The rest of Sabine's day was spent with Eleanora in the kitchen, after a quick run to pick up all the needed ingredients. Sabine searched her memories for the recipes she'd known as a child and found that once they started baking, it all came flooding back to her.

"It takes a lot of beurre– pardon –butter," Sabine corrected herself while she and Eleanora were kneading the dough. Sabine was finding it difficult to recount the recipe in Standard because her memories were in French and the nostalgia kept washing over her, throwing her off of her normal, meticulous adherence to Standard. She hadn't done enough cooking in the past few years to remember the names of all the ingredients in her second tongue.

"Well, anything with this much butter is bound to be good," Eleanora responded.

The two women worked in companionable quiet, occasionally swapping stories of cooking adventures and misadventures.

"Leonard tells me you're from the Ivory Coast," Eleanora prompted Sabine as they came to a stopping point and waited for the dough to rise.

"Yes. I did not live there long." Sabine hated the lies but hated the consequences of telling the truth even more.

"But that's the language you speak, yes? Ivorian?"

"Mmm…," she responded, avoiding eye contact with the other woman and hoping it sounded like she was answering in the affirmative.

"While we're waiting for the dough, may I show you my husband's library? There are some books I think you'll be interested to see," Eleanora had a sparkle in her eyes and Sabine wondered just what she was up to.

She followed Mrs. McCoy down the hall to a room with pocket doors. Eleanora opened them up and ushered Sabine in, following behind her and closing the doors. As far as either of them knew, the men were working on fences out in the fields, but Eleanora didn't want to take any risks. This young thing before her was skittish as a colt and the last thing they needed was her son and his buddy startling her.

Sabine looked around the room, with its lovely floor to ceiling built-in bookcases, leather arm chairs from a different era and thick Persian rug covering the hardwood floor. This was a room she could fall in love with. She missed books. Eleanora walked over to a section of shelves and waited for Sabine to follow her.

"For some reason, I happen to think you might like these right here," she said to Sabine, patting the shelves next to her. Sabine took a closer look at the titles.

Les Misérables, Candide, Les Liaisons Dangereuses, Madame Bovary, Bel-Ami, L'étranger

The two shelves Eleanora had pointed out contained over fifty volumes of French literature. Sabine's eyes snapped back to the other woman, and her heart raced. She was unsure how to react. It was only a hundred years ago that laws against owning books written in French had finally been lifted.

"It's okay, dear. I don't know how or why you speak this language and I won't say a word. But someone ought to enjoy all of these. David and I could never understand a lick of 'em, but they looked good on the shelves."

"How did you know I was speaking French?"

"Well, it was a little bit of a lucky guess. When I was young, no more than four or five, my great-grandmother would use a cookbook to make meals. It was one of her most prized possessions – had been passed down from generation to generation in the family – hidden during the times when anything French was forbidden. That's it there."

Eleanora nodded to the end of the top shelf where a battered and much-loved copy of La Bonne Cuisine de Madame E. Saint-Ange was nestled. Sabine felt a lump in her throat – her mother had owned that same book.

"Sadly, my grandma never learned to read the book, and none of us since have been able to make heads or tails of it. Anyway, I heard you say beurre, farine, and sucre and I remembered my great-grammy using those same words when she'd read from her cookbook. I figured it was worth a try to see if you recognized any of these books."

Sabine wanted to cry tears of joy. No one, outside of Adjoa, had spoken to her in or about French for so long.

"Thank you for showing me this. They are wonderful." Her brow furrowed as she wondered how many questions she would have to answer – in lies – should Leo walk in on her reading from French novels.

"I'm guessing you want to keep this between you and me," his mother replied, as though she could read Sabine's mind. Now she knew why Leo was always so paranoid with her. It felt strange to have someone size her up so well.

"You should know these doors lock from the inside. Ought to give you enough time to hide what you're reading should anyone come looking for you."

"Thank you," Sabine whispered and Eleanora patted her on the shoulder.

"I'll come get you in an hour or so when the dough is done rising. Till then, enjoy!"

Eleanora left the study and closed the doors behind her. Sabine flipped the lock and settled in to read, deciding on Chéri by Colette.