After 20 August, the French tourists would celebrate the end of their holidays in Brittany with one last fest-noz and head back to Paris, Provence, the cold cities and the French hinterland to dream of their Breton summer. “Crazy,” they would say. “Remember eating all that wonderful fish? The costumes at the Filets Bleus, the festival of blue nets, in Concarneau? That organic Morgana beer from the Lancelot brewery? And the pardon, where everybody walked around in special hats and asked to be forgiven for all manner of things? It was all so authentic!”

Until then, it was possible to attend several parties each night. Every large village invited people to dance in the streets, which were covered with wooden decking for this very purpose. The gavotte dances excluded no one: the larger the circle, the more fun everyone had, and the quieter it was afterward in the woods and along the roads, where casual lovers strained not to make too much noise.

The fest-noz in Kerdruc had to compete with other dances on the same night in Raguenez, Trévignon and Cap Coz, which drew the many tourists who wished to listen to music and watch Breton bands and fireworks.

On the afternoon before the fest-noz, Geneviève Ecollier knocked on Marianne’s door and beckoned to her with an excited smile. She led her downstairs and opened the door that gave into the room containing the dresses. “Find one you like,” she said. “A musician must shine.”

Marianne was going to play at the fest-noz. She would share with people the songs she had so far only shared with the sea, and Geneviève wanted to help her. She had come to this decision the previous night, as she, Marianne and Grete had sat chatting together. For the first time Marianne had spoken openly about how she had come to Kerdruc to kill herself, and how, day after day, she had put off her plans until nothing remained of her intentions other than a deep sense of shock that she might not have lived her life to the full. Then her untamed desire to seize her life with both hands had taken control.

Geneviève had stood up and bowed to her. She had great admiration for this woman who had mustered up the courage to rectify the mistaken path she had taken.

Unlike Geneviève herself. She was a woman who corrected nothing, hiding away the shadows of the past, in the form of dresses, like living corpses. She wished that a little of Marianne’s talent for rewriting the book of fate might rub off on her when she opened the door to her past.

Marianne ran her hand over the dresses she had already touched once in secret. It was as if they were alive, disclosing their secrets in whispering voices and sighs, for in her fingers she felt an intermittent prickling that rose and then subsided.

One of them seemed to be on fire. The dress held a memory so powerful that it could not be washed out of the fibers. It glowed, sending heat up her arm and into her chest. She gripped it and heard a sharp intake of breath beside her. It was the red dress. Marianne took a step back and let Geneviève remove the dress from its hanger. She laid it over her arm, and her gaze turned inward to memories languishing in cages of lost happiness.

“I wore this dress to my engagement,” she whispered, her hands gliding over the smooth, shimmering fabric. “The day everything began and nothing ended.” Her expression softened. “I was wearing this dress when I fell in love with my fiancé’s brother. Life was good to me, I was young and beautiful, and I loved the wrong man. Loving is different from being loved. Giving and seeing how a person flourishes and feeds off your love: the amount of power you possess, and the fact that that power makes someone the best they can be.” She hung her head. “Alain didn’t want my love, so what was I supposed to do with it?” Tears fell onto the dress.

Marianne let her weep. She realized that these tears were being shed for the very first time. Surrounded by the dresses in which she had lived for three summers, three autumns, two winters and two springs, Geneviève wept for the lost man and for the woman she had once been. There was nowhere her love was welcome, and through lack of use, its power had cooled and changed into hatred. It was easier to hate than to love when your love wasn’t wanted.

Marianne ran a gentle hand over Geneviève’s hair. How closely this woman had guarded her love, never allowing it to take wing again! Alain. Of course—the man who lived on the other side of the river. He couldn’t be any nearer to the woman whose love he had batted away many years ago.

“Do you still love him?”

Geneviève exhaled, her mouth wide, and touched the dress again. “Every day. Every day I love him and hate myself for doing so.” She grasped her tight plait, then stood up. “Let’s make sure we get you into this thing, Marianne.” She held out the red dress.

Marianne shook her head slowly. “You should wear it, Geneviève,” she said softly, reaching for a different dress—a blue one that glittered like the sun-kissed sea.