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believe how perfect it is,” I whispered back. I could become someone else here. Still…how could we possibly make it work? How was I supposed to live here and also finish my M asters at Oxford and establish a legal career in London?
    But this place was perfect. Everything about buying the property seemed so easy and self-evident, as though it was meant to be. Even if I was miserable practi s ing law, it would enable us to keep this unbelievable place. How could anything go truly bad when I owned as magical a place as this? Desperation to make this dwelling my own made my bones ache.
    Franck must have sensed the sudden urgency in my mood because he gave my earlobe one last nip and tilted his head towards the real estate agent pacing below us.
    “Don’t let on how much we like it,” he murmured. “He’ll realize that he’s priced it too low.” I nodded.
    We made our way back down the ladder and Franck lost no time in telling the realtor that indeed most of the floorboards had been rotten up there. “Termites, sans doute ,” he concluded offhandedly.
    I followed as Franck led us all back to the first low-slung house and pointed at the roofline. “That house will need to be entirely re-roofed.”
    Now that Franck pointed it out, I noticed that the tiles did undulate like a wave.
    Franck clicked his tongue. “The beams will probably have to be replaced as well.”
    We made our way back towards the gate as Franck enumerated the herculean amount of repairs required, the epic number of hours it would take every week to mow the very substantial chunk of land, and the constant danger of children falling down the very charming old stone well that Franck laid his hand on as he came to a stop.
    I hadn’t noticed any of these things before, but I couldn’t deny that they were all true. My palm itched to slap Franck. He was ruining the spell the property had cast over me, even if it was merely to put the realtor off our scent. This house was destined for us, despite the roof and the rot and the backbreaking lawn mowing.
    As Franck gave the well a final, dismissive pat I felt a piercing pain under my baby toe. The pain hop scotched down the sole of my foot. I dropped to the grass and clawed off my left sandal. A half-squished wasp fell out onto the grass.
    I gave an explosive demonstration of my command of French swear words. It had been years since I’d been stung and I’d forgotten how much it hurt. Not just the pain, but the burning and the itching that made me want to tear off my foot.
    “ C’est quoi ?” Franck leaned over me.
    “ Une guêpe ,” I swore one last time and then took Franck’s proffered arm and hobbled back to our car. I noticed twitching curtains at the three houses across the street. Maybe Franck hadn’t been completely wrong about the spying villagers after all.
    By the time I collapsed in the scorching leather car seat my foot was beginning to swell. What could this mean? Franck’s guardian angels were sending distinctly mixed signals. The perfect house, a feeling of nearly captured peace, then a wasp sting. That was the problem with believing in signs; if I believed in the good signs from the heavens, I felt honor-bound to believe the bad signs too. Only Franck could have such mercurial guardian angels .
    Mémé made me press a vinegar compress against my foot for a good hour after getting back to chez Franck. The pain subsided gradually, leaving the more painful contemplation of what such an omen meant - and it would take more imagination than I possessed to believe it a good one.

 
    Chapter 5
     
     
    The wasp sting had not only made my foot swell up and itch like the diable , but it had split my brain in two. On one hand, I was desperate to cling to the belief that any problems with the Marey property would magically work themselves out with the assistance of Franck’s guardian angels and the Virgin Mary. Each throb of my foot, however, reminded me of all the things Franck had pointed