A new little bell seemed to be chiming over Marianne’s head, and it had a courageous, impatient ring to it.

It was already the third afternoon she had spent with Pascale before her evening shift at Ar Mor—Emile had barely dignified her with more than two or three words—and she was attempting to put the overgrown garden in a semblance of order. As the two of them, dressed in dirty red overalls reminiscent of those worn by aircraft mechanics, pulled up weeds and chucked them into the wheelbarrow, Pascale told Marianne, in her lilting German, more about these people at the end of the world. A lughnasad, a Celtic harvest festival with a convention of druids, had taken place the previous night a few villages away.

“Druids? You still have druids here?”

“Brittany is teeming with them! There must be thirty thousand, all very Dionysian, and the convention was called to organize the samhain—the night from 31 October to 1 November when the living meet the dead. It needs planning.” Pascale ran her fingers over her chin, and a few clumps of soil stuck to her skin.

“And how does one meet the dead?”

Pascale pensively stroked the blue flowers of a hydrangea, then appeared to pull herself together. Her voice was soft, as if she were revealing a secret for the very first time.

“On the night of samhain, when heaven and earth, life and death are aligned, the gates between the worlds stand open. The ancient gods and the new ones step out of the other world, bringing the dead with them, and we are permitted to visit their realm.”

She made a vague gesture toward the garden. “From the sea, through wells or stone circles. There the fairies wait for us, the trolls and the giants. The veil between the worlds is gossamer-thin, like cobwebs. Yet some of us are able to push that veil aside on any day of the year.”

“Why do the dead come to us during the samhain? Do they have…some advice to give us?” Marianne thought of her grandmother and her father. How she would love to see them again and confide in them.

Pascale looked grave. “Making contact with souls in the other world is not as easy as making a phone call! Some of us can hear them with our hearts; others need a druid or a witch to do so.”

Emile shuffled out of the house, holding a tray with three glasses of cold chouchen on it. With labored steps he carried it over to the wrought-iron table under the apple tree bearing pinkish fruit, and nodded briefly to Marianne.

Pascale stood up, melded herself to her husband and closed her eyes. Marianne sensed how equal their love for each other was. Feelings of tenderness and affection welled up inside her.

Pascale continued to talk as she caressed her husband’s expressionless face. “Whenever someone had a problem with this world or the other, they would call a druid. One person might have a problem with his wife, another with a demon, the next with his health. Druids were the guardians of all knowledge, religious, moral and practical. Even tribal chiefs sought their opinion, and the druids had an answer to everything.”

“Were there female druids too?”

“Of course. Women could be priestesses as well. It was customary to send girls to priestesses for two seasons so that they could be trained as soothsayers, healers or druids. Yet they could do so on one condition only: they had to decide between a position as a high priestess and life at a man’s side. Love and wisdom were mutually exclusive.” She gave Emile another kiss, and he withdrew into the shade of the pergola without a word.

Pascale played with a buttercup. “Every woman is a priestess,” she said abruptly. “Every single one.” She turned to Marianne, her eyes as clear as water. “The major religions and their shepherds have assigned to women a position that isn’t ours, making us second-class citizens. The goddess became God, priestesses whores, and any woman who put up resistance was branded a witch. And the special quality of each woman—her intelligence, her capacity for augury, healing and sensuality—was, and still is, debased.” She brushed off the soil that was hardening on her trousers. “Every woman is a priestess if she loves life and can work magic on herself and those who are sacred to her. It’s time for women to remind themselves of the powers they have inside. The goddess hates to see abilities go to waste, and women waste their abilities far too often.”

Together they went into the cool kitchen. Marianne was pensive as she began to prepare tasty fillets of meat and fish for the dogs and cats on the delicate china plates. When they were ready, she walked outside, clapped her hands and called, “Ladies and mistresses, revered fruit and vegetables! Dinner is served!”

As soon as she placed the plates on the ground, the pack of dogs and cats fell upon them like a swarm of piranhas. Marianne smiled at the sight of her special orange-white cat, its coat shining like polished marble. “That little tiger doesn’t have a name, does he?”

Pascale rested her head on Marianne’s shoulder. “No, he’s a traveler. But this wandering soul will give him a name,” she whispered, looking at Marianne with unfathomable eyes. “Won’t she?”

Marianne felt a shudder run through her. “Yes,” she said. “When she has figured out where the journey leads.”

“Thank you for not finding me repellent,” murmured Pascale. Suddenly her face lit up with joy. “Yann!” she cried, all her melancholia streaming off her like water, and she went to meet the painter with outstretched arms. Yann gave her a big hug.

Marianne felt herself blushing for unaccountable reasons. She hid her dirty hands behind her back, and for one absurd moment she wished that she wasn’t standing there in baggy overalls with a floppy hat on her head and grass stains on her face.

“Yann, this is Marianne, my new friend. Marianne, this is Yann, my oldest friend.”

“Bonjour,” Marianne managed to squeeze out. What was wrong with her all of a sudden?

“Enchanté, Marianne,” mumbled Yann.

They both fell silent and stood staring at each other. Marianne’s brain had frozen: she couldn’t think at all.

“What’s up with you two? Have you turned to stone?”

He was taller than she was, and through his glasses she saw the sea in his eyes. His mouth was made up of two curling waves, one on top of the other. A dimpled chin. Countless deep wrinkles, radiating across his cheeks from his bright eyes like rays of light. Those eyes were beaming at her, drawing her into them.

“I think I ought to go now.” Marianne had to control herself to avoid panicking and running inside. She felt a stupid, untenable smile trying to take over her face, so she swiftly covered it with her hand and walked indoors with her head bowed.

When she had finished changing her clothes, she was tempted to slip out of the house without so much as a “kenavo.” Then she remembered that her handbag was still on the terrace, so she walked stiffly out to say goodbye.

She didn’t dare to look at Yann as she nervously picked up the bag. She was too hasty, though, and caught hold of only one handle. It flew open and her beloved Kerdruc tile slid out. Yann caught it nimbly and turned it to catch the light.

“Hold on, this is…” He looked at the inscription with bemusement.

“It’s one of your very first Kerdruc tiles, Yann!” cried Pascale.

Yann passed the tile to Marianne, and their fingers touched as she reached for it. It was like a tiny electric shock, and as she looked into his eyes, she knew that he had felt it too.