"So...it is this city that pulled you, whimpering, from my arms last night, girl? That had you shrinking from my touch in your sleep?" Her fingers brush lightly against his cheek, caressing away the frown lines that mar his features. "You know better, as do I, as I freely admit, Master Ruan." Her gaze pinned to his in her earnestness. "Paris, her people, there is an edge to her, a cruel passion that is much more prevalent than any other city we attend. London, Lisbon, Berlin, Naples, Sydney, none of them have this edge, this intensity." "Does it still haunt you, our first year, so very badly, Cyn?" One strong arm, fingers tensed, grip her elbow, his eyes searching hers for the answer. Her mind wanders back five years, back to their first year in Paris, back to their first trip together. It was, pure and simple, a miscommunication between Ruan and herself that found her at the chateau by herself. It was her own naïveté that drew the jaded of the French elite, like wolves circling. I hunted clams among the shoreline rocks for my dinner, then retreated up the ridge before setting my campsite for the night. I didn't want to be anywhere near the percolating sand and floating vegetation or near that marsh in that evening or the next morning--sand fleas. I'd be back after harvest with my barrow and some flat pans to serve as evaporators. I'd seen what looked like bush willow that I could use for basketry, weave into wattle fence and, once cut and tied into bundles, used as something to keep me from walking through the mud come the winter rains on my way to the outhouse and back.Once the kitchen was in-the-dry and the chimney was rebuilt I moved in. I framed up a bed and sewed together a heavy canvas bag to use as a straw ticking mattress. I slept on quilts and my braided rug until the straw was ready.The apples in the orchard were ripe and beginning to fall. I'd seen wire harvesting baskets with claw-shaped tops mounted on poles to harvest tree-born fruit. It wasn't.
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