Back in Étoielmont, Baron’s first steps weren’t toward home, but to the bookstore. The doorbell chimed the familiar note as he pushed it open. The air smelled the same—ink, wood, and paper, the faintest trace of Cecile’s perfume lingering in the shelves.
But Cecile wasn’t there.
Behind the counter stood a man Baron hadn’t seen before—middle-aged, his presence steady, almost blending into the quiet of the shop. He looked up, and his eyes softened with recognition.
“You must be Baron,” he said, as though he had been waiting. “She told me you’d come by.”
He handed over an envelope, the paper neatly folded, Cecile’s name written in a handwriting Baron knew well.
“She asked me to give you this. Said you’d understand.”
Baron accepted it, bowing his head in thanks, his fingers lingering on
