When Freja and Finnegan arrived back home, Tobias was waiting in the street with a surprise.
‘A car!’ gasped Freja.
She walked around the faded blue vehicle, taking in its beetle-shaped body and boggling headlight eyes. Both inside and out were dusty and rusty and sprinkled with chicken feathers and straw. Springs poked out of the back seat and the soft vinyl roof had long since fallen to pieces. There would be no shelter in case of a storm.
‘It is a car, isn’t it?’ whispered Freja.
‘Absolutely!’ cried Tobias. ‘It’s a Citroën. The finest of French automobiles.’
‘But where did it come from?’ asked Freja.
‘Monsieur Delahaye’s barn! It belongs to Grand-Mère Perrier and she insisted we use it. My old motorcycle is very popular on Henri’s merry-go-round, you see. Monsieur Patenaude rides it every single day, and then there are the children . . . It would be a shame to take it away.’
Freja smiled at him. Then, looking back at the Citroën, she frowned. ‘Do you think it’s safe?’
‘As safe as the old motorcycle and sidecar!’ cried Tobias.
Well, that’s not saying much, thought Freja. Nevertheless, she called for Finnegan, climbed into the front seat, buckled up and braced herself for the journey ahead.
Tobias was as bad at driving a car as he was at riding a motorcycle. The old Citroën roared from one side of the road to the other, and sometimes off the road altogether. Tobias was easily distracted by the beautiful sights around them — pine forests, vineyards, grazing goats, crumbling castles, clifftop chapels and fields filled with thousands and thousands of bright red poppies. But as they approached the mountains, and the roads grew more hazardous, something in Tobias seemed to click. He became suddenly alert and drove cautiously.
At first, Freja was disappointed. She found it rather exciting to be flying along, the wind and low-hanging branches grabbing at them through the open roof, the blue beetle body rattling and shaking as though the wheels and doors were about to fall off. It was thrilling, never quite knowing if they were going to make it to their destination with all their clothes, hair and teeth intact.
But when they reached the gorge, Freja was grateful for Tobias’ newfound focus. For the road was truly hair-raising — narrow and winding and perched right at the edge of the cliffs.
Even Finnegan was scared. The poor dog tried to hide on the floor at Freja’s feet and found himself taking the journey upside down, his head between Freja’s knees, his bottom in her face. He wouldn’t budge — no matter how sweetly Freja soothed and coaxed, or how hard she pushed and shoved.
‘Here we are!’ cried Tobias, pulling up at a lookout. ‘The Gorges du Verdon. France’s answer to the Grand Canyon and a writer’s delight when it comes to composing the next scene in a crime novel.’ He pulled on the door handle and it came off in his hand.
Freja giggled.
Tobias smiled, then winced as the skin around his bruised eye wrinkled. He tossed the handle into the back seat, reached out the window and opened the door from the outside.
Freja opened her own door — gently — and squeezed out from beneath Finnegan. She coughed and pulled a tuft of dog fur from between her teeth.
Stepping up to the low stone fence, Freja leaned forward and looked down through hundreds and hundreds of metres of thin air to the bottom of the gorge. The River Verdon looked like a giant milky-green snake, slithering through the white limestone cliffs.
‘I love it,’ gasped Freja. ‘It’s beautiful. Breathtaking. Vast. It reminds me of the fjords in Norway. Only it’s brighter, whiter, harsher.’ She leaned a little further and breathed deeply. The fresh mountain air felt like an old friend.
Finnegan whined from where he now quivered on the ground behind the car.
‘Who knew dogs were scared of heights?’ Tobias shook his head. ‘You, on the other hand, are fearless, Mademoiselle Peachtree.’
Freja beamed at him, her eyes sparkling like sapphires, her golden curls shining in the bright summer sunshine.
‘You do look happy, old chap,’ said Tobias.
‘I am happy,’ said Freja. ‘I like Provence. I feel like I belong. Even in the village where there are people. But especially here, surrounded by mountains and gorges and wide, open sky.’
‘I’m happy too,’ said Tobias. ‘Being here is truly inspiring. If I had my typewriter, I could sit down this very minute and write the entire scene where Suzette Leclerc takes Marc Vallet on a hike around the gorge and, accidentally on purpose, pushes him over the edge.’
‘Urgh!’ said Freja, looking over the sheer limestone cliff once more. ‘That’s gruesome. Imagine the looooooong fall! Your readers will love it, Tobby!’ She stepped back and frowned. ‘But I thought Fabien Vidal was Suzette’s victim and she was going to poison him with lavender oil.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Tobias, ‘Suzette has poisoned Fabien already. He died three days ago, on page one hundred and seventy-five. My hands quivered as I typed. It was a dreadful scene — moaning, writhing, hallucinations and, rather sadly, a too-late apology for not loving Suzette enough.’ Tobias grimaced. ‘But the thing about crime is this: one wicked deed leads to another. Suzette needs to cover her tracks, and if that means tossing Fabien’s friend Marc over the edge of the Gorges du Verdon because he’s grown suspicious, then so be it. And then, of course, there’ll be the innocent hiker who has witnessed Marc and Suzette’s tussle on the clifftops. Suzette will have to deal with him too.’ Tobias rubbed his hands and chuckled. ‘It’s all so jolly exciting, isn’t it? Poisoning . . . an exploding baguette . . . cliff-shoving . . . and now . . .’
‘An exploding oven?’ suggested Freja.
Tobias nodded. ‘Perhaps . . . perhaps . . . although it’s a little similar to the baguette, don’t you think? I do like variety with my crimes.’
Freja was about to tell Tobias about the disaster at the pâtisserie, but decided it could wait. Today was for exploring, for enjoying the beauty of nature, for allowing Tobias to brew the next episode of his novel.
A breeze blew along the gorge and tugged at their clothes. Tobias pulled his shirt collar up around his neck and strode back to the Citroën. ‘Come on, old chap. Let’s drive on before this wind gathers strength and blows us over the edge of the gorge. Moustiers-Sainte-Marie is just thirty kilometres ahead. It’s meant to be a very pretty village and my tummy is rumbling. Who knows? We might find somewhere that sells lavender ice-cream. Now wouldn’t that be a thrill?’
Moustiers-Sainte-Marie sat at the foot of two limestone mountains. Pretty and dramatic, the village provided a perfect end to the journey around the Gorges du Verdon. A narrow but deep ravine ran straight through the town centre and a steep cobbled path zigzagged up, away from the houses, to an ancient stone chapel. Way above the chapel, a chain was suspended between the mountain peaks and from this chain hung a giant gold star.
‘The star,’ explained Tobias as they climbed the path, ‘was placed there by a knight, Bozon de Blacas, in the tenth century. He was captured during the Crusades and, while he was festering away in prison in Arabia, he made a vow.’ Tobias rested his right foot on a rock, held his lavender ice-cream in the air like a sword and pressed his other hand to his chest. He cleared his throat and declared in his most knightly voice, ‘If ever I escape these Saracen chains and make it home to France, I will hang a gold star in the sky above my beloved village.’
Freja licked her own lavender ice-cream and sighed, ‘What a lovely story.’
‘Bits of it,’ said Tobias. ‘The part where poor old Bozon is festering in a deep, dark dungeon with rats nibbling on his toes is not so jolly. But, yes, the homecoming and the golden star is truly lovely.’
Freja tilted her head back and stared at the star glistening in the sunshine. ‘It looks like something from a fairy tale. The sort of star that makes wishes come true.’
Tobias said, ‘I wish the mayor hadn’t punched me in the eye.’
Freja giggled. ‘You can’t wish things undone. You have to wish for things in the future.’
Tobias nodded. ‘Of course. Of course.’ He tugged at his ear and a wobbly smile fell across his face. ‘I wish Vivi would mar—’ He jumped, as though suddenly realising that he was talking out loud.
‘Go on,’ said Freja.
‘I wish Vivi would marinate some cherries in almond liqueur and bake them into a tart just for us!’ Tobias blushed. ‘Her cherry tart is the best thing I’ve ever tasted. Better than her strawberry macarons . . . Better than the raspberry gelato we used to buy in Rome . . . Even better than Monsieur Diderot’s chocolate éclairs.’
Freja wrinkled her nose. She wondered if Tobias would ever be brave enough to declare his love for Vivi.
‘What about you, old chap?’ Tobias pointed his ice-cream towards her. ‘What do you wish for?’
‘Oh, that’s easy,’ said Freja. ‘I, too, wish Vivi would marinate some cherries in almond liqueur and bake them into a tart. Just for us!’ She stared meaningfully into Tobias’ eyes, hoping he would crack the secret code beneath the words.
Tobias gave a goofy smile. The hand holding his ice-cream dropped to his side where Finnegan gobbled it up. But Tobias seemed not to notice. He stared up at the star, his thoughts miles away — probably in a pâtisserie where a pretty chef was running around in clouds of flour dust and vanilla perfume.
Freja gazed up at the rugged limestone peaks and the brilliant blue sky. Turning around, she looked at the village far below — the terracotta rooftops, the weathered stone walls, the moss-covered fountain, the stone bridge that spanned the deep, narrow chasm. Beneath the village lay the wide, sun-drenched valley, green and lush with summer growth and, further beyond, the milky-blue waters of the Lake of Sainte-Croix.
‘I do love Provence,’ whispered Freja. ‘The villages look like they’ve grown up out of the rocks and ridges. And the land is so full of life. It always feels like something new is about to spring forth — new grapes on the vines, new olives on the trees, new seed heads on the poppies, new lavender on the bushes.’
‘Provence is an echo of our lives,’ said Tobias. ‘There’s always something new around the corner — a new home, new friends, new stories to be told, new foods to taste, new roads to travel.’
Freja stared at him. Was he talking about Vivi? She hoped so.
Or perhaps he was talking about Clementine.
Clementine!
Freja frowned. How odd that she had used her wish for Tobias and Vivi, not Clementine! She felt suddenly guilty and her tummy swirled. She tossed her ice-cream to the ground where Finnegan slurped it away in two great licks.
‘Are you all right, old chap?’ asked Tobias.
Freja sat down on a boulder. Finnegan sat beside her and poked his cold, wet nose into her ear.
‘Ye-e-es,’ said Freja. ‘It’s just . . .’ How could she explain? She’d forgotten about Clementine! She never forgot about Clementine. Clementine was her mother and she missed her every minute of every day.
Except for today.
Today, she’d used her one and only wish on Tobias. She’d thought of Tobias first. She’d loved Tobias first.
Freja scrunched her nose.
Tobias was taking her mother’s place. Tobias was becoming her mother. Or, she supposed, it would be more correct to say he was becoming her father.
‘Father,’ whispered Freja.
‘What’s that, old chap?’ asked Tobias.
Freja realised she was tugging at her ear. Just like Tobias did. She let go and folded her hands in her lap. She stared up at Tobias, his curly mop of hair blowing in the breeze, and became aware of her own mop of curls flapping in the breeze.
And then she became aware of Finnegan retching at her feet.
‘Oh dear!’ cried Tobias. ‘You don’t suppose dogs are susceptible to lavender poisoning?’