Threads of Destiny

18

The train pulled steadily north, carrying Lea and Clemence away from Étoilemont. Lea pressed her forehead against the window, watching as the scenery shifted from the mild spring fields she knew in Rosélac to sharper hills, deeper forests, and the pale, wide sky of the north.

“This is Cévérie,” Clemence said at one stop, pointing out the mountains in the distance, proud warmth in her voice.

By the time they stepped off the train, the air had turned crisper, the light thinner. The small station was crowded, but Clemence’s family stood out immediately. Her parents waved, her grandparents stood bundled in coats, and two elder brothers towered in the back, already smirking at the sight of their sister returning home.

Introductions came quickly. Clemence’s mother kissed Lea on both cheeks, her father shook her hand firmly, the grandparents welcomed her with soft smiles and questions about her journey, and the brothers teased Clemence while making sure to include Lea in their warmth.

Lea, who had grown up in Rosélac’s quieter, more measured household, felt swept into the noise and affection. It was different, yes—but the difference made her smile. She belonged here, if only for a little while.

---

The morning after their arrival, Clemence insisted they leave early. “Not the usual path,” she told Lea with a grin, tugging her toward the edge of town where the mountains rose like quiet sentinels.

They took one of the lesser-known trails, narrower and winding, but infinitely more beautiful. Spring flowers clung to the slopes, and the air carried the scent of pine and cold stone. The higher they climbed, the more the town below shrank into a scattering of rooftops, until it was only a patchwork of fields in the valley.

Lea followed, sometimes struggling on the steeper stretches, but laughing all the same. Clemence seemed to know every bend of the path, pointing out small streams, old carvings on rock, even a tree she said had stood there since her grandfather was a boy.

When they stopped, it was at a clearing overlooking the lower reaches of the high peaks. Clemence opened her pack, laying out the lunch her mother had prepared—thick bread, cheese, slices of cured meat, and fruit. They ate cross-legged on the grass, the sun warming their shoulders, the mountains stretching endlessly above them.

Lea leaned back, chewing slowly, and whispered, “It feels like another world.”

Clemence only smiled. “It is.”

---

A few days later, Clemence’s eldest sister-in-law arrived at the house with a mischievous smile and the car keys in hand. “Come on, girls. We’re going up.”

The drive wound steadily into the mountains, the road curling between ridges and valleys until the air grew sharper, cooler. By the time they reached the Durand family cabin, the sun was already sinking, painting the sky in deep purples and pale silver.

The cabin stood sturdy and warm, built of old wood that smelled faintly of pine. Inside, a fire had been prepared in the hearth, its crackle steady against the growing wind outside. The night had turned lucky—gusty and restless, the kind of wind that rattled shutters and made the forest seem alive.

They welcomed it.

Hot chocolate was poured into heavy mugs, each dash of rum sending laughter around the room. Wrapped in blankets, the three of them sat close, telling stories as the wind howled against the walls. Some stories were funny, others spooky enough to make them glance nervously at the dark windows.

Lea shivered at one tale of a wanderer lost forever in the high passes, then laughed at herself when Clemence leaned in with a mock-terrifying growl. The night stretched long with warmth, noise, and the comfort of belonging—even when the shadows seemed to press close.

It was a night of stories, of wind, of simple happiness, tucked safely into the mountains.

---

On their last evening in Cévérie, Clemence’s family gathered for a dinner in Lea’s honor. The long table was crowded—parents, grandparents, brothers, sisters-in-law, nieces and nephews weaving in and out, voices tumbling over one another in cheerful confusion.

Platters of roasted meats and stews were passed around, bowls of potatoes and mountain herbs, loaves of bread still steaming from the oven. Wine flowed freely, laughter even more so. Clemence’s brothers teased her without pause, her mother insisted Lea take second helpings, and her grandmother leaned close to tell her that Clemence had always been the loudest child in the house.

Lea, at first shy, was soon swept into the rhythm of it all. She laughed, answered questions about Rosélac, shared little stories about her family’s shop, and listened as the Durands told tales of mountain winters and family adventures.

The night stretched late, vibrant and warm, until candles guttered low.

The next morning came too quickly. Bags were packed, farewells made in a flurry of hugs and waves. At the station, Clemence’s parents pressed food into their hands “for the journey,” and her brothers shouted one last joke as the train pulled away.

Lea sat by the window, watching Cévérie fade behind the rising hills. She was tired, full, and smiling. Beside her, Clemence leaned back in her seat, already talking about the semester ahead.