Page 26 of The Seekers of Deer Creek

“We can’t ‘just go’ to Arles.”

“Why not?”

“Pick a reason. And, sayLýdid live in the cottage at Maison de Notre Rêve. That doesn’t mean the ‘offering’ is there. Not to mention that offering could be anything—a flower bush or a recipe for cheesecake or a collection of his moldy old brushes.”

“Why would he hide a recipe for cheesecake?” Calla giggled.

“Could have been a really good recipe. We need more to go on.”

“Hop to it, then. You’re getting close, I feel it.”

Bolstered by her sister’s faith, Vivi paged through the photos again. On a separate tab, she ran a search for Maison de Notre Rêve, where it appeared among a handful of curated lists of recommendations from travel magazines. One called it “a place for second chances”; another praised the chef’s thyme-scented crème brûlée. None mentioned the Allards or the history behind the inn.

On the second page of search results, she found a long-abandoned, Y2K-era travel blog. There were blurry photos of the couple—the Wandering Wilsons, placid-faced Californians who dressed as if they might be thrown onto a hiking trail at any moment—toasting each other on the terrace of Maison de Notre Rêve. The slideshow on the post, set to an instrumental version of Édith Piaf’s “La Foule,” contained shots of flowering almond trees and medieval churches. A gazebo, a bench, various architectural details.

The Wilsons enjoyed their time so much, yes they did, and they’d visit France again, but they would recommend bringing bug spray and patience, because the table service left something to be desired.

“Wait.” Calla stilled her hand as she flipped through the blog slideshow another time. “That bench.”

She scrolled back to the photo, which had been taken on the grounds of Maison de Notre Rêve at sunset. “What about it?”

“The carving. Can you read it?”

She squinted at the curved stone back.Après tout ce temps. “After all this time.”

“What’s the dot next to it? Zoom in.”

They could hardly make it out at first, but then they saw that it was a tiny carving: a single, perfect orb surrounded by rippling waves of heat.

A high-pitched sound grew in Vivi’s ears. “A sun.”

“A fucking sun.” Calla dug her nails into Vivi’s skin. Vivi winced as Calla breathed, “This is it. This is where the offering is. Remind me whatLýwrote about that château of his?”

“‘I’ve gone and left something at the Château des Miroirs, buried under the endless sun.’”

“Book the flight.”

“Button.”

“What are you so scared of?”

Vivi did not trust any of it.Blue Mirror,Lý, this hidden château. Her own father’s place in the weave of the mystery. Calla andTu?n, both with their common brand of impulse and chaos, continued to draw Vivi away from the known and into those shadowy questions that she could not navigate. It frightened her, that richly patterned dark. It frightened her because she craved it too.

Finally, she said, “Let’s just sleep on it.”

Calla pouted, then jumped back onto her own bed, flinging her hand dramatically over her eyes. “I’m going with or without you.”

“You keep saying that.” Vivi turned off the lights and got under the covers, trying not to pay attention to the stains she’d glimpsed.

After a few moments of tossing and turning, Calla asked, “Are you still awake?”

“Yeah.”

“Me too.”

“What are you thinking about?”

“The TA. He’s still a sloppy kisser.”