CHAPTER TWELVE
“Bonjour, Francois.” Rachel passed from the covered walkway of Château de Chillon out into its first courtyard. The noon sun shone directly into the court, glancing off the heavy stone walls, throwing the indented window casements into dark shadow. A particular aroma pervaded the block work, courts, and corridors that scrambled off in seemingly random directions. Rachel had noticed it the first time she walked across the drawbridge to research in the building’s archives, but she’d never been able to define what it was or where it came from. Perhaps it was rotting leaves, or wood, or mildewed stone. Perhaps it was but the slow, natural decay of the history that rose from the eddying waters of Lake Geneva. Sometimes it struck her as pungently sweet, reminding her of meat that
