“It’s very much the same,” Papa said. “I remember it just as it is now—the house and pathways, the vast fields where I could run and hide, the barns. I used to sit for hours watching the magnanerie.”

“What’s that?” Julie asked. “I don’t know that word.”

“The silk barn. We raised silkworms.”

“Ew. Are they really worms?”

“Larvae, the caterpillar before the moth. I spent most of my time outdoors, though. The gardens were magical to me, my special place, where I could find peace and quiet.”

“It’s incredible, Papa,” Camille said. “So ancient and beautiful. I can’t believe this property is yours.”

Drenched in late afternoon sunshine, Sauveterre was a world unto itself, with its gardens and surrounding fields and vineyards. “It is not so grand as a bastide,” he said. “That is a true manor, like a small castle. Still, I’m told Palomar was very proud of it, because it’s the largest mas in Bellerive. See how everything is oriented to the south. That is to protect the house and gardens from the mistral wind. It’s a cold wind that blows from the north in the winter months.”

Julie nodded, not bothering to stifle a yawn.

“Somebody’s fading,” Camille said.

“Madame will have a nice bed ready for you soon.” Papa parked in front of what had probably been a carriage house at one time. As they were getting out onto the cobbled pavement, a bright-faced woman came rushing out to meet them.

“Alors, alors, bienvenue, tout le monde,” she sang out, opening her arms. She was as charming as the manor itself, wearing a gauzy skirt and top with a shawl, beaming as she firmly clasped Papa in a hug and planted an audible kiss on each cheek. “Can this be my darling Henri?” she asked, stepping back, seeming to devour him with her gaze. “Look at you, as old as stone, but handsome as ever.”

“And you are old as well, Madame, but no less beautiful. How are you?”

“Call me Renée, please. You’re not a callow boy anymore, as you were when last I saw you. Now.” She turned to Camille. “This is your fabulous daughter, eh?”

Camille found herself clasped in that firm embrace. Renée smelled of lavender and onions. “Thank you for having us,” Camille said. “What a lovely place this is.”

“Lovely but decrepit, much like myself,” she said. “We keep it up as well as we can, but the restoration work on such an old place is never-ending. And now, happily for us, the roof cave-in brought us together, eh? And this is Julie, the wonderful fillette.”

Julie looked chastened by travel, tired and pale, but she smiled and submitted to the hugs and kisses.

“Come in immediately and meet the family. My grandson Nico will bring in your luggage.”

The old plank door creaked on its iron hinges. Camille felt as though she was breathing in the past. She could clearly sense the atmosphere of a farm a hundred years ago. The kitchen was a snapshot of the past with its colorful Provençal tile, hanging copper pots, cupboards crammed with pottery, and a gas stove that was probably older than Madame herself. Light flooded through the windows, illuminating potted herbs and trays laden with savory socca, olives, spicy fish in oil, and bowls of fresh berries.

“This way,” said Madame. “We’ve been waiting. You don’t have to learn all our names at once.” She gave a gamine wink.

The introductions went by in a jet-lag-induced blur. Madame Olivier, the matriarch, had come to Sauveterre as a young bride. In the intervening years, she and her husband, Jacques, had raised six children, two of whom still lived and worked at the mas. Their daughter Anouk and her two little ones lived here while her husband was on a UN peacekeeping mission in Africa. Georges was an expert in viticulture, cultivating grapes for a local winemaker. He and his wife, Edithe, had four children, two at university in Aix and two still at home—Martine, who was fifteen, and her older brother, Nico.

Camille tracked Julie’s reaction to the two teenagers. Her smile was tentative and her posture closed—arms folded defensively in front of her. Martine, who apparently had inherited her grandmother’s effusive personality, was having none of it. She beamed at Julie. “It’s awkward at first, eh? But I’m an excellent friend. I won’t disappoint you. Nico might. But I won’t.”

Julie’s cheeks turned red. “I’m not worried about being disappointed.”

“The French think Americans are very demanding. I’ve fixed up our room especially for you.”

“In that case, you might never get rid of me,” Julie said.

“Let us make a quick tour of the house,” Madame suggested. “So you will learn where everything is.”

The furnishings looked to be a hundred years old or more—tall cabinets and rustic benches, grand framed art pieces and age-pocked mirrors. The formal dining room featured hunting trophies—wild boar and deer—a stuffed fox, and a family of stuffed sage hens, all slightly moth-eaten and threadbare. Julie shuddered visibly.

“I was always afraid of them when I was small,” Papa said to Julie. He turned to Madame. “I hope you didn’t feel obligated to keep them on my account.”

She beamed. “Do you mean to say we could be rid of them?”

“By all means. I’ll help you, once I’m rested up.”

She clasped her hands in delight. “My daughter-in-law, Edithe, has always wanted to redecorate. She’s very talented at things of that sort.”

“This is the piano I learned to play,” Papa said. “It still sits in the same corner of the music room.”

“Do you play, still?” asked Martine.

“Poor Henri just arrived,” said Renée. “Don’t make him perform like a monkey.”

Papa simply smiled and took a seat on the bench, then tapped out a familiar folk tune, one he sometimes played on his piano at home. “Do you know this one?” he asked Martine as his fingers bounced over the keys.

Within moments, everyone was singing “Dis-moi, Janette.” Camille stood back, enjoying the extraordinary moment. She caught Julie’s eye, and they shared a look—We’re not in Kansas anymore. Julie shrugged and sang along, familiar with the song from a young age. At the end, Papa gave an exaggerated bow.

“We have loved having the piano,” said Madame. “I hope you’ll treat us to more once you’re rested up.” She pointed out a solarium and a library, inviting them to explore at will. Then she led the way to the grand central stairway and took them along the uneven, creaky corridor to the upper stories. The bedrooms—a dozen in all—had tall ceilings and windows of wavy glass. The plumbing and electricity showed their age, but that only made it easier to imagine what it had been like in the past. There was a dormitory-like nursery for the kids, and Julie and Martine would share a sunny room with a balcony. “A balcony?” Julie said. “Seriously?”

Martine nodded, looking remarkably like her grandmother. “We’re very grand here, eh?”

“That settles it, then. I’m really never leaving.”

Camille let out a secret sigh of relief. It was good to see Julie making a friend again. She already looked brighter and more eager than she had in a long time. She had shed her troubles as if they were a heavy winter coat.

“Which was your room when you were a boy, Papi?” asked Julie.

“At the north end of the hall,” he said, gesturing.

Camille didn’t understand the look of sadness in her father’s eyes until Julie ran to the end and opened the door. The room was a cramped and windowless linen closet, with neatly folded sheets and towels on shelves and sachets of dried lavender hanging from the corners of the shelves.

“Sooo Harry Potter. Why did you have to sleep here?” Julie asked, peering inside.

“The other rooms were for my aunt and cousin, and the household help who worked the farm,” he said.

Camille remembered what he’d said about Palomar’s sister, Rotrude, who had raised him after Lisette died. Rotrude had always resented the fact that her nephew would inherit the family estate. She must have been a miserable person to treat a little boy so poorly.