Free At the Edge of Summer by Jessica Brockmole Page A

that she fought as well as any French woman. He was quite admiring.”
    “So they weren’t real arguments, then.”
    “What is real? The fights came when one of them had something to say to the other.” He shrugged. “Sometimes Papa can be too preoccupied and sometimes Maman can be too smothering.”
    “My parents never fought.” It wasn’t, I supposed, a Scottish thing to do. I shrugged like he had, hoping I looked as casual. “Really, they just quietly ignored one another.”
    I followed him back towards the plane tree, in front of a larger cave entrance carved over the top with
143 Carrière
in rough, blocky letters. The clearing around the tree was grassless, covered over with leaves from last autumn. A solemn owl guarded over us from above.
    “What is this place?” I asked, this corner of the woods filled with cool air and violets. Along the edges of the stones, poppies and purple-blue cornflowers clustered in the spots of sun. It smelled like rain and snow and summer all run together.
    “Le Bois des Fées.” He shook the leaves from his coat and spread it down again for me. “At least that’s what I always called it.”
    “What does that mean?”
    “The Fairy Woods.” He lowered his voice dramatically. “Where little boys are tossed down wells like wishes.”
    “What?”
    “Never mind.”
    Bede dashed in and out of the clearing, stopping to sniff the orange peels as he passed.
    I dropped to my knees onto Luc’s brown jacket and sat. “And in ‘The Fairy Woods,’ are the caves for trollish treasure?”
    “Not caves.” He tossed a stick for Bede. “Quarries.”
    “For stone?”
    “This area here around Enété village, it was a quarry centuries ago. All of the white stones you see in the houses between here and Soissons, they came from the ground beneath us.”
    “The stones of Mille Mots?” The château, aching white above the river. “They came from here?”
    “I hope so.” He dug into his rucksack and pulled out a pair of small Spanish oranges. “Brindeau farm, on the ridge above here, is older than that. It used to be an abbey farm back in the days of Charles the Wise. At some point the monks discovered the granite below and it was a quarry ever since.”
    I dug a fingernail into the orange peel. “Did they run out of stone?”
    “Papa says that they ran out of stonecutters. He blames Napoleon.”
    “Who doesn’t?”
    He raised an eyebrow. “Well, if we’re talking about those who supported his decision to—”
    “We’re not.” I bit into a section of orange and caught the drip of juice from my chin with a thumb. “One of us isn’t at university.”
    He grinned at that and opened a canteen.
    “What’s inside, then?” I peeled off another section of orange and rose up on my knees. “Medieval chisels? Skeletons?”
    “Oh, I don’t know.” He dribbled water on his hands.
    “You haven’t found one yet?”
    “No, I mean I don’t know.” He shook his fingers and then wiped them on his trousers. “I’ve never been inside.”
    “What?” I dropped the rest of my orange. “That’s ridiculous.”
    The quarry was fronted by a wall of carefully squared blocks. Around the edges of each block, though, were neat rows of grooves, evidence of the medieval stone masons and their tools. Sunlight pushed through the doorway, onto a packed dirt floor. Beyond, still darkness.
    I scrambled to my feet.
    “Clare, no!” He jumped up, too, and caught my hand.
    He didn’t say anything for a moment, just held my hand. A rabbit darted from the bushes, across the clearing before the quarry entrance. I couldn’t hear a thing other than my heart in my ears. His fingers were still damp.
    “Is it haunted?” I finally asked.
    He ducked his head and let go of my fingers. “No.”
    “Then why can’t I go in?”
    “It’s dark. The ceiling might fall in.” Again he wiped his hands on the sides of his trousers. “It might be full of wolves.”
    He stood so straight and still,