But I needed to talk to someone. Not Capucine, to whom I would normally have gone first; she was too trusting, too comfortable. Suspicion was not in her nature. Besides, she adored Rouget, and I was not going to alarm her needlessly-at least not until I had determined the extent of his betrayal. He had lied to us; yes. But his motives were still unclear. He might yet, miraculously, be proved innocent. I wanted that, of course. But the truthful part of me-the GrosJean part-worked inexorably against it. Later, I told myself. There would be time for that later.

Toinette? Her age had made her peculiarly aloof: she watched the rivalries in Les Salants with a lazy indifference, having long since ceased to find anything new to amuse her. In fact it was possible that she had even recognized Rouget for who he was but had kept silent for the sake of her own inscrutable enjoyment.

Aristide? Matthias? One word of this to either of the fishing families and the truth would be all over Les Salants by morning. I tried to imagine the reactions. Omer? Angelo? Equally impossible. Certainly I needed to confide in someone. If only to convince myself I wasn't going crazy.

I could hear the night sounds of the dune through the open window. Off La Goulue came a scent of rising salt, of cooling earth, of a million small things coming alive under the stars. GrosJean would be in the kitchen now, a cup of coffee at his elbow, watching the window as he always did, in silent antic.i.p.ation....

Of course. I would tell my father. If he couldn't keep a secret, who could?

He looked up when I came in. His face looked puffy and strained, and he lolled heavily on the little kitchen chair like a figure made of dough. I felt a sudden surge of love and pity for him, poor GrosJean with his sad eyes and his silences. This time it was all right, I thought to myself. This time all I needed him to do was listen.

I kissed him before I sat down at the table opposite. It was a long time since I'd done that, and I thought I saw a shadow of surprise cross his face. I realized that since my sister's arrival I had barely spoken to my father at all. After all, he hardly ever spoke to me.

"I'm sorry, Papa," I said. "None of this is your fault, is it?"

I poured coffee for us both-sugaring his automatically, the way he liked it-and leaned back on my chair. He must have left a window open, because there were moths fluttering under the lampshade, making the light flicker. Far away I could smell the sea, and knew the tide was turning.

I'm not sure how much of it I said aloud. In the boatyard days we sometimes spoke without words, with a kind of empathy, or so I told myself. A movement of the head, a smile, the lack of a smile. All those things could be so telling to someone who cared to read the signs. As a child his silence was mystic to me, almost divine. I read his leavings like entrails. The placement of a coffee cup or a table napkin could signify favor or displeasure; a discarded crust of bread could change the course of a day.

That was over now. I'd loved him; I'd hated him. I'd never really seen him. Now I did, a sad, silent old man at a table. What fools love makes of us. What savages.

My mistake was thinking it has to be earned. Deserved. That's the island in me talking, of course; the idea that everything costs, everything has to be paid for. But merit has nothing to do with it. Otherwise we would only ever love saints. And it's a mistake I've made so many times. With GrosJean. With my mother. With Flynn. Even, perhaps, with Adrienne. Most of all with myself, working so hard to deserve, to be loved, to earn my place in the sun, my fistful of earth, that I overlooked what mattered most.

I put my hand over his. His skin felt smooth and worn, like old driftwood.

My mother's love was exuberant; mine has always been furtive, obstinate. That's the island again, the GrosJean in me. We dig ourselves in like clams. Openness alarms us. I thought of my father on the top of the cliff, watching the sea. So many hours spent waiting for Sainte-Marine to make good her promise. GrosJean had never quite believed P't.i.tJean was gone forever. The body recovered with the Eleanore Eleanore at La Goulue, smoothed and featureless as a skinned seal's, could have been anyone. His vow of silence-was it a pact with the sea, some kind of offering, his voice for his brother's return? Had it simply become a habit, a permanent kink in him until, at last, speech had become so difficult that in moments of stress it was almost impossible? at La Goulue, smoothed and featureless as a skinned seal's, could have been anyone. His vow of silence-was it a pact with the sea, some kind of offering, his voice for his brother's return? Had it simply become a habit, a permanent kink in him until, at last, speech had become so difficult that in moments of stress it was almost impossible?

His eyes fixed mine. His lips moved soundlessly.

"What? What was that?"

I thought I heard it then, a rusty wisp of sound, barely a word. P't.i.tJean P't.i.tJean. His expressive hands clenched in frustration at the reluctance of his tongue.

"P't.i.tJean?"

He was red with the effort of trying to tell me, but no more would come. Only his lips moved. He indicated the walls, the window. His hands fluttered nimbly, mimicking the pattern of the incoming tide. He mimed with his uncanny accuracy, dug his hands into his pockets, slouched. Brismand Brismand. Then he indicated the air on two levels, insistently. Big Brismand, little Brismand Big Brismand, little Brismand. Then a sweep toward La Goulue.

I put my arms around him. "It's all right. You don't have to say anything. It's all right." He felt like a wooden figure in my arms, a cruel caricature of himself made by a careless sculptor. His mouth worked against my shoulder in huge and incomprehensible distress, his breath acrid with Gauloises and coffee. Even as I held him I could still feel his big hands fluttering at his sides, strangely delicate, as he tried to communicate something too urgent for words.

"It's all right," I repeated. "You don't have to say aything. It's not important."

Again he mimed; Brismand. P't.i.tJean Brismand. P't.i.tJean. Again the sweep toward La Goulue. A boat? Eleanore? Eleanore? His eyes were imploring. He tugged at my sleeve, repeated the gesture more insistently. I had never seen him so agitated before. His eyes were imploring. He tugged at my sleeve, repeated the gesture more insistently. I had never seen him so agitated before. Brismand. P't.i.tJean. La Goulue. Eleanore Brismand. P't.i.tJean. La Goulue. Eleanore.

"Write it down if it matters so much," I said at last. "I'll get a pencil." I rummaged in a kitchen drawer and finally found a stub of red crayon and a sc.r.a.p of paper. My father looked but did not take them. I pushed them toward him across the table.

GrosJean shook his head.

"Go on. Please. Write it."

He looked at the paper. The stub of crayon looked ridiculously small between his big fingers. He wrote with application, awkwardly, with none of the nimbleness he had once had when st.i.tching sails or making toys. I knew what he'd written almost before I looked. It was the only thing I remember ever seeing him write. His name; Jean-Francois Prasteau Jean-Francois Prasteau in large, shaky script. I'd even forgotten his full name was Jean-Francois. He'd always been GrosJean to me, as he was to everyone. Never a reader, preferring fishing magazines with color pictures, never a writer-I recalled the unanswered letters from Paris-I'd always a.s.sumed my father simply wasn't interested in writing. Now I realized he didn't know how. in large, shaky script. I'd even forgotten his full name was Jean-Francois. He'd always been GrosJean to me, as he was to everyone. Never a reader, preferring fishing magazines with color pictures, never a writer-I recalled the unanswered letters from Paris-I'd always a.s.sumed my father simply wasn't interested in writing. Now I realized he didn't know how.

I wondered how many other secrets he had managed to keep from me. I wondered whether even my mother had known. He sat motionless, as if the effort of writing his name had taken up all his remaining energy, his hands hanging loosely by his side. I understood that his attempt at communication was over. Defeat-or indifference-smoothed his features into Buddha-like serenity. Once again he gazed out toward La Goulue. "It's all right," I repeated, kissing his cool forehead. "It isn't your fault."

Outside, the long-expected rain had begun at last. In seconds, the dune behind us was prey to a thousand rumors, hissing and whispering through small gullies in the sand toward La Bouche. The drifts of dune thistles gleamed, crowned with rain. On the far horizon, night showed its single black sail.

5.

Summer nights are never quite dark, and the sky was already lightening as I walked slowly back toward La Goulue. I picked my way across the dune, the fluffy rabbit-tails of the gra.s.ses bobbing against my bare ankles, and climbed up onto the blockhaus blockhaus roof to watch the tide coming in. On the Bouch'ou two lights blinked-one green, one red-to mark the position of the reef. roof to watch the tide coming in. On the Bouch'ou two lights blinked-one green, one red-to mark the position of the reef.

It looked so secure. Anch.o.r.ed safely, and the whole of Les Salants with it. And yet now everything was changed. It wasn't ours anymore. It had never truly been ours. Brismand money had built it.

But why had they done it?

Brismand had suggested as much: to take over Les Salants. Land is still cheap here; properly exploited it could be profitable. Only the inhabitants remain an embarra.s.sment, clinging so stubbornly.

Debts are sacred on Le Devin. To repay them is a matter of honor. To fail, unthinkable. The beach had swallowed what savings we had, the rolls of coins hidden under floorboards and the tins of notes set aside for rainy days.

Once more I thought of the "metal pig" in the Fromentine boatyard, and remembered Capucine asking me why Brismand would be interested in buying flooded land. Maybe it wasn't building building land that interested him, I thought suddenly. Maybe land that interested him, I thought suddenly. Maybe flooded flooded land was what he had wanted from the beginning. land was what he had wanted from the beginning.

Flooded land. But why would he want it? What possible use could it be to him?

Then it came to me. "A ferry port."

If Les Salants was flooded-better still, if it was cut off from La Houssiniere at La Bouche-then the creek could be expanded to allow a ferry to enter and dock. Level the houses and flood the entire area. There would be s.p.a.ce for two ferries, maybe more. Brismand could run a service to all the islands down the coast, if he liked, making sure of a steady stream of visitors to Le Devin. A shuttle service to and from the ferry port would mean that premium s.p.a.ce in La Houssiniere would not be wasted.

I looked out again at the Bouch'ou, its lights winking calmly across the water. Brismand owned that, I told myself. Twelve modules of used car tires and airplane cable, concreted into the ocean bed. It had once seemed so permanent to me; now I was appalled at its fragility. How could we have placed so much trust in such a thing? Of course, that was when we believed Flynn was on our side. We thought we'd been so clever. We'd stolen our piece of Les Immortelles from under Brismand's nose. And all the time Brismand had been consolidating his position, watching us, drawing us out of ourselves, gaining our trust, raising the stakes so that when he made his move....

Suddenly, I felt very tired. My head was aching. Somewhere below La Goulue I heard a sound-a thin drone of wind between the rocks, a change in the air's note-a single resonant sound that might almost have been that of a drowned bell, then, in the caesura between waves, an eerie lull.

Like all inspired ideas, Brismand's plan was really very simple. I could see now how our prosperity had become the means to manipulate us.

The air was warm from the west and smelled of salt and flowers. Below me I could see the greve greve shining in the false dawn; beyond it the sea was a dark gray stripe a little lighter than the sky. The shining in the false dawn; beyond it the sea was a dark gray stripe a little lighter than the sky. The Eleanore 2 Eleanore 2 was already out there, the was already out there, the Cecilia Cecilia setting out far in her wake. They looked dwarfed by the bank of cloud above them, stilled by distance. setting out far in her wake. They looked dwarfed by the bank of cloud above them, stilled by distance.

I thought of another night, long ago, the night we had put the reef into place. Our plan then had seemed impossibly grandiose, awe-inspiring in its scale. To steal a beach. To change a coastline. But Brismand's plan-the idea underlying everything-dwarfed my small ambitions by far.

To steal Les Salants.

All he had to do now was to move his final piece, and the place was his.

6.

"I can guess why you're you're coming by here so early," said Toinette. I was pa.s.sing her house on my way into the village. Fog had rolled off the sea as the tide came in, and there was a haze across the sun that might turn to rain later. Toinette was wearing her thick cape and gloves as she fed vegetable sc.r.a.ps to her goat. The goat lipped impudently at the sleeve of my coming by here so early," said Toinette. I was pa.s.sing her house on my way into the village. Fog had rolled off the sea as the tide came in, and there was a haze across the sun that might turn to rain later. Toinette was wearing her thick cape and gloves as she fed vegetable sc.r.a.ps to her goat. The goat lipped impudently at the sleeve of my vareuse vareuse, and I pushed it away with some irritation.

Toinette chuckled. "Sunstroke, my girl, that's all it is now, and even that can be nasty, with that thin northern blood of his, but not fatal, heh. Not fatal." She grinned. "Give him a day or so, and he'll be back as slippery as ever. Does that set your mind at rest, girl? Is that what you came to ask me?"

It took me a moment to understand what she meant. In fact I'd been so preoccupied with my thoughts that Flynn's illness had receded-now that I knew he was safe-to a kind of dull ache at the back of my mind. Having it brought back to me so unexpectedly took me by surprise, and I felt my cheeks grow hot.

"Actually, I wanted to see how Mercedes was doing."

"I'm keeping her busy," confided the old woman, with a glance back at the house. It's a full-time job. And there's the visitors to cope with-young Damien Guenole creeping around at all hours, and Xavier Bastonnet who won't stay away, and her mother coming around screaming like h.e.l.l's own furies-I swear, if that woman sets foot anywhere near here again ... But what about you?" She gave me a keen glance. "You don't look well. You're not sickening for something, are you?"

I shook my head. "I didn't sleep much last night."

"I can't say I did myself. But they say red-haired men are luckier than the rest of us. Don't you worry. I wouldn't be surprised if he came home tonight."

"Hey! Mado!"

The call came from behind me; I turned, grateful for the interruption. It was Gabi and Laet.i.tia with the day's provisions. Laet.i.tia waved imperiously to me from the brow of the dune. "Seen the big boat?" she chirped.

I shook my head. Laet.i.tia made a vague gesture in the direction of La Jetee. "It's zen! zen! Go and see!" Then she skipped off toward the beach, dragging Gabi in her wake. Go and see!" Then she skipped off toward the beach, dragging Gabi in her wake.

"Give my love to Mercedes," I said to Toinette. "Tell her I'll be thinking of her."

"Heh." I thought Toinette looked suspicious. "Perhaps I'll walk with you a way. See the big boat, heh?"

"All right."

From the village we could see it clearly-a long, low shape only half-visible in the white fog off Pointe Griznoz. Too small to be a tanker, the wrong shape for a pa.s.senger boat, it might have been some kind of factory ship, except that we knew every vessel that pa.s.sed this way, and it was none of these.

"In trouble, perhaps?" suggested Toinette, looking at me. "Or waiting for the tide?"

Aristide and Xavier were cleaning nets in the creek, and I asked their opinion.

"It's probably something to do with the jellyfish," declared Aristide, picking a big dormeur dormeur crab out of one of his pots. "It's been there since we went out. Just off the Nid'Poule, a big thing, heh, machinery and all kinds of things. From the government, or so Jojo-le-Goeland says." crab out of one of his pots. "It's been there since we went out. Just off the Nid'Poule, a big thing, heh, machinery and all kinds of things. From the government, or so Jojo-le-Goeland says."

Xavier shrugged. "Seems a bit much, just for a few jellyfish. It's not as if the world was coming to an end."

Aristide gave him a dark look. "A few jellyfish, heh? You've no idea. The last time this happened-" He bit off the remark sharply and returned to his net.

Xavier gave a nervous laugh. "At least Rouget's going to be all right," he said. "Jojo told me this morning. I sent a bottle of devinnoise devinnoise."

"And I told you not to go blabbing to Jojo-le-Goeland," said Aristide.

"I wasn't blabbing blabbing-"

"You'd do better minding your own business. If you'd done that in the first place, you might still be in with a chance with the Prossage girl."

Xavier looked away, flushing beneath his gla.s.ses.

Toinette lifted her eyes heavenward. "Leave the boy alone, heh, Aristide?" she said in a warning tone.

"Well," grunted Aristide. "I thought my son's boy would have had more sense."

Xavier ignored them both. "You talked to her, didn't you?" he said to me quietly as I turned to go. I nodded. "How did she look?"

"What does it matter how she looks, heh?" demanded Aristide. "She's made you you look like a prize idiot, that's for certain. And as for her grandmother-" Toinette stuck out her tongue at Aristide with such sudden petulance that I had to smile. look like a prize idiot, that's for certain. And as for her grandmother-" Toinette stuck out her tongue at Aristide with such sudden petulance that I had to smile.

Xavier ignored them both, his shyness gone in the face of his anxiety. "Was she all right? Will she see me? Toinette won't say."

"She's confused," I said. "She doesn't know what she wants. Give her time."

Aristide snorted. "Give her nothing!" he spat. "She's had her chance, heh. There'll be other girls better than that one. Decent girls."

Xavier said nothing, but I saw his expression.

Toinette bridled. "Not decent, my Mercedes!"

Quickly I put my arm around her shoulders. "Come on. This is pointless."

"Not until he takes that back!"

"Please. Toinette. Come on." I glanced again at the boat, an oddly threatening presence on the pale horizon. "Who are they?" I said, almost to myself. "What are they doing here?"

Everyone in the village seemed uneasy that morning. Going into Prossage's shop for bread I found the counter untended, and heard raised voices from the back room. I took what I needed, leaving the money beside the till. Behind me Omer and Charlotte continued to argue, their voices carrying eerily in the still air. Ghislain and Damien's mother was scrubbing lobster pots by the vivarium, a rag tied around her head. Angelo's was empty except for Matthias, sitting alone over cafe-devinnoise cafe-devinnoise. There were few tourists to be seen, perhaps because of the fog. The air was oppressive and smelled of smoke and the coming rain. No one seemed to feel like talking.

On the way back home with my provisions I pa.s.sed Alain. Like his wife he looked drawn and colorless. His teeth were clamped on the stub of a Gitane. I greeted him with a nod. "No fishing today?"

Alain shook his head. "I'm looking for my son," he told me. "And when I find him I swear he'll wish I hadn't." Apparently Damien hadn't been home all night. Anger and worry had gouged deep lines between Alain's eyebrows and around his mouth.

"He can't have gone far," I said. "How far can he go on an island?"

"Far enough," replied Alain in a bleak voice. "He's taken the Eleanore 2 Eleanore 2."

They had left her moored off La Goulue, he explained. Alain had planned to go to La Jetee with Ghislain in the morning to check for jellyfish.

"I thought the boy might like to come too," he said bitterly. "Thought it might take his mind off other things."

But when they had arrived at the beach the Eleanore 2 Eleanore 2 had already gone. There was no sign of her at all, and the little had already gone. There was no sign of her at all, and the little platt platt that they used for access at high tide was moored alongside the marker buoy. that they used for access at high tide was moored alongside the marker buoy.