Pyromancist Read Free Page B

life
finally returned to her legs and she started to hurry down the
path, he said, “What’s your name, girl?”
    She stopped. “Cle ... Cle...” Her teeth
chattered.
    He frowned. “Take a deep breath. You’re in
shock.”
    She did as he instructed, and found her jaw
relax slightly.
    “That’s better. Now, tell me again.”
    “Clelia.”
    His lips twitched. “The witch?”
    She flinched. That was what her classmates
called her.
    He didn’t show any kind of emotion. Only his
smile became a little bit more pronounced. “How old are you?”
    “Fourteen,” she said through parched
lips.
    “You’re too young to wander alone in the
woods.”
    When he said that, his voice became soft and
dark again, like when he had spoken to Iwig, and without sparing
either of the lovers another glance, Clelia sprinted home and
curled into a ball on her bed with his bloody handkerchief in her
hand.
    Josselin left the village that same year in
August, the summer he finished school, just after the fateful
incident in his life. They never spoke another word. He had never
acknowledged her after that day. Not a hint or a sign that they had
shared the episode with Iwig.
    For nine years, she slept with his
handkerchief under her pillow. Besides having heard via the
grapevine that he had gone to New York, she hadn’t had news since
he had left and she refused to look at the house in which he had
grown up. Being reminded of him was too painful. Now, she stood
facing it, taking it all in with a mixture of mounting fear and
premonition. It was the biggest house–three stories high with two
turrets framing the pointed roof–for miles around. The once pretty
garden was nothing more than weeds strangling rose bushes and
climbing the fence, obscuring the ground level view. Nine years
ago, there was a swing bench on the porch that overlooked the
grassland that flattened out to the sea. The white shutters had
stood out against the gray of the stonewalls and the silver slate
of the roof, but now they were the color of ash, the wood cracked
and splintered in places, hanging askew in front of the narrow
turret windows.
    His bedroom was on the top floor in the west
tower. She knew because he sometimes smoked a cigarette on the
balcony, his gaze trained on the ocean, or maybe on what lay
beyond, what the eye couldn’t see. It was the room in which the
light burned the latest. Often, when Erwan was out fishing at
night, depending on how the tides turned, she had snuck out here on
her bike and stood in the road to see his light finally go out.
    After that night, the house was barred
and sealed. It belonged to Josselin now. People were wondering if
he was ever going to sell, although it would have to be to
foreigners, they said, from Paris, England, or Europe, because no
one in their right mind, no one from Larmor-Baden or the islands,
would ever want to live there.
    Clelia felt a trickle of perspiration running
down her spine. It was an exceptionally warm summer. The July sun
was already high. She pulled off her denim jacket and checked the
time on her mobile phone. She had to hurry, or she’d miss the
bus.
    She arrived at Tristan’s stables on the
outskirts of Carnac just before eight. By nine, busses full of
tourists wanting to visit the three thousand mysterious prehistoric
standing stones would arrive. A small number of them would rent
horses and a guide from Tristan to explore the oldest part, which
ran from the border of the stables over four miles toward the sea,
and dated back to 4500 BC.
    When she pushed the door of the office open,
Tristan, almost the age of Erwan, lifted his head and grimaced.
    “Every morning I pray you won’t show up, but
here you are again,” he said.
    “And where else should I go?” Clelia dropped
her backpack by the desk and opened the book in which they noted
the tour reservations.
    “To Paris. To university. Anywhere but
here.”
    “This is my home, Tristan.”
    He flicked through some papers on the desk
that