On the tape, the man finished his French. Paper rustled.
Damien leaned closer to the player. "A date. November, 2003. 'Patient G. Fourth session.'"
"Doctor." Her mother's voice again, patient, almost kind. "In English. We agreed."
A chair creaked. When the man spoke again, it was in plain American English.
"Of course. My apologies, Madame."
"Not Madame. Not here."
A pause.
"Mrs. Vale," the man said.
"Thank you."
Her mother's English was flat and careful and American, the voice of every bedtime story Aria could remember. A Frenchwoman had built that voice on purpose, one vowel at a time.
Aria pulled her knees up onto the chair and wrapped her arms around them.
'Mrs. Vale,' she thought. 'In 2003. A year before I was born.'
"How is he?" Geneviève asked.
"Sleeping more. Twelve hours. Fourteen, some days. He eats when he's told to."
"And when he's awake?"
