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physicians, five surgeons and three apothecaries decided to bleed him, but that didn’t help. On the fourth day, the face rash broke out. He became delirious and received the last sacrament. The court assembled in the Œil de Bœuf antechamber and waited. His face became swollen, and the hue of copper. A single black scab covered the face of our once-handsome ruler, as if he’d been burned or severely scalded. They say the smell was foul.’
    We all wrinkled our noses.
    ‘One month ago, at three o’clock on the morning of 10 May, 1774, his candle was snuffed out. The old King was dead.’ He paused, running his tongue over his lips.
    ‘And since his death, people all over are welcoming the new rulers — the fair-haired, blue-eyed King Louis and Queen Marie Antoinette,’ he said, ‘in streets decorated with flowers and triumphal arches.’
    ‘Long live the new king and queen!’ chimed several people.
    ‘But,’ the traveller said, holding up a hand. ‘Many say we must be wary of a young simpleton king who tinkers with locks, and a foreigner queen with expensive tastes.’
    ***
    The sun dropped westward, behind the Monts du Lyonnais, throwing its amber light across Lucie.
    As the sky turned a darker blue and the villagers gathered in the meadow, Père Joffroy held back his cassock with one hand and, with the other, touched his blazing torch to the stack of dried sticks and wood. The flames lapped at the kindling, quickly building to a noisy crackle that vied with our cheers.
    ‘Gather all, for this celebration of the solstice,’ the priest said, beckoning us closer. ‘Let us rejoice in our Midsummer bonfire we have built together, to protect us. For, as the sun turns southward yet again and the veil between this world and the next thins, evil spirits roam free.’
    Wearing the wreaths we had made from the yellow, star-shaped Saint John’s flowers that covered the meadows like thousands of tiny suns, everyone began to circle the fire, leading their animals in the sunwise direction.
    ‘On this Midsummer night — Holy day of Saint John the Baptist — we embrace fire and water, symbols of purification,’ Père Joffroy chanted as he blessed the horses, cows, sheep, goats and pigs, so they would bear more young and have longer lives.
    Grégoire and I each took one of our mother’s hands.
    ‘Come and dance,’ I said, trying to coax her to join in the celebrations. Even though she held our hands and feigned happiness, I sensed, as I often did since that day she’d claimed God no longer existed, Maman had stopped believing in everything — especially things that were meant to ward off evil and misfortune.
    Tragedy had visited us twice. Félicité and Félix, and our home, had been gone six years. My father had been dead for two, and even as Maman said we must not think of those things; we must get on with the living, it seemed she, herself, could not forget them. It was as if those cursed accidents had broken something inside her — a thing nobody could fix. She continued to teach me to read and write; to explain the birthing skills and instruct me what plants and flowers to use for the different sicknesses, but she seemed to trudge through each day, eternally sad.
    ‘I hope you’re dreaming of me?’
    Startled, I jumped. Léon adjusted my floral crown and took my hand. ‘Come and enjoy this night with me, Victoire, and forget our work, the hunger and sickness, for a moment.’
    I gripped Léon’s hand and together we circled the flames, watching them leap closer towards the darkened sky, which would not go entirely black on this longest day of the year — only deepen to the inkiest blue before paling again.
    ‘The firelight makes your eyes the same dark green as the Vionne,’ Léon said. ‘That’s what I’ll call you from now on — Mademoiselle aux yeux de la rivière , eh, Grégoire?’ He looked across at my brother. ‘Your sister’s new name, Miss River Eyes?’
    Grégoire, holding the hand of