Free Tides of Honour by Genevieve Graham Page B

same question. It took a moment to get started, to think outside of what she knew, but then her eyes went to a soaring bird overhead and she couldn’t stop. When the breeze lifted the hem of her skirt and kissed her knees, she closed her eyes and imagined he was there, holding her hand, listening, nodding encouragement, and she let the words come, found someone who cared about her dreams of seeing new things, meeting new people, saying she wanted to paint it all.
    Through the summer weeks the health of Audrey’s grandmère rapidly deteriorated. Not surprising. Audrey often wondered if self-imposed misery could kill a person in the end. She sometimes speculated on what her grandpère had been like earlier when he was younger, because her mother was nothing like this bitter old woman. Their daughter, Pascale, had laughed more, danced more, and when Audrey painted, her mother had celebrated every brush stroke. Here the paintings were hidden away in boxes for fear of their getting tossed into the fire for practicality. Audrey had learned that the hard way.
    Pascale Poulin had been twenty years old when she’d run from her mother, escaping the life for which she’d never been born. She had always been a mystery to Céleste, who never understood herdaughter’s need for a life far from the farm. The girl loved people, loved laughter, but trapped on this remote farm the best she could do was flirt with the neighbouring boys they hired to help at harvest time. But the harmless flirtation hadn’t been enough for her, apparently, because one day after the fields had been put to rest for the winter, a couple of the young men had driven up in a wagon and said they were moving to England to open a store, and would she like to come? Pascale had raced inside to stuff her things in a bag, then she’d hopped onto the back, waving goodbye to her parents and grinning as the wagon bumped away down the old road.
    â€œShe never said nothing to me but goodbye,” Céleste repeated throughout Audrey’s existence. “No word of thank you. That girl was a whore and a waste of time. A waste of my life.”
    When she’d been ten and had first arrived at the farm, Audrey had felt sorry for the old woman. She couldn’t imagine the pain of having a daughter run away like that, riding off with a group of men without so much as a thank you to her parents after all they’d done. On the other hand, she did think it rather harsh for her grandmère to call her own daughter a whore and say she’d wasted her life on her. Audrey’s opinion soon changed. Within six months, she knew for certain that Pascale had done the only sane thing by running that day.
    But now it was up to Audrey to care for the old woman as if she really did care, because no one else would, and Audrey couldn’t imagine anyone existing entirely on their own. She guessed she did care a little. As the old woman’s feeble limbs rose from her bed less and less often, Audrey supposed she would eventually miss her in some way, though she had trouble imagining that.
    Audrey milked the goat, who had waited at the door, bleating for attention, then poured the milk into two metal cups. Thewarm drink fortified her, gave her strength enough to go back inside, cradle the birdlike neck, and urge a few sips through her grandmère’s grey lips. But it came back out in a weak explosion. “Non , ” Céleste wheezed. “No more.”
    â€œYou must drink,” she tried.
    â€œI will do as I please,” the old woman huffed in French. She narrowed her eyes in a benign attempt to appear dangerous. “Just like your mother.”
    Audrey sighed, overwhelmingly tired of this argument. “All my mother ever wanted was to enjoy her life. She tired of your lessons and lectures. She wanted to dance.”
    â€œAnd she died of that,” she snapped.
    â€œAt least she died happy. I know she was happy because I