.”
The name means nothing to me. I repeat it, trying to catch the soft French cadence. “Henri Voclain.”
Camille lifts his glass of red wine and swirls it, the liquid catching the light. “Henri was twenty-nine at the time. Young for the reputation he had already begun building.”
“What kind of doctor was he?”
“He studied medicine, but his interests went far beyond the clinic. Toxicology, pharmacology, animal venoms, naturally occurring compounds, and their potential applications.”
My gaze drifts to the snake. “Venom,” I whisper, more to myself than to Camille. An eerie feeling fills my chest.
“Yes.”
“How did they meet?”
“Henri collaborated with university researchers and occasionally lectured. Alberte’s talents were recommended, and Henri took notice.”
“Recommended for what?”
“A position.”
“What kind of position?”
“A research assistant, initially. In the early years, maintaining records, preparing materials, caring for specimens, helping Henri acquire what he needed.”
“Specimens meaning… snakes?”
“Some. Henri worked extensively with reptiles, but his interests spanned arthropods, amphibians, and even marine animals. Anything capable of producing interesting compounds.” Camille exhales softly.
“Henri was ambitious. His research expanded quickly, and so did the number of animals he maintained. Montpellier became insufficient, so he acquired an estate.”
“Where was the estate?”
“Several kilometres from here.”
“From here?”
“Yes. It was called Le Mas Voclain.”
“What does ‘mas’ mean?”
“A traditional farmhouse or country property in the south. Though Le Mas Voclain ceased resembling a simple farmhouse rather quickly.”
“Why?”
“Henri expanded it with laboratories, specialized animal facilities, greenhouses, climate-controlled buildings, and staff quarters. It was more of a private research compound than a country estate.”
“I don’t remember seeing something like that on the bus ride here.”
“It was torn down many years ago,” Camille says, making me frown. I really don’t like the picture he’s painting in my mind. After another sip of his wine, Camille continues, “Alberte followed Henri to Le Mas.”
“Followed him?” My voice echoes off the shelves lined with leather-bound volumes. Camille nods. “How long had they known each other by then?”
“Several years. Four, perhaps five.”
“So my grandfather would’ve been twenty-five? And he picked up his life and moved away from the university because of Henri?”
“Yes.”
I stare at the filigreed edge of my plate. “That must’ve been a pretty good job.”
“Perhaps that was why.” His gaze flickers to mine.
I frown. “Why else would he do it?”
“There are a myriad of reasons people follow one another.” His tone dips, stirring something tense in my gut.
“So he got the cottage to be close to his job?”
“No. The cottage did not belong to Alberte yet.”
“So where did he live?”
“At Le Mas, with Henri and the other staff. He purchased the cottage later, in his mid-thirties. I suspect Alberte eventually wanted somewhere of his own.”
I sip my wine, imagining living with a boss for close to a decade. I don’t think I could do that.
Camille adds, “Living where one works can become oppressive.”
“That’s what I was thinking.”
“Especially when your employer owns the house, directs your schedule, controls your resources, and surrounds you with people loyal only to him.” His words land like stones in my stomach.
“That’s oddly specific.” I fold my arms.
“It is an observation.”
“Uh-huh.” I press my lips together.
He ignores me and resumes. “I think it’s significant that after years at Le Mas Voclain, Alberte bought a cottage close enough to maintain his work, yet far enough that when he closed the door at night, Henri was no longer on the other side.”
I stare at the last bite of fish on my plate, and try to picture the cottage not as my sagging ruin but as a fresh, unmottled space with straight walls, an intact roof, and a beautiful garden edged with lavender.
“How long did he work for Henri?”
“Until he left France.”
“That’s not helpful, considering I don’t know when that happened,” I groan.
He leans back, and the candlelight skitters across his features. “We can discuss it another time.”
My pulse quickens. “What?! No. Tell me now.”
“Non,” Camille says, almost gently, almost cruel. “It is enough for now.”
“Fuck you. I should’ve known you were going to do that.” I rub at my forehead, mostly to hide my scowl.
He sips his wine, unbothered. “It is better to stretch out the pleasure.”
“Or prolong the agony,” I mutter.
Camille watches me, his hands folded, elegant as a chessmaster about to sweep the board. I can feel the weight of him, the predatory calculation, but also—at the edges—a flicker of something softer, like he’s almost sorry to be putting me through this.
I huff. “Okay, fine. No more story time. What do we do now? Are you going to make me recite poetry, or does the snake handle entertainment?”
For a second, I think he’s going to say something cutting, but then he leans forward. “Would you prefer to see him closer?”
My throat tightens. “What, like, up close?”
“Raja is usually docile at this hour. If you wish.”
There’s something in his tone—inviting, but with the barest hint of a dare—that makes my skin prickle. I shake my head, nerves and excitement tangling. “I think watching him from here is plenty.”
Camille’s smile is a fraction wider now, like he’s proud of me for knowing my limits. “Très bien,” he says, his voice a little lower, a little more intimate.
He stands, and the chair makes no sound against the rug. “Would you like coffee? Or something stronger?”
I glance at the snake. “I think I’m already running on pure adrenaline, thanks.” But I don’t want to leave yet. Not when I’ve finally gotten a little bit of truth out of him, and not when every part of me is hyper-aware of the space between us. “On second thought, I think I’ll take a coffee.”
He nods and gestures for me to follow him deeper into the library, past the rows of books and a rolling ladder that looks like it’s never been touched.
I trail after him, feeling like I’ve been lured into a warren of secrets.
There’s a little alcove near the back with a low couch, a side table, and a gleaming espresso machine that looks like it cost more than my old car.
“Sit,” Camille says. It’s not quite a command, but I obey anyway.
The couch is soft, and I sink into it, knees suddenly weak. Camille works the espresso machine with practiced hands, and I catch myself staring at the curve of his forearm, the easy confidence in the way he moves.
He hands me a small demitasse, the cup warm in my palm, and sits across from me on the edge of the low table, his knees almost brushing mine.
The air is dense with the bitter scent of coffee, the faintest citrus lingering still from dinner, and something else—something like the electric smell of a thunderstorm waiting to break overhead.
I take a sip, and it burns, but I manage not to grimace. Camille watches my mouth as I do.
For a few seconds, neither of us speaks. I realize I’m gripping the cup too tightly. The heat sears my fingers, and I force myself to relax.
When I look up from my drink, Camille’s gaze pins me to the spot, so intent it’s like he’s trying to memorize my face. I feel exposed, and my instinct is to lash out, to break the moment before it can hurt me.
And yet—
“Are you going to kiss me?” I ask.