“It’s between Aix-en-Provence and the medieval hilltop village of St. Paul de Vence.”
“What’s the town called?” he asked as he pulled a paper map out of the glove box and began unfolding it.
She laughed despite herself. “It won’t be on the maps. It’s too small. But it’s very real and very remote.”
“How small?”
“Very. It’s a hameau, which translates to hamlet, but it’s not what you would think of when you think of a hamlet. There are literally a handful of houses. No church, no government building. Certainly no hotels or restaurants.”
“It sounds perfect.”
She smiled. It did.
The sky lightened as they drove inland, the darkness softening to gray at the edges. They passed through sleeping villages, their shuttered windows and empty streets giving them a ghostly quality. The road climbed through terraced vineyards and olive groves, the landscape opening up into rolling hills.
By the time they reached the cottage, the sun was rising over the hills, painting them in shades of gold and amber.
She turned onto a rutted dirt road that wound between stone walls draped with wild roses. The structures scattered across the hillside were mainly abandoned or used only seasonally, according to the notaire who settled her grandmother’s estate. Not that you’d know it by the taxes.
“Are we close?”
“Yes.”
“We can hide the car in there.” Omar pointed to an empty barn with sagging doors.
She maneuvered the Peugeot into the barn and killed the engine. For a moment, they all just sat there, breathing.
Hanna’s voice came from the back seat, thin and fragile. “Are we safe?”
“For now,” Marielle said, which was the most honest answer she could give.
They climbed out. Hanna swayed on her feet, and Marielle caught her elbow. Omar forced the barn doors closed and shouldered his pack along with Hannah’s.
Marielle led them across the field to the cottage. Her cottage. It was small, with stone walls, blue shutters, terracotta roof tiles. Ivy crawled up the front facade. When she spent summers with her grandmother, they’d leave Paris at the height of the heat to come to the cottage. And, to Marielle, it was like something out of a fairytale.
She went around to the side patio, crouched beside a large ceramic planter filled with dried earth and dead stalks, and retrieved a key from underneath.
Omar stared at her. “Are you serious?”
She looked up. “What?”
“A key under the planter?”
“She was a ninety-two-year-old retired perfume maker, not a spy.”
“Fair.”
She unlocked the side door, and they stepped into a small kitchen. Dust motes danced in the early morning light filtering through the windows. The air smelled closed-up but not unpleasant—old wood and dried herbs and something floral.
“This way,” Marielle said, leading Hanna through to a bedroom. The bed was made, the linens ancient but clean. Her grandmother had always kept everything ready for unexpected guests.
Hanna sank onto the mattress and closed her eyes.
“Try to sleep,” Marielle said gently. “We’ll be right outside if you need anything.”
In the kitchen, Marielle filled the kettle and set it on the cast-iron wood-burning stove. She found a long kitchen match and lit the fire. There was wood loaded in the stove, and it caught immediately. It was a small miracle, as she dutifully paid the bills but hadn’t visited the cottage since her grandmother’s death.
Omar was already investigating the cupboards. “Flour. Salt. Baking powder.” He held up a tin. “Still good. If I had olive oil, I could make a quick bread.”