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do you say? Heirloom?’
    ‘I don’t think it’s worth much,’ I said, keeping my gaze away from his peculiar, indigo eyes. ‘But yes, a kind of talisman passed from mother to daughter. My grandmother believed the souls of all the women of L’Auberge are trapped inside this old bone.’
    ‘Very fine work,’ Martin said. ‘What is the bone from?’
    ‘Oh I don’t know … no one really knows. Some say a carpenter carved it for his wife two centuries ago from seal, ox or walrus tusk. Another family legend says it was sculpted long before that, for a famous midwife from the times of the Black Plague. But some think it was even earlier, and is from the bone of a mammoth. Though I can hardly believe that.’
    Martin let the pendant go, his fingertips sweeping the damp hair strands splayed across my shoulders. He bent and kissed me, catching me so off-guard I almost choked.
    I jerked away, my eyes darting about the tangle of willows, searching for prying eyes. ‘What are you doing? You can’t just … just kiss me like that. You’re a …’
    ‘A Boche? Germans are the same as all men, Céleste Roussel.’
    I swivelled around, ready to stomp off, but he caught my arm.
    ‘Let me go!’ I shook off his grip. ‘Do you know what happens to girls if they’re caught with one of you? They shave our heads and parade us about the village for people to shun, and spit at.’
    ‘I am sorry.’ He gave me a small, chivalrous bow. ‘Please forgive me.’
    ‘I have to go. If anyone sees me here; catches me with …’
    ‘Will I see you again?’
    ‘You’re joking aren’t you?’ I said, shaking my head in disbelief as I strode off and straddled my bicycle. ‘I doubt that very much.’
    I rode away without a backward glance.

6
    The following morning I whisked through my farm chores, flung my tapestry bag over a shoulder and hurried down the hill to Lucie’s railway station.
    I stepped off the train three stops up the line in Valeria-sur-Vionne, a village much like Lucie, nestled in a crook of the Monts du Lyonnais.
    Quietly pleased to have my sister gone from L’Auberge –– less conscious of being the flawed second daughter rather than the long-awaited son; the frail infant who shouldn’t have survived –– I’d never been to the convent where Félicité was a novice, and a schoolteacher.
    I didn’t have to walk far before I found the place, a bleak gothic-looking mansion perched atop a hill.
    ‘Sister Marie-Félicité s’il vous plaît, ma sœur ,’ I said to the nun as the heavy door opened with a rasp. ‘I know you don’t like outsiders coming here, but I’m Céleste Roussel, and I need to see my sister urgently. Just for a few minutes, please.’
    The nun remained wordless, but nodded and I followed the quiet sweep of her habit down a corridor of chipped, rust-coloured floor tiles and stained walls on which ancient-looking religious paintings hung. The only light came from small candles set in carved wall sconces, and a musty odour seized my throat.
    While I had expected something rustic, I was startled at how rundown the convent was. Paint was peeling off in uneven strips, revealing greenish-stained plaster. Sections had fallen from the ceiling. The wooden floor was damp and when I trod it gave way in places, as if my feet were sinking into sawdust.
    My sister glided towards me, the white veil and coif flapping like two doves sewn to the sides of her head.
    ‘Céleste, what ––?’
    ‘Sorry to come and bother you here. I have to speak to you about something. It’s an emergency. I found a family –– ’
    Félicité took my arm. ‘Hush,’ she said, leading me into a side room.
    Besides a battered desk and two chairs, and a single cross hanging from the wall, the room was bare, and chilly despite the summer heat outside.
    ‘This is where guests are received,’ she said, nodding to one of the chairs. ‘Now, tell me what’s wrong, Céleste.’
    ‘I found a family hiding in the old witch’s