MAS HIVERT, FERRALS-LES-CORBIÈRES—LATE THURSDAY
As Lia pulled into the drive in front of Mas Hivert, the door opened, and shadows swept through the light that spilled onto the patio. Domènec embraced her without a word; Rose’s arms encircled them both as Lia wailed and shook. Finally, they retreated inside the warm house.
Domènec prepared a pot of chamomile tea and they tried to convince Lia to eat. But the thought of food made her throat close and her stomach clench with nausea. All she wanted was to lie down. Exhaustion pulled at her, her thoughts collapsed, and her limbs seemed made of glass—heavy, but ready to shatter.
Rose brought her to a guest room and started water running in the tub in the adjoining bathroom. The bedroom’s open windows faced southwest, where the sunset glowed over hills and acres of vineyards, and a breeze swirled through. Lia caught a whisper of sea in the air. Limp from the long day, she stripped out of her clothes and slipped gratefully into the hot water. When she heard the door click shut, the tears began to flow again.
She stayed in the bath until the water cooled and then watched it swirl out between her feet. At last, she heaved her tired body from the empty tub. The mirror over the sink revealed her swollen, red eyes and puffy lips. Lia felt small and alone.
A soft tapping on her door brought her out of her sad reverie. “Come in,” she said, wrapping a plush yellow bath towel around her body and tucking the end under her armpit. Rose entered with her hands full of spare clothes and a thin cotton robe.
“Sweetie, would you like me to sleep in here with you?” Rose set the clothes on a wing chair tucked in the corner of the room.
“I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep. I’ll try to read for a while.”
Rose held out her hand. In her palm lay two small blue pills. “Valium.” Lia shook her head. “Lia, please take them. You need to rest.” Rose set the pills by a glass of water on the nightstand.
Lia lowered herself on the bed, and Rose sat beside her, taking her hand. They looked out to the turquoise that was giving up the day to the fresh spring night. At last, Lia spoke, telling Rose the truth, telling her all about the past.
“He was never mine, Rose,” she said after her story was over and the sky had waxed to an endless black. “He always belonged to her. To Paloma.” Lia took the pills from the nightstand and placed them on her tongue. The sweet coating turned bitter as it melted. She took a small drink of water and swallowed. The acrid pills burned her raw throat, and their taste remained in her mouth.
“And you belong here, Lia.”
She lay back and curled her body into a ball, wanting to disappear into the ebony emptiness of the sky. The wind rushed in, cooling her bath-warmed skin. Rose lay down, wrapping her smooth arms around Lia’s torso. When Lia’s breathing deepened and slowed, Rose covered her with a thin duvet and kissed her damp face. As Lia drifted into the release of slumber, she heard Rose whisper, “Sleep. Sleep and forget, for as long as you can.”
MINERVE—THE NEXT MORNING
She pulled the garage door shut behind her, but instead of climbing the road to Le Pèlerin, Lia walked toward the village. The ruin of La Candela drew her on. In the shimmering light, she counted four white doves nestled on a jagged outcropping of the stone tower. The air rippled with a cool breeze.
An eagle floated high above her. He broke with the air current’s course and swooped down, gathering speed as he neared earth, and her heart soared. Lia wanted to shout with joy at his freedom, shout to let him know she understood. And she wanted to weep. She was bound to the earth, left behind to close the chasm of the past.
The eagle landed with wings spread at the top of La Candela. He cried once, shifting on his powerful feet, his claws clutching at the stone, before releasing his body into the wind. The doves rustled below, cooing in round tones, until they too rose, floating on wings white as hope.
The bag over Lia’s shoulder contained two letters. Both had been written in that terrible year between December 1207 and December 1208, when Languedoc fell on the blade of a sword and split open into war. One letter warned of evil; the other offered safe passage to a woman and her children. Betrayal and forgiveness. The past not forgotten, the future in the form of new life.
This land wouldn’t change, nor would its history. The battle against the heretics—one driven by intolerance and greed—had continued until the Cathars were nearly eradicated and Languedoc had become a part of France. But Languedoc’s stories would live on. As would many of its souls.
In her hands, Lia held the mock-up of a book jacket. Large and in full color, it showed Château de Quéribus, isolated on a high, snow-covered peak, illuminated by a full moon. Arranged over the grand citadel in shimmering gold font, a title proclaimed, En Pays Cathare: Une Histoire en Images. Beneath the title, smaller print read, Photographies: Lucas Moisset; Texte: Nataliò Cloutildou Carrer.
The eagle hovered, and the sunlight cast a halo around his suspended figure.
“A diù siatz.” Lia offered him an Occitan farewell before turning toward the cottage. At the corner, she looked back. The pinnacle of La Candela was etched black against the azure heavens. The skies above the bare tower were empty. The birds had flown.