May the Road Always be Kind to You

A week later, Grace found herself staring awkwardly down at her onion soup.

She was desperately trying to avoid the eyes of the most recent visitor Jocelyn had invited to dinner: a young and, quite frankly insufferable, minor Vicomte.

The Vicomte de Lenoix, she thought this one was called. Although, Grace had rather lost count of what number she was on, and what all of their names were.

She glanced up. He grinned at her, pockmarks and spots stretching on his round face. Grace suddenly felt put off her soup.

The Vicomte was the latest in Jocelyn's efforts to get her set up and married off to an eligible Frenchman. Before she brought out the big-guns, so to speak, Jocelyn was working through the lesser names in her acquaintances book. And if this was the pre-battle skirmishes, Grace dreaded to think on what the main conflict would be like.

With the others, Grace had managed to excuse herself to bed with a headache or make herself seem like the most boring conversationalist who ever lived, and thus she'd avoided anything approaching a courtship. But tonight, she'd have to think of a new way to dodge a marriage proposal…

"More wine, Footman. Can't you see my glass is empty?" The Vicomte said, waving his pallid hand at one of the servers.

A footman came rushing forwards with a bottle and touched it to the Vicomte's glass muttering an apology.

"We call our servants by their Christian names in this house, Vicomte." Julius said gently. "The gentleman who just served you is called Laurent."

"Christian names?! Hah! What a strange notion." He laughed, spitting out remnants of his crouton over the table. "Why, my father had a valet in his employ for twenty years. Never once bothered to ask his name. And when he didn't turn up for morning dressing one day, the maid told him 'Michel died of a fever last night, Sir.' and he said 'Who?'."

The Vicomte laughed. Meanwhile Jocelyn, Julius and Grace shared looks of varying distaste amongst themselves.

"Although…" the Vicomte continued, slurping up some more onion soup. "…I can't say I'm surprised to hear of your strange… overfamiliarity with your servants based on-"

He pointed his spoon right at Jocelyn and her eyes went wide.

"Based on what, Monsieur?" Julius interrupted calmly, but Grace could sense ice in his voice.

Luckily, the Vicomte did too, and he lowered his spoon and shook his head.

"Nothing. Nothing at all."

He gave them all a sickly smile and they returned back to their meals. She didn't understand the slight that had been felt to Julius and Jocelyn, but she felt it. There was a profoundly awkward silence for a good while and Grace took a long swig of her wine.

It was going to be a long night…

"So, are you an accomplished young lady, Mademoiselle?" The Vicomte asked, leaning over his plate with his bucked teeth and over-eager eyes.

"Umm…if playing the spoons is considered an accomplishment." Grace answered.

Julius choked on his soup as he fought down a laugh.

"Nonsense, Grace!" Jocelyn chided her. "I have never met a more well-read lady, Vicomte. You are always in Julius' study, taking things off the shelves."

It was true; these days she occupied herself mostly through reading. Reading in the drawing room, reading in the gardens, reading in her room. Anything and everything she could vaguely understand. Histories, autobiographies, treatises… she'd even borrowed a few of Jocelyn's romance novels to stave off her boredom.

When she wasn't helping Artemida in the mornings, she was usually reading.

"Hmm, I've always found women who read to be very…uncouth." The Vicomte sneered.

Grace put down her spoon and smiled. The Vicomte had just handed her a reason to dismiss him on a plate.

"Why? Because they aren't meek and agreeable? Because they challenge your ridiculous notion of feminine feebleness, sir?" Grace spat back.

"Excuse me?!"

"I suppose it's very easy to nod and agree with everything you say when all you can do is sit by the fireplace, embroidering your undergarments."

"Mademoiselle!"

"Is that how you like your women, Monsieur? Subjugated? Hegemonized?"

"Hear, hear…" Julius muttered quietly into his wine glass.

The Vicomte's angry eyes fell on Julius.

"Were you not happy with radicalising just your son, Monsieur?" He sneered. "Had to branch out to the young ladies within your care as well?"

Jocelyn went as white as a sheet.

Julius, meanwhile, set his jaw firm and rose up from the table with feline control.

"I think it's best that the Vicomte leaves now." He said steadily. "Laurent, please escort the gentleman back to his carriage."

The Vicomte snarled and threw his napkin down upon the table.

"I shall be well rid of this place! For I see it is full of biting little gutter-snipes and class-traitors."

He looked at Grace and Julius in turn before striding out of the dining room.

The three of them sat in silence until they had listened to the sound of the Vicomte's carriage completely leave the gravel drive.

Jocelyn sighed and stood up abruptly.

"I've rather lost my appetite. Would anyone care to join me in the drawing room for an aperitif?"

"More booze? Yes please." Grace mumbled.

The three of them abandoned their onion soup and walked with dragging heels into the drawing room.

Grace and Jocelyn slumped into the settee side by side whilst Julius made his way over to the drinks globe to begin the pouring.

"I'm sorry." Grace sighed suddenly. "I didn't need to be rude to-"

"Oh, he had it coming, dear." Jocelyn interrupted. "I'm just sorry I tried to foist him off on you."

"Don't worry about it. It wouldn't be the first bad date I've been on." She mumbled back.

"Bad what?"

"Never mind."

"Well, not to worry." Jocelyn said with forced chipperness. "I know many more young French bachelors who aren't intolerably rude. Perhaps we should host a ball, Julius, and Grace could meet them all at once!"

Grace groaned. That sounded very much like the 'big-guns' Jocelyn had been saving for later.

Julius handed them both a glass of brandy and sat down in his own chair by the fireplace.

"I think it's time we told our guest, mon amour." He said.

"Told me what?"

"What the Vicomte so graciously alluded to." Jocelyn grumbled. "It's the worst kept secret of the district. Everyone knows. But you won't. On account of… you know."

"On account of you being a foreigner." Julius added helpfully.

Grace perked her ears up. This sounded interesting.

"It was over twenty years ago. I don't know why everyone is still so enthralled by it!" Jocelyn said irritably.

"Because small minds are occupied by small things, my dear." Julius said, grabbing her hand and squeezing tight.

Jocelyn sighed and kissed his knuckles. "Our marriage was considered a…bit of a faux pas." She said brusquely.

"Oh?" Grace asked, intrigued.

"It was ridiculous, really. My father was a paper-merchant." Jocelyn admitted, her voice dipping low. "A wealthy one. Probably just as wealthy as Julius' family-"

"But, uhh, my father did not approve of the match." Julius added. "Even though I was head over heels and had already pledged myself to her."

"Aww." Grace sighed.

"The marriage was seen as 'disadvantageous'. Julius was apparently 'marrying down'."

"To hear my father talk about it, you would have thought I was marrying a milkmaid. Not a middle-class merchant's daughter."

"So, it was…suggested that I become Julius' mistress instead of his wife-"

"But I wouldn't hear of it."

"Good man." Grace said solidly with a thumbs up.

"Well, father was furious when he found out that we'd married in secret." Julius grumbled. "Threatened to disown me entirely, strip me of my inheritance… All of that, unless I denied the wedding had happened and privately paid to have the marriage dissolved."

"But I was already expecting our Marcelin." Jocelyn cut in with a smile. "So Julius didn't request an annulment."

"It wasn't just because of that, mon amour!" Julius exclaimed. "I was rather fond of you."

"Was?!" Jocelyn cried out indignantly.

"Oh alright, I suppose I do still adore you, mon amour. Just a little."

Jocelyn giggled and kissed his hand again.

The affection that passed between them made Grace's heart twinge a little.

"Well, we figured out a compromise between our families. Eventually." Jocelyn continued.

"The family title went to my younger brother, I was given this modest Chateau instead-"

"This is modest?!" Grace exclaimed looking around her.

"And my family wasn't exactly short on funds." Jocelyn said. "Whatever Julius' family didn't give, my dowry made up for it."

"And even now, the district won't stop talking about it. I mean, it seems generous to even call it a 'scandal'. What if I had wanted to marry a milkmaid, for the love of God?"

"Julius, do not blaspheme." Jocelyn chided him.

"It's why we've always insisted upon treating our servants like, God forbid, human beings! You heard him, Grace. Most nobility treat their servants as little better than expendable."

Grace nodded, recalling all too well that dreadful story the Vicomte had told at dinner.

"My own family would have sworn me off for the mere notion of marrying outside of my class. What loyalty would I have to that way of life? Our family lost so much after the Revolution anyway. You'd have thought a little humility might have done them good. And after 1789, I thought we were meant to be living in a better world. Whatever happened to Liberté, Egalité and Fraternité?"

"It died when they put Louis-Philippe back on the throne." Jocelyn said quietly.

"Ha! Marcelin in would baulk to hear you talk like that, mon amour." Julius said jokingly, but Jocelyn's face grew stoic.

Grace took a long swig of her drink.

"I think I need another brandy, Julius." She said, holding her glass out to him.

Her host smiled and took the glass from her, rising out of his chair to pour her another glass.

In the hours that followed, warmth and laughter eventually came back to the Château de Montramé. Grace and Jocelyn played a round or two of pontoon to take their minds off the awful evening whilst Julius became the card dealer. After losing all of her chips to Jocelyn, Grace sat back in her seat with a smile of happiness.

It was approaching eleven o'clock when Grace found her mind wandering. Jocelyn and Julius were reminiscing about their early days, trading stories and memories with one another whilst the glasses of brandy kept coming. Grace had stopped listening a while back. Instead her eyes were softly focused on the Pleyel piano.

Her hand was moving again, like it had done when she'd sat in The White Horse with her music books. Softly tracing the outline of a melody on invisible keys.

For some reason, her mind was on Cosette and Fauchelevent. She'd already been back to the convent twice this week, and she and Cosette had sat and talked for hours, until the bells for evening Mass rang out from the Church. Cosette wanted to know about all of the places she'd been to and Grace had to include as much detail as possible in her descriptions. Although, it was growing increasingly hard to describe her travels and holidays of the past without dropping any information about the modern world.

And still, that strange mind-barrier forced its way up any time Grace thought she was tiptoeing closer to remembrance. Maybe it was her own head stopping her. Maybe she didn't want to remember. But then why did it feel like the name of that song - that gentle and hopeful melody that began in her mind every time she saw Cosette - was just on the tip of her tongue?

It was infuriating. Like knowing that you've read the revision notes to answer this exact exam question, but you just can't quite remember what they said…

She hoped that perhaps her "playing" might help her remember. Maybe tracing out the melody through her fingers would invoke some sort of muscle memory.

"I know you want to play it." Jocelyn said gently, suddenly very close to Grace's ear.

Grace flinched and she wheeled around to see both of her hosts staring at her. Jocelyn nodded once towards the Pleyel and Grace too flicked her eyes back towards the instrument.

"You should play it." Julius added. "Lord knows it's been going to waste these past years. Marcelin never had the patience to learn properly and I could only ever muster the tune of La Marseillaise."

"And I've seen you staring at it for a good few nights on the trot now." Jocelyn added. "I was going to suggest that you play for the Vicomte, after dinner, but…"

"But perhaps we can be your first audience." Julius added swiftly.

Jocelyn nodded encouragingly and stared at Grace for a reaction.

"Goodness… play the Pleyel?" She said nervously. "It is a Pleyel, isn't it?"

"A wedding gift from my father." Jocelyn said with a nod of confirmation.

Grace felt her chest constrict. She felt the itch in her fingers growing in intensity.

"I'm afraid that if I start, I'll never be able to stop." She said with a meek smile.

"Then you must begin at once, to get it out of your system as swiftly as possible!" Julius said encouragingly.

"Oh, do you know any Beethoven? Or Handel? Oh. Or whatever you like. Please do play for us, Grace." Jocelyn begged.

Grace took in a deep breath and rose to her feet. If she had to sing for her supper, then so be it. Jocelyn and Julius had cared for her so much already, she could return their kindness with a bit of light entertainment.

With a little hesitancy, she sat down on the piano stool and gently lifted the lid. Grace was afraid that she might break it or mark it forever. Pianos like this one sold for hundreds of thousands back in the modern world. But she forced herself to touch it. Running her fingers over the pristine ivory keys.

She thought for a moment about what to play. She thought through her repertoire of things she knew by memory, mentally crossing off anything that hadn't been written yet. She didn't want to cause some sort of time-paradox by pulling out the Elton John in 1830's France…

And suddenly that tune of Cosette's entered her mind again. Until it was the only thing she could think of.

Without telling her hands to, they bent to the keys and began playing…

It seemed to be based around the same trifecta of notes.

F, F sharp and G sharp.

And then the melody danced further up the scales.

But then there was a play on that original trifecta: E, F sharp and G. A little more unsure than the last one.

But then that beautiful dancing tune resumed again, up high on the keys.

And those same three notes repeated again and again throughout the melody. F, F sharp and G sharp. It was a song of threes. Hell, it was even in ¾. And if she listened hard, she could hear three voices, three singing people. The words were impossible to grab on to, but she heard them.

Grace played on, letting her hands lead the way. She had no clue why she knew it, but she had the feeling that she'd played it before. Certainly heard it before. And when she'd finished, she found Jocelyn and Julius staring at her in silence.

"Oh, Grace. That's beautiful." Jocelyn sighed.

"I've never heard that piece before. Did you write it?" Julius asked.

"No, no…" Grace said forcefully. "I just… I've had it in my head for a while. I can't… I can't quite remember who wrote it."

"Well…will you play more?" Jocelyn asked gently.

Grace smiled and returned back to the keys.

And she played. She played well into the early hours of the morning.

Grace's dwindling phone battery stared back at her as she lay in bed.

71%

She'd tried to be frugal with it. Tried to convince herself she didn't need to turn it on every night before she went to sleep. But she needed to see her Mum's face. She needed to see the remains of her left-behind life.

Grace was lying on her side, head resting on her pillow whilst she had a little cry. She flicked through the photos of her friends and her family with blurry vision, reliving old birthdays, parties, dates, quiet nights on the sofa, old memes she'd sent to her friends… There was not much else she could do with her offline device, except scroll through her old photos and feel the ache of separation grow wider in her chest.

The first rays of morning light were bleeding through her curtains and she knew she'd have to be up soon to help Artemida.

She gasped slightly when her battery dropped to 70% and she quickly powered it off. Grace stuffed her phone inside a wooden stocking and re-hid it in one of her dresser drawers. But no sooner had she closed the draw did Artemida come bursting into her bedchamber.

"Oh, you're up already. I thought I'd have to wake you." The maid said airily.

"Artemida. You're early." Grace said stiffly.

Her heart was hammering. What if she'd walked in and found Grace on her phone? How would she ever have explained it?

The sun had only been up for a few minutes. Normally Artemida gave her until an hour or two after dawn before she woke her up to start preparing the sandwiches.

"Oh… Well, if you'd rather I let you sleep-in, Mademoiselle, I could-"

"No. No. It's alright." Grace said reassuringly. "Is there a particular reason why we need to be up earlier than usual?"

"Matthaeus told me last night, Mademoiselle Grace. It's the Romani. They arrived last night!"

Grace blinked.

"Romani? You mean like…Travellers?"

"Yes, Mademoiselle. Here. Just outside of Provins."

Artemisia bustled about the bedchamber and began the arduous task of helping to dress Grace.

"They tend to come this way every two years or so." Artemida explained whilst she was tying Grace into her stays. "My mother always used to buy her dried herbs and spices from them. She always used to say that no one makes herbs and spices quite like the Romani."

"Right…"

Grace was silent whilst they finished dressing. She had half expected Artemida to tell her that the town was driving them out of Provins with torches and pitchforks. See a little bit of that prejudice and racism that the past was so well known for.

"So, we're going to the Romani camp?" Grace ventured. "To bring them sandwiches?"

"Oh no, the Romani have their own food. They aren't poor, Mademoiselle Grace, just…just…"

"Nomadic?"

"Exactly."

Well, that shut Grace up. Here she was condemning the past for its outdated views, and she was the one that had just put her foot in it.

"Last time, I managed to trade some of our goats cheese for a few pounds of Spanish olives. Monsieur Julius said they were the best he had ever tasted. I hope they brought more back with them…"

"Hmm…" Grace said thoughtfully.

Any break from the normality of life was welcome in her books. Things had gotten a little repetitive already in the past, and this sounded interesting and different.

Artemida completed her dressing swiftly and Grace was, for once, keen to get going.

They left the Chateau together just as the sun was rising high up into the sky. It was still cold with the freshness of morning, but Grace didn't mind. She walked quickly, keen to see the novelty and the newness of the Romani camp.

They were set up just to the east of the town, on a small patch of land near the river. Grace could hear the horses whinnying and the children playing as they drew nearer, the smell of stew and paprika in the air. The faces that looked up at her as they passed by were curious and quiet, whispering in a language she couldn't understand. There was colour in these people: in their woven shawls, on the sides of their painted wagons, everywhere.

Artemida approached one of the men and tapped him on the shoulder.

"Does Athalia still travel with you?" She asked.

The man did not respond, merely pointed at a caravan not far from where they stood.

Artemida went striding off towards the caravan, Grace trailing not far behind.

"Athalia is the olive-trader." Artemida whispered as they ascended the stairs. "She drives a hard-bargain, so it's probably best if I do the negotiating."

"I wasn't planning on it." Grace responded flatly.

Artemida rapped on the door, and the sound of a baby crying rang out. A few moments later, a woman with ebony black hair and kohl-lined eyes answered the knock. She was young. No older than her early twenties, by Grace's estimations, but her expression was hard and uncompromising. She was a woman of high cheekbones and narrow jaw, full of straight lines and edges.

"You've come to trade?" She asked, her accent light.

"That's right."

"Come in." The woman said, waving them both inside. "It is our custom to greet guests with hospitality, especially before a trade."

Grace and Artemida shuffled inside the caravan. With their rounded skirts, the tight space was made even tighter, but they were gestured on until a small seating area was pointed out to them. Grace and Artemida sat whilst Athalia tended to the crying child. She shushed and rocked the baby with one arm and pointed to a table by the side of the sitting area with the other.

"Please. The tea is pistachio and marzipan. I traded for it in Palermo. Please do serve yourselves."

Artemida picked up the brewing pot and poured a cup for herself and Grace. It smelled delicious before it had even made its way into Grace's hands. When she took a sip, it was sweet and nutty.

"Oh wow, that beats PG tips any day." Grace said to herself.

That earned her a look from Artemida and Athalia both.

"It's a…drink that we have back home. In Oxford."

Athalia's eyes narrowed. "Are you a traveller too?" She asked.

"No, no… Well… sort of. Yes. Although, very different to you."

"Different how?"

Grace paused. She felt a little nervous under the gaze of the Romani woman and her palms grew sweaty. She felt like the woman could somehow see straight through her or that she somehow already knew the answer.

Because I have travelled through space and time. Grace's mind screamed at her.

"I mean… you travel all over the place." She answered eventually. She grappled internally for a quick change of conversation. "What's southern Spain like? I hear that's where the olives come from."

"Hot. And so very hostile." Athalia said with a sigh. "We were chased out of Barcelona six months ago, when I was still carrying this one inside me." She added, raising the baby in her arms.

The infant gave a mewl of discomfort and scrunched up its tiny face.

"Three weeks later, her father died on our way to Rennes."

"Oh, I'm sorry." Grace said sincerely.

"The road has not been kind to me this year. Perhaps next year it will be kinder."

Grace nodded her head solemnly and raised her cup of tea to the woman.

"May the road always be kind to you."

The Romani woman bowed her head. "Thank you."

They all sipped on their tea for a while before Athalia spoke again.

"So have you come to trade goods, or just pleasantries?" She asked Artemida.

The maid laughed and delved into her wicker basket by her side. She placed a large, two foot log of muslin-wrapped cheese on the table and looked to the Romani woman with eager eyes.

"Thirty pounds."

"Thirty pounds of my finest Spanish olives?! For this?! You must think me a fool."

The two women began haggling and Grace sat back in her seat. She looked around the caravan in wonder. Dried herbs and flowers hung from the ceiling, filling the air with a rich perfume of smells. Charms and bones and semi-precious stones hung all around too: the collection of a life spent travelling, picking up trinkets and keepsakes along the way. The shelves were piled high with pots and pans and Grace wondered how the Romani managed to move caravans like this without everything inside smashing to pieces.

The baby in Athalia's arms wailed again and she groaned in exasperation.

"She hasn't stopped crying since Orleans!" She grumbled. "Here!"

Suddenly the baby girl was in Grace's arms. She looked down at it as if it was a hot coal. The little girl wailed again, her face red and flushed.

Artemida and Athalia haggled on, paying her no mind, assuming that she'd just know naturally how to soothe the crying baby. Grace looked down again at the crying child and tried shushing her.

"It's okay, baby girl…" she said gently. "Shhh…"

She bounced the baby in her arms, watching in amazement as the child closed its open mouth and stopped wailing.

Grace laughed. The baby cooed slightly and Grace thought of something else to do that might keep her quiet.

"Oh Danny Boy. The pipes, the pipes are calling." She sang gently.

Grace had never been much of a singer, and her voice was a little unsure when she began, but eventually she found herself.

"From glen to glen, and down the mountainside.

The summer's gone, and all the roses dying.

Tis you, tis you must go and I must bide."

The little baby smiled at her and Grace felt warmed to her core. Instead of a wail, she squealed out in joy.

"But come ye back when summer's in the meadow.

Or when the valley's hushed and white with snow.

Then I'll be here in sunshine or in shadow.

Oh Danny Boy, oh Danny Boy I love you so."

When she looked up, Artemida and Athalia were smiling at her.

"You will have to teach me that lullaby." Athalia said softly. "My little one likes it."

"My Mum used to sing it to me when I was restless." Grace replied, emotion tugging at her heart.

She smiled sadly down at the quiet baby, wanting to hide the tears in her eyes from the others.

"Mamma! Mamma!" Another child's voice called out from outside the caravan. "Mamma, my thighs are aching!"

A young boy, no older than twelve-ish came bursting into the caravan, holding a horse's bit in his hands.

"Iosif! I have company! We knock on the caravan door first, don't we."

"Sorry, Mamma…" the boy said quietly, his eyes flicking to the strangers in his home.

Athalia sighed and gestured to the boy. "My oldest."

Athalia proceeded to tell the boy off in their own language but he pouted and pointed to his inner-thighs again.

"But, Mamma, the saddle sores. They hurt…"

Athalia sighed and motioned the boy closer. She got up and started searching around the many shelves and hidden cupboard spaces around the caravan. Meanwhile Iosif rolled up his trouser legs, right the way up to his hip, and revealed a series of angry-looking blisters on his skin.

"Oh, they look nasty." Grace said to him, still gently rocking the baby in her arms.

"The men are used to riding all day, they have tough skin. But for the boys, all day in the saddle, it can cause irritation." Athalia called back to her as she strained to fetch a jar down from on high. "Lucky for us Romani, we remember the tricks of our ancestors."

Athalia fetched the pot down and placed it heavily upon the table. With a flourish she opened the lid and out wafted a very pungent and very cheesy smell. Grace tried not to gag.

"Oh God, that smells like something's gone-bad."

"The stable-hands in the ancient Peloponnese used to rub the mould of cheese-rinds into their saddle sores to help with healing." Athali explained. She scooped up a handful of greyish-green goo from inside the jar and applied it generously to Iosif's skin. "And thus they were able to stop the wounds from festering."

Grace blinked in surprise. She watched the mother apply the mouldy substance to her son's sores for a quiet moment, marvelling at what she was seeing.

David would have been fascinated by this. She thought to herself. This is early biochemistry. Early pharmacology, if that stuff is what I think it is…

The mouldy substance in Athalia's hand stared back at her, almost in defiance.

Penicillin! Grace thought, smiling broadly. It's penicillin.

Perhaps this world wasn't as hopeless and backward as she'd thought.

"Personally, I think I'll be sticking to a healthy sulfur tonic from the apothecary!" Artemida laughed politely.

On the other hand, perhaps her original summary of this world had been right…

Artemida and Athalia concluded their haggling and the maid managed to bag 25 pounds of olives for her goats cheese. Judging by the smile she shot Grace when Athalia left to collect the goods, she was pleased with the bargain. When it was time to go, Grace was rather reluctant to hand back the little baby in her arms. But hand her back, she did. Fast asleep and snoring. Her mother tucked her away into a crib and showed out her guests with a smile.

Out in the morning air, Grace felt refreshed and new. She looked around the Romani camp again and then back to Athalia. Iosif stood just behind her skirts, eyeing them up cautiously.

"How long will you be staying here?" Artemida asked.

"As long as the town permits. We'd like a place to graze our animals for a while and breed the horses."

"Perhaps we can trade more then."

"Perhaps we can."

The two women nodded cordially at one another and then stood up straight.

"You too." Athalia said to Grace. "You may come back too."

"Oh, I don't have anything to trade." Grace said bashfully.

"Oh you do. You may trade your song. When my little one refuses to sleep, I would give away all of my olives for a night of peace!"

"Hah, if I'd have known that, I would have come with a lullaby or two of my own!" Artemida laughed.

Athalia and Grace both snickered.

After a moment, Grace bent low and locked eyes with the little boy.

"I hope your legs are better soon." She said gently.

The boy responded by ducking further behind his mother's skirts.

"He is shy." Athalia said apologetically. "Although, we do teach our young to be wary of outsiders."

"Well, let's hope nobody here gives him any reason to strengthen that lesson." Grace said quietly.

They made their goodbyes and Artemida and Grace linked arms and left.

Both of them were quiet and pensive on their way back to the Chateau. Artemida thinking on how she could have haggled a better bargain, and Grace thinking on her Mum.

Her mind wandered to those times when Grace had had 'Oh, Danny Boy' sung to her. Grace could almost hear her Mum's voice on the wind, calling to her through time. Her heart ached as the memory became stronger and stronger and she had never missed home more.

"Mademoiselle Grace, are you alright?" Artemida asked.

When Grace snapped to attention, she realised she was crying.

"Um…yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. I just…"

She paused for a moment, wiping her face with her white gloves.

"I miss my Mum." She said shakily.

Artemida tutted and put an arm around her shoulders.

"It will get better." She said gently. "Eventually, as time passes, the hurting will ease."

Grace realised that she was talking to someone who really had lost their mother. Grace, on the other hand, was just pretending. Using euphemisms and metaphors to dance around the real reason why she was separated from her Mum. Still, the pain of death and the pain of separation, were they really that different? Everybody she'd known in 2023 might as well be dead to her.

"I don't want time to pass." Grace said shakily. "I want to go home. I want to see her again. But I can't…"

Because I don't know how. She added in her mind.

Artemida sighed and gripped her arm tighter.

"Sing me that song." She said gently. "The one you sang to Athalia's baby. The one your mother used to sing to you."

Grace had to blink back fresh tears that rose in her eyes. She took a deep breath in and stared up at the sky. And as the two of them walked on, back towards the Chateau, she felt that both at once she was growing closer to her Mum and walking farther away.

"Oh, Danny Boy. The pipes, the pipes are calling.

From glen to glen, and down the mountain side…

The summer's gone, and all the roses dying.

Tis you, tis you must go and I must bide."