The house was silent when Ania went downstairs the following morning; it was still early. The French window was open and beyond stood the thickets, which pierced the morning fog one by one. Clara’s brother, in a T-shirt and striped underwear, was looking at a laptop placed on his knees. He had his sister’s broad jawline and that same pale complexion, which, on him, gave the impression of a lack of character. “Armand,” he said, half rising to offer her his hand above the low table. His eyes glanced in the direction of the bedroom where Gabriel was laid out, with an expression of conventional and minimal deference to which Ania did not respond. The scent of lilies had filled the room as they opened their venomous throats at the foot of the bed among the roses, daisies, and carnations. The small bedside lamp had been lit again and the duvet pulled down on the day bed. Ania wondered where Armand had spent the night.

He got up to get her a cup of coffee, but seeing her approach the kitchen, he simply told her that his sister had gone out to get the mail. Ania saw her then in the garden, talking with Jean-Louis, probably about the intrusion of the man on the motor scooter the previous evening. Clara was listening, bent slightly forward, her chin buried in the scarf wrapped around her neck. She held a packet of letters, which she tapped against her thigh, and Ania noticed that the diamond had reappeared on one of the fingers that held her cigarette.

She was slightly taller than Jean-Louis and so was taller than Gabriel. Her chocolate-colored wrap clung to her pubis like a skin—a long, fleshy plum that rose high in the well-defined hollow of her abdominal bones. It was the kind of detail that Gabriel noticed immediately in a woman, along with her hands, which he claimed told him everything about her. Ania had known these things ever since her father had begun receiving guests at Les Épinettes—she must have been around ten years old at the time. She was aware of his sophisticated advances, his patient eyes, barely damp with an impassive smile; could imagine him hungrily scrutinizing Clara’s splendid body. There must be other photographs, and much more daring than the one on the desk in Monceau. Ania wondered if they had already been removed from the drawers, or if she would find them by accident in emptying the house.

THE GATE HAD REMAINED CLOSED. The wood on the wings, now rotted from contact with the stone wall over the years, sweated black beneath the peeling paint. The tall weeds torn up by Jean-Louis withered in a pile nearby. Together, they gave the appearance of mild devastation. Someone tried to open the gate, then the sound of the bell glued to the wall could be heard—the fact that it even worked surprised Ania. Clara crossed the lawn, wet with water, announcing that she was coming. Her car was parked farther down than the day before, beneath the trees. Ania hadn’t considered that she might be expecting anyone. Her unease those weekends when Gabriel had company filled her heart like dark water. So nothing is ever really unimportant, she thought, the best we can do is keep our distance.

In the living room, Armand was trying to light a fire, sparking an acrid flame from the green wood. Ania rinsed her cup and went upstairs to get ready when Clara led a couple into the room. They had the uncertain look of people who are suddenly blinded by a strong light. He was wearing a coat with the sheen of fake astrakhan and she had on a blazer and matching headband that pulled back her yellow hair. “We hesitated for a long time before coming,” the man said, excusing himself and revealing the two new faces whom he failed to identify. Ania recognized them, though, especially the man, who was a watchmaker in V. and who, a few years earlier, had had a rather unpleasant disagreement with Gabriel concerning the repair of a watch. Their presence in the room seemed to surprise them as much as it did Ania.

Clara accompanied them to the bedroom, then returned, making a sign to her brother to get off the couch while they paid their respects. “They’re Loïc’s parents, one of the two boys for whom Gabriel got himself canned,” she explained quietly in an unaccustomed tone of voice. Armand drew closer and made her repeat it, listening as he nodded his head, his pinched white lips forming an indecipherable expression.

Ania also remembered the boy, an only child whom she used to see hanging around in front of the shop, then later on a motorbike, riding around the village. He was one of those skinny adolescents in cheap jeans and leather jackets whose faces we never remember. Gabriel called them assholes when their bikes stunk up the path that ran along the property. Later, he felt a kind of pity for them, mostly because of the aimless boredom of adolescence in these half-dead hamlets, where even fresh bread was hard to find. Did he even care which of the boys he had chosen to defend? Ania wondered how the parents felt about the questionable publicity that he had added to their nightmare, when they must have already been the subject of considerable curiosity. Had they come to pay a debt to him for a support that had never been requested or anticipated, or to expiate their indirect responsibility in the man’s death? There was considerable irony in thinking that Gabriel now found himself making common cause with these petty local people, whose vulgarity and narrow-mindedness he had so often ridiculed, in this same room, back when he was untouchable.

The couple was coming out now, excusing themselves and thanking everyone once again. Ania couldn’t take her eyes off the woman, who crossed the living room without placing her heels on the parquet or looking at anyone. Emotion ran down her neck in large waves. Her son had been arrested a few weeks earlier, but her suffering already appeared to be fixed in bitterness and resignation.

Clara accompanied them to the entranceway and stayed a few minutes to talk. Ania saw her in the shadows, tall, attentive, and present, exactly as she had been with her in Monceau and with Jean-Louis recently in the garden. She understands people, she realized, something very human, and she wondered if her father had admired or ridiculed her for it.

ARMAND HAD CLEARED THE DISHES from breakfast and had just gone back upstairs when Clara entered the room. Her attitude had congealed, hardened. She had her back to the chimney and was facing Ania, her arms crossed, as if she had waited a long time for this. “I don’t approve of the murder of that man, that Comorian,” she blurted out, her eyes a bright flame. “Your father didn’t either, you know. I don’t believe everyone should be welcome here. My family is well-off, I’ve had a good education, for which I’m grateful and which I also wish for my children. Don’t ask me to agree to give it all up for people for whom none of that would matter.” Ania had nothing to say in reply, nor was she able to find her contemptible. She simply realized that she herself had no inheritance to defend. “I’m not asking you for anything,” Ania said, her face unreadable. “I know you’re not asking for anything,” Clara replied, with a hint of irritation. She then tilted her head back, as if she were offering her throat to an executioner. Ania refused to share in that type of blackmail; she wanted to go upstairs, get her things, and leave. But Clara looked at her again, her features suddenly distorted with tears. “The reactions have been so violent, so unanimous, the banishment so casual.” She sniffled, as if she were reproaching her. “They even came here, in this room, to insult us. Of course, no one, not one of them, worried about the man who had been drowned. The body was never reclaimed. And no one bothered to ask about the boy, barely twenty-two years old, who was going to be locked up for half of his life.” “All because you went to visit them?” Ania couldn’t imagine her father making such a concrete and, in a way, charitable gesture. Clara seemed to delight in her surprise. “Gabriel went to see them, of course, what kind of man do you think he is?” Her tone of voice was firm and calm, her features had already begun to compose themselves. She’s not the type of woman to commit suicide, Ania thought, or a woman who’s going to take the kind of risks that Gabriel always took, without ever considering the harm he caused or the pain he inflicted.

The sun was rising, projecting the poplars’ shadows onto the river, the color of light clay. Clara had grown silent. Her words had left a venomous presence in the room. Ania felt tired and worried. “I’m going home; I’ll be back Saturday for the burial.” Clara’s phone began to ring as Ania was leaving the room. “I saw that they’d called, but they didn’t leave a message,” Clara blurted out, her voice trembling as she approached the living room door, which she closed sharply behind Ania.

Armand was getting dressed in Gabriel’s old bedroom. Ania caught sight of his reflection in the mirror of the armoire, in his shorts. His chest was hairless and his delicate nipples shivered. “Excuse me,” he said, amused and unconcerned as he leaned over the unmade bed to close the door that had been left open. His scent and the thick steam from his shower had filled the entire floor. Ania assumed that he had his own way of doing things in that room. She closed herself in her own, which now felt very vulnerable because of their mutual assurances.

CLARA OFFERED TO DRIVE HER TO THE STATION; she had already begun to put on her chocolate track-suit and was tucking her feet into fur-lined boots. The drive was silent. Clara drove fast, one hand on her cheek. The raw light of morning emphasized the grain of her skin. Tiny lines of bitterness drew out the corners of her pale, fleshy lips. Leaving Les Épinettes, she had taken the road near the old sawmill, where the storage sheds were now filled with weeds. Ania thought for a moment that she was making a detour near the cemetery, but she was probably just trying to avoid passing other cars. She was getting tangled in the resentment she had allowed to come between them. Ania was surprised that she didn’t dislike her more. But she reproached herself for having allowed her to make all the decisions from the start.

“Did you end up putting us on the announcement?” she asked as she was getting out of the car. Clara said yes without the slightest hesitation, although Ania had never said anything to her about it. She rummaged around in a box in the back of the car and pulled out an envelope that she handed to her. “It’s the same text that appeared in the papers, I can give you some if you want to send them out,” she added, without insolence. Ania read her name, Delâcre-Janic, incredulous once more at still being Gabriel’s daughter in spite of everything. Ania hadn’t thought about what that might imply for them, especially for the boy, when Clara had showed her the draft at Monceau. At the time, she hadn’t even thought to tell her that the name “Janic” had nothing to do with her own any longer. And she must have overlooked the part—the words now seemed threatening—that said that only friends would be allowed to attend the ceremony.

When Ania got out, she placed the boxes on the passenger seat without comment. “It can wait till after the burial,” she said, before closing the door, “but I would like to know what he did with the drawings that belonged to me.” Clara’s entire face changed, as if satisfied that Ania was finally revealing herself. “We’ll talk about everything, Ania. I’m looking forward to it myself.”