(Isobel's Point of View)
I waited until I heard his car ease out of the driveway before I went downstairs.
Marie was in the kitchen, humming under her breath as she arranged fresh flowers in a glass vase. Sunlight lanced through the window and made the water sparkle; a faint smell of coffee and buttered pastry warmed the air. She looked up when I came in.
"Good morning, dear. I saved you some breakfast."
"Thanks." I sat at the table, careful to keep my distance from the counter where last night had happened. "Did Etienne leave for work?"
"Yes, about twenty minutes ago. He said he'd be back late."
Relief and disappointment landed together, an odd, hollow double note. "Okay."
She set a plate before me — two croissants, a smear of jam, a small bowl of fresh fruit. The croissant flakes dusted the plate like pale confetti. My stomach tightened at the sight.
"You barely touched your tea yesterday," Marie said gently, eyes searching. "Are you feeling alright?"
