I stare at Diane’s latest missive while my mind processes what I’ve just read.

I’m not going. When you cut someone off, there’s no point in doing it partially.

Do I believe her version of Sebastian’s side of the story? Could it be true? Is it possible that my brothers aren’t moved by greed alone? Was Sebastian really concerned about the fate of his workers? Did he really offer his first profit to Maman?

Have I been judging him too harshly?

As for Raphael, Maman always says he was too young at the time and too easily influenced.

Speaking of Maman, something in Diane’s letter bothers me more than the possibility I’ve been wrong to cut my brothers off. It’s the response Maman gave Seb when he finally offered some money.

She told him she’d found another solution.

This “other solution” could only be Pierre Sorrel, the foreign ministry official who helped Maman get French government funding that year, and the years that followed. The ultimate jerk who made her pay for his help with her body.

That’s what she told me the day I came home from school earlier than usual and saw him in our living room. He had his back to the door, ass naked, pants around his ankles. Maman was on her knees in front of him…

My hands ball into fists as I remember the scene.

What wouldn’t I give to unsee it! I was fourteen and Maman was my hero, a warrior for social justice, a saint. When Sorrel ran out, and she confessed that what I’d seen was the price she was paying to continue her work, I resolved to kill him. I spent countless sleepless nights plotting his murder to save Maman from his clutches.

But the one time I actually had a chance at fifteen during a garden party at the French Embassy, I couldn’t do it.

That’s why I’m so mad at my brothers.

That is why I can’t forgive them.

But… why didn’t Maman take Sebastian’s money when he offered it so she could be free of Sorrel? Was her pride stronger than her misery? Or was she less miserable than she led me to believe?

I shake my head.

This is all conjecture based on secondhand information from a woman who’s far from impartial. Diane loves Seb, and she goes out of her way to justify his actions. Quite successfully, in fact. Every time she writes, I end up questioning things I’ve always known to be true.

I crumple her letter and toss it in the trash can. The next one she sends me will end up there unopened.

Anger pulsing in my veins, I grab my backpack and head out. Sophie and I have a train to catch.

We’re traveling to Burgundy.

It’s my second trip there in the space of a week. I went to the Chateau d’Arcy last Saturday to talk with the housekeeper, Jacqueline Bruel. Since my twenty-seventh birthday two weeks ago, I’m the legal owner of the estate, which means Madame Bruel is in my employ.

Not for long, though.

When Jacqueline and I chatted last week, I asked her to make sure the staff clear the premises from two to six this afternoon so I could spend a few hours there on my own and decide what I want to do with it.

I lied. My decision is made. It was made years ago. I’m taking Sophie to the estate today so she can give me an initial assessment and a ballpark price. Then I’ll entrust it to one of those specialized brokers she mentioned.

And then I’ll sell it.

* * *

When Sophie and I climb out of the cab and walk past the wrought iron gates, the air smells of roses and grass. Bumblebees and other summer bugs buzz over the neatly trimmed hedgerow.

A soft breeze makes thousands of oak leaves rustle along the gravel driveway. An English-style park of vast lawns sprinkled with sprawling trees and colorful flowerbeds begins to our left and stretches behind the castle. A vineyard spreads outward from it, covering the soft slopes of the hills to our right.

All of this is such a contrast to the smells, views, and sounds of Paris that it’s hard to believe we left the city less than three hours ago.

Oscar would love it here.

He’d chase butterflies and roll on the grass to his heart’s content, and there’d be no one to kick him out because it’s a no-poop zone.

“Your friend Sebastian is smart to sell his chateau in the summer.” Sophie fills her lungs with air and looks around. “I’ve been here less than a minute and already I’m in love.”

I give her a stiff smile, wondering if I’d named my imaginary friend “Sebastian” by coincidence.

Hardly. I guess it was an unconscious attempt to give this charade a touch of truth.

Sebastian, Raphael and I, and generations of d’Arcy boys and girls before us, spent many happy summers here. Raph and I always got in trouble, climbing trees we were too chicken to descend, chasing the housekeeper’s pet goose around the park and playing hide-and-seek where we weren’t allowed to.

What a shame my easygoing middle brother sided with Seb when Maman needed him!

Unlike his younger siblings, the always serious Sebastian spent most of his waking hours in the library, reading clever books. I’m sure it’s in the library that he first hatched his plan for world domination.

“Again, why is your buddy selling this?” Sophie asks.

“He needs money.”

“And he’s stuck abroad, right?”

“Right.” I turn away. “Where would you like to begin?”

“What are my options?”

“The park, the vineyard, or the house.”

She points her chin to the stairs leading up to the ornate entrance. “Let’s see the castle first.”

“Sure,” I nod before clapping my hand to my forehead. “Almost forgot. We won’t have time to check it out, but you should know there’s a grotto with rock art just a short hike up that hill.”

I point in the direction of the d’Arcy Grotto.

“Is it part of the estate?” she asks.

I nod.

“Is the grotto any good?”

“It has the oldest prehistoric rock paintings in France,” I say, a proud note creeping into my voice. “Ice Age about forty thousand years ago. I remember the magnificent mammoths and reindeer. Lions, too.”

“Did you stay here as a kid?”

“Yeah.”

“How sad,” she says.

“That I visited the estate as a child?”

“No, silly. That your friend is selling his childhood home.”

“It isn’t sad,” I say. “He doesn’t care for this place.”

Really, he doesn’t.