29He wished that coming home was something other than a chore, but since he had never known any different, Percival rode in the taxi up the hill to the château without any expectations of gladness at the sight of the place or its inhabitants. The main childhood memory he had was of trudging around the forest in the freezing cold, trying and failing to defend himself from his father’s disappointment. His mother had been kinder, certainly, but far more interested in her dogs and various farm animals than in him. At least, that was how Percival saw it.
The young man grabbed his bag, under-tipped the taxi driver, and crossed the drawbridge. It was early in the morning, and the air was clear and the weather pleasantly chilly, though he did not notice it. He wrenched open the heavy door, callin
