It all happened so quickly. One minute she was in the car with Elena and Mama and Auntie Margaux and the car had come to stop before a big ivy-covered house; the next minute somebody had grabbed her hand and pulled her out into the sunshine. The somebody was a tall girl with long dark hair that was not in neat plaits, like Elena’s, but falling all over her shoulders and even across her face; and the girl was smiling – no, laughing – and once she had scrambled upright on the gravel in the sunshine, feeling a bit dazed, the girl was kissing her on both cheeks and chattering away in French. She understood every word, of course.

‘You are Sibyl!’ said the girl. ‘I know it because you are the smaller one. I am Marie-Claire and I am so glad you have come! I’m ten and I’ve been dying to meet you. And you’re Elena and you’re about nine, and I’m so glad to have another girl my age because I am surrounded by boys and boys are so méchant aren’t they! You are lucky to have a sister and not a brother. But they are not so bad, really. This is Leon, and Lucien. Boys, you must be kind to Sibyl because I think she is a little sad.’

Un peu triste. A little sad! What did this girl, this Marie-Claire, know about sadness, or what was in her, Sibyl’s, heart! She had obviously never known a day of sadness in her life, whereas her own heart was nothing more than a red-hot bundle of pain, a little ball of agony, and she didn’t know what to do about it. Somebody she adored had been ripped out of her life and the pain was devouring her from the inside; she couldn’t even think a proper thought because of it. Papa! Oh, Papa! Where are you? Come back!

Marie-Claire was still chattering, looking from Elena to her and back again. Obviously, she had taken control of the entire situation, installed herself as leader. ‘… and this is Jacques. He is not our brother but he pretends to be. He is here all the time and he is the most méchant of them all, and the oldest and biggest so he thinks he is the boss but he isn’t, because I am the very oldest. And my little sister Victoire, she is the very youngest. She is only three but she likes to be with us and I take care of her. And Elena! Let me welcome you too, I am so glad you are here! Welcome to Château Gauthier!’

Victoire had already flung her little arms around Sibyl’s waist, and then the boys were grabbing her hands and grinning; three of them when she had been expecting two. Sibyl didn’t know much about boys. She had encountered few of them in her short life; one or two cousins, Papa’s nephews, but younger than herself. There were no boys at her school in Kingston. It was a girls’ school. Boys were strange creatures, but they couldn’t be all bad because Papa had once been a boy and Papa was the most wonderful man on earth. Had been! Had been! Papa was gone!

Boys were loud and boisterous; that much she knew and indeed, that was what these three boys were being, very loud and very boisterous, knocking into each other, cuffing each other, bending each other’s limbs backwards (or so it seemed) and loud! Deafening! It sounded even as if they were arguing. What on earth were they speaking? It sounded familiar but she didn’t understand a word of it. It sounded like German, but it definitely wasn’t – Sibyl knew enough German to tell the difference – and were they arguing or not? It sounded like it, and they were almost fighting, it seemed, but laughing at the same time! Boisterous, indeed!

‘Leon, Lucien, Jacques! You must speak French now, because we have visitors! Mama said we have to speak French! And you have not greeted Sibyl and Elena properly!’

Hands were grabbing at hers now, boy-hands, and boy-lips were kissing her cheek, and boy-voices, shrill and loud and incomprehensible, filled the air – it was pandemonium, so much so that she couldn’t even feel that red-hot ball of fire that had replaced her heart.

Aunt Margaux was speaking now, telling Marie-Claire to take her inside, to their room, and then to show her around the place, and now Marie-Claire had taken her hand and Elena’s and was pulling them away towards the house. The boys were still prancing around and speaking – no, shouting – in that bizarre language. Was it some kind of secret code, like you read about in books? Everyone in France spoke French. That was simply a fact. But these boys seemed to have a language of their own, a boisterous boy-language that nobody else could understand. It wasn’t fair, and they were still hopping around and bouncing off each other and shouting so she could hardly hear Marie-Claire speak. Victoire had taken her other hand and so they entered through the huge heavy front door, into the cool darkness of the house, and then up a staircase – oh! She had forgotten her bag with the books and she needed it because she intended to do a lot of reading in France. Reading was the only thing that stopped the pain or at least kept it in abeyance, at least for a while. A parson had come to visit Mama several times in the last week and he had asked her if there was anything he could bring her and she had said books; and he had brought a whole box full. She had taken her pick, and brought as many as Mama had allowed to France, and she would read them all to dull the pain.

The boys tumbled backwards up the staircase, ahead of them, behind them, all around them, falling over the banister and still shouting in gobbledygook. Marie-Claire still held her hand but had let go of Elena’s and they walked up together. She liked having that hand in hers. It felt steady and strong, sending a message that said, it’s all right. You are here, I am here; you are in good hands. Everything will be fine. Thought it couldn’t possibly be fine, ever again. Not without Papa.

‘This is your room, and Elena’s. Come in, Elena, see, this is your room. I wanted you both to stay in my room, it’s big enough for three beds! But Mama said you would want to be together, at least at first, but later when we become best friends you can move in with me, Elena – and you too, Sibyl! And we will have such fun. I always wanted a sister – I mean, I do have a sister, but I mean a sister my age because those brothers… well! And two of them! And Jacques, who thinks he is a third brother and everyone thinks so too. I am buried in boys so you can’t imagine how happy I am that you have come, you are like two new sisters. And we will go to school together, on Monday, and I will be able to show you off to all my friends and we will have such fun together! Do you like ponies? My friend Amelie who lives not far away, she has a pony of her own and I’m sure she will let you ride him, she let me! Look, I will show you Amelie’s house. It’s not far. Come.’

Marie-Claire pulled her over to the window and there they stood, all three of them –the boys had momentarily disappeared – gazing out over the valley. And she couldn’t help it; she sighed at the sheer gloriousness of it. Gently rolling hills spread out before her, each one of them covered in the neat rows that she knew were vines, golden-and-green vines, bathed in golden sunshine, rolling away from her in wide undulating folds. Dotted here and there among the hills, a building, a rooftop; and in the distance, a village, a church tower. Clusters of trees, a field of cows. Not a road to be seen, not a car. After the piercing noisy grey streets of London, the stuffy claustrophobia of Grandma’s place, this seemed like – well, like a piece of heaven. She could breathe again – a long, deep breath. And it seemed, though she couldn’t be quite sure, that the searing ache at the centre of her being seemed to heave a huge sigh and release one of the bands that had held her so tightly in the terrible last ten days.

‘That is Amelie’s house,’ Marie-Claire said, pointing, but Sibyl hardly heard her; she was too busy breathing in the splendour of the sight spread out before her. And for the first time since arriving, she spoke the one word, the only word, worthy of the vista spread out before her:

‘Magnifique!’