“Great try,” Scott said, giving her the thumbs-up. “How about you swing it a little higher this time, and with a bit more force. Like this.” He showed her.

He tried to serve so the ball would be easy for Aurelia to reach, but it seemed to sail right through her. She stood still for a moment and then threw the racquet angrily toward the net, her little brows knotted with fury.

“Easy, McEnroe!” Scott laughed. “No need for violence.”

But Aurelia didn’t even crack a smile. She glared at him, a flush beginning to creep into her cheeks.

“Okay, don’t get upset. I’ll come and give you a hand.” He walked around to her side of the net and reached out to pat her on the head. “Don’t worry, you’ll soon get the—”

The kick came out of nowhere. Suddenly she was on him, hitting, biting, scratching, grunting, her lips pulled back over bared teeth. A jagged, hate-filled scream tore through Scott’s eardrums and rattled his jaw.

“What the…?” He staggered backward, trying to catch hold of her skinny arms, but they were moving so fast and with such fierce intent that he only succeeded in blocking a few blows. She was a tiny hurricane, out of control, spitting and snarling and coming at him again and again. Scott reeled; what should he do? Restrain her? The last time he’d tried that he’d left bruises, and Nina had punished him for months.

“Hey! Stop! Stop it!” he commanded, still backing away, trying to hold her at arm’s length, but she pursued him with an animal ferocity, swiping at him with her nails. Her eyes were squeezed shut now, and Scott knew that she couldn’t hear him; she’d gone to the dark place. “I’m sorry!” he yelled anyway. “I’m sorry!”

He felt twigs and leaves at his back and realized that she’d pushed him into the very corner of the court, right up against the bushes. She opened her eyes and unleashed a deafening wall of sound into his face. Saliva spilled from her mouth and ran down her chin.

He could feel his body collapsing, surrendering to the rage he had summoned and the retribution he deserved. Images swam in front of his eyes: a pillow, soft and plump. A tiny hand, one finger uncurled, pointing directly at him.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, his voice rising in volume to match Aurelia’s. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’M SORRY!”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

EMILY

“IF YOU’RE going to live in France,” Nina said, “you need to know your wine.”

Several dusty old bottles stood in a line on the guesthouse dining-room table along with ten sparkling glasses: five for Emily, and five for Nina.

“Let’s start with the granddaddy of great reds. Bordeaux. Key grape varieties are merlot, cabernet sauvignon, and cabernet franc, but they’re nearly all blends. For example, you might get a wine that’s mostly merlot and cab sav, seasoned with some petit verdot or something. Are you with me?”

Emily nodded, totally enchanted—and not just by the wine. Slippery memories of soft skin and glittering water still clung to her like pixie dust. Her recollection was patchy at best—she’d been so drunk—but she knew it had been a lot of fun. She’d never been skinny-dipping before. So wild. And so silly. She put her hand over her mouth as her brain drip-fed her a series of details: trying to get out of the pool with dignity and failing; scooping up her dress and scurrying behind the daybed; losing her balance and falling in a bush; laughing so hard her stomach hurt.

“The name ‘Bordeaux’ is misleading, because the vines are actually dotted all around the region. Sometimes you might buy a bottle that just says ‘Bordeaux,’ but most of the time you’ll see the appellations. See here? Haut-Médoc. And this one: Pauillac. You don’t pronounce the ‘L’s.”

Emily gave it a try. “Poy-ack.”

“Nice. And then there are the classifications, which concern the specific estates.”

“Estates?”

“The vineyards themselves. Okay, so let’s try one. This is a 2000 Chateau Pontet-Canet.” Nina poured an inch or two into a glass for Emily and then one for herself. “So firstly, let’s look at the color. Is it a deep red, or more scarlet? Brownish, or maybe even slightly orangey?”

“Um … browny-red?”

“Right. So this is a good clue as to age; the shade of red changes as the wine matures, turning more orange or brown. Next, a small swirl and a sniff. What can you smell?”

Emily stuck her nose into the glass and inhaled, careful to hide the violent roll of her stomach. “Alcohol?” Hair of the dog, she reassured herself. Best hangover cure there is.

“Yes. But what else?”

Emily tried again. She couldn’t smell any fruit; actually, it sort of stank, but she was too embarrassed to say.

“Come on, what do you smell?” Nina said. “You can’t get it wrong; it’s very subjective.”

Emily gave her an apologetic grin. “Honestly? It smells like a barnyard.”

Nina laughed. “Well, I’d say more leather and spice, but a lot of these older wines are very complex, and not everyone can pick up on that. Well done. Okay, now, let’s take a sip, but not too much. Maybe wash it around the mouth a little. Hold it in your mouth and then spit.” She indicated an ice bucket.

They both drank from their glass, and Emily did as she was told, swilling the wine around like it was mouthwash. Her teeth suddenly felt furry, and the barnyard smell became overpowering. She spat into the ice bucket and clacked her tongue against her teeth. “Mmm. It’s nice,” she lied. “I think I can taste something fruity. Blackberries maybe?” She looked up at Nina for confirmation, but Nina wasn’t looking back.

Something outside had caught Nina’s attention. Then Emily heard it: a noise—no, a voice. Shouting. The same words over and over again.

“Is that Scott?” Emily said. Nina took a small step toward the door, and a drop of wine ran off her bottom lip, landing on her sundress. Her face was white. “Nina? Are you okay?”

But Nina was already running, tearing through the hallway and out the front door, an indistinct babble of words trailing behind her.

Then through the window, Emily saw them.

To the left of the guesthouse, movement in the trees.

People.

Lots of people, moving in a pack.

* * *

Outside, Nina was shouting. “Who are you? Why are you here?”

Standing at her side, Emily peered into the trees. She was able to make out six or seven figures—some men, some women—coming from the direction of the forest, all tramping through the long grass behind the basketball court.

“What are you doing? This is private property, you can’t be here!” Nina had hurtled out of the house so fast it had taken a minute for Emily to catch up, but now she was bouncing on the spot, hopping from one foot to another like a boxer.

Emily froze as the people drew closer. Pale and silver-haired, they carried long objects at their sides. Guns? No, too thin. Sticks of some kind.

Emily’s body itched to flee. Run and hide, it told her, but she couldn’t. She was rooted to the spot.

But then she saw that the people were smiling and waving. One of them let out a cheerful holler: “Ohé!” They all wore khaki shorts and bandanas and long socks, and the sticks they held were just long poles. Walking sticks. “Nina, it’s okay,” she said. “I think they’re hikers. Probably just lost.”

But this didn’t seem to comfort Nina. She ran toward the hikers and then backed away again, forward and away, forward and away. She spun in a circle, looking around with wild, rolling eyes. She clawed at her own hair and gasped for breath.

Emily frowned. They were just people. Surely there was nothing to be afraid of.

“Bonjour,” called one of the hikers as they drew closer. “Désolé, nous sommes perdus.”

“See? Lost,” Emily murmured. It felt weird to see and hear strangers on the property after all this time.

The hikers slowed down, coming to a stop several meters away. A man with a gray beard and a red peaked cap edged ahead of the group. “Nous voulions faire une balade au bord de la mer,” he said, addressing Emily carefully. “Nous pensions qu’il était possible d’escalader les rochers, mais…” He trailed off and shrugged helplessly. “La carte devait être fausse.”

“What?” Nina hissed, close to tears. “What are you talking about? Emily, what are they saying?”

Emily looked at her, surprised. She’d assumed Nina spoke French. Hadn’t she been teaching Aurelia? How had she lived here for so long without learning the language? Emily turned back to the Frenchman. He seemed harmless enough—sweet, even. “I think they’re looking for a path,” she said. “They thought they could … climb around the rocks.”

“Liars!” Nina spat, and the hikers flinched.

Emily felt a stab of fear. “Nina, honestly, it’s fine. They’re just lost.”