The light dims as I sit in the corridor, brimming with the intensity of our moment in the V&A, the way my infatuation with Maxime swallowed me whole. The way, now that I think about it, that my gift felt stronger, more active when he was coaxing me. Exactly what does he know? More importantly: What does he want from me, and is there anything I would be able to refuse him? I nearly lost myself then, blurring my bearings between Avalon and reality. Would I do it again, for him? What if I go too far this time, hit the point of no return?
I thought D’Arvor would be a safe way to regain my reputation, to get back in the saddle of appraising and authenticating, but everything feels more exciting and dangerous here, with him.
On the other side of the door, the sculptures pulse and sing. I think of Lancelot’s intense devotion for a woman he could never have. Of Morgane, learning from Merlin the extent of her power. Of Igraine, being deceived, seduced by the wrong man. Of Yvain, falling into madness.
I don’t want any of their fates. And I’m apprehensive of what they might tell me of Constance’s. The only way to know is to go in, but I feel out of control, my heart racing, thoughts swooping in on me.
I can’t do this when I feel like a love-struck, doomed teenager and I know that it is beyond ridiculous; I should be over it. My heart shouldn’t soar the way it does when Maxime drops me crumbs: knowing smiles, allusions to something we’ve shared. Yet these crumbs have kept me going for years.
Have I just—not been living? Have I been hopping from memories to the residual emotions of others, all that time building nothing real for myself? I picture the trajectory of my life, looking for the handrails I can hold on to.
Like Lowen. He’s always wanted to see me as someone who was capable of giving him as much as he gave me. He made me want to try to be that person. He mostly forgave me my failings, while holding me to account, with my best interests at heart. Is that unconditional love?
In the dark eaves, in the castle, stirring like a beast in its sleep, I’m overwhelmed by the need to call him. I need something real. I need him to remind me that I exist, that I can be seen. That I’m not just an abandoned, lost girl. I grab my phone.
“Cam?”
I wasn’t expecting him to pick up straightaway. He’s not someone who has his phone glued to him.
“Uh, hi, it’s me,” I mumble.
I can hear his smile. “So I hear. What’s up?”
I was right—through every mishap, our friendship subsists. I can still call him and he’ll speak to me like everything is normal, like it was just yesterday that we hung out on the seafront eating fish and chips and licking the salt off our fingers and guffawing at something or other.
“Not much. I just wanted to… How are you?”
“All right. Just packing.”
A pang—Where is he going? Then I remember. “Are you off on your course soon?”
“Yeah. Tomorrow. Mum is fussing about—she’s packed me some proper tea.” A pause. “You sure you’re all right?”
Even through the closed door, I hear the faint echo of Lancelot, the dark shape of a knight, face swallowed by shadows. Is he begging Guinevere, or threatening her? Their mechanical dance in Avalon, the hooded figure running away from me—nothing here is as I expected it to be. “This Breton job. I’m there right now. It’s…” My voice trails off, but Lowen waits, like he used to. “It’s really bloody hard, Lowen, and I’m so confused and I don’t think I can do it…” I’m so close to crying.
When it becomes clear that I won’t say more, Lowen says, “If it’s too hard, you can quit.”
“You know I can’t do that.”
“I think you can, but you won’t. And I wish you would.”
“I’m not a quitter.”
He chuckles. “That you are not—true. You’re too stubborn for your own good. But you need some rest. I knew it as soon as I saw you in London. You’re all burnt out.”
I want to spill it all out to him. The fact that I’m so scared I’m broken; that I can’t stop thinking about Maman, Maxime, Constance, and being inadequate; that it is all going to swallow me in a big tsunami I can no longer contain, and it’s affecting my gift—as if my own feelings are destroying what is right and real and authentic about it. I’m like a malfunctioning automaton.
“I can’t quit,” I repeat, finding my firm voice.
“All right. Well, can you at least take a break? Come to Rennes to see me, say, the day after tomorrow? We can grab a bite to eat. You can show me around.”
I breathe. “I would love that. Thank you. I hope your journey goes well.”
“Yeah, I’m sure it’ll be fine.” He sounds casual but I know he’s not been out of the UK since his father’s stroke. Lowen doesn’t really like traveling anyway; he’s always preferred to spend his holidays back home. I sometimes wonder if under his laid-back composure, that salt-of-the-earth, “if we’re lost in the woods, I’ll build a fire to keep us warm” kind of vibe, he is lacking the confidence to spread his wings. Him going on that course is a big deal.
“You’ve got this,” I tell him. “It’ll be worth it.”
“Ah, thanks, Cam. You’ve got this too, whatever the hell you need to be doing. Just—try a small break. A step back, OK? That always helps me. Try and do something else you would be doing anyway—look at the problem from a new angle.”
He’s right. “That’s very wise.”
He chuckles. “I try my best. I’ll see you soon. Will text you when I’ve got my head around the whole thing.”
We hang up and I’m so excited to see him. Lowen always promises a place where everything is clear, calm, uncomplicated. Then I remember I haven’t told him I’m working for Maxime.
I ignore my tightening stomach—why would Lowen care that I’m spending time with Maxime? It’s not like he knew him anyway. And what he knew of him wasn’t much. And it was years ago. I’m not silly enough to have continued betraying my infatuation beyond, say, three months after the V&A, when I finally got to Cornwall and told him and asked, What does it mean? Do you think he could still like me? Will I ever see him again? When I didn’t get answers to any of these questions, I dropped it. So I’m in the clear. More importantly, there’s nothing to hide.
You’ve got this too. Just take a step back. Full of the thought that I can always run to Lowen, hide in one of his giant bags of flour and disappear from the world as he feeds me cake, I decide he’s right. For whatever reason, tapping into the sculptures here isn’t working. I need to prepare myself for what Constance went through, try to get closer to the mystery of the end of her life, to calm my own apprehension and enable me to find her. There are only two other ways I can try to find out more about Constance’s time at D’Arvor: ask Maxime, or go and see her other works. This includes Viviane, the sculpture that started everything, which I haven’t seen since I was seven. And they all happen to be in the same place.