Her fear sharpened.
“Where did you get that?”
“It was his.”
“Whose?”
“The baby’s.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
Clara pulled the blanket back over the child.
Elias lowered the lantern.
Something inside the story moved.
Not broke.
Moved.
A piece sliding where it should have been from the beginning.
Valcourt had said the child belonged to his son.
He had never said the child’s name.
Never mentioned the mother.
Never shown Elias a birth certificate.
And when Elias had asked whether the authorities had been notified, Valcourt had said the matter was private.
Private.
Rich men used that word when law became inconvenient.
“What is his name?” Elias asked.
Clara stared at him.
“The child.”
She swallowed.
“Luc.”
“Luc what?”
“Just Luc.”
“No child is just anything.”
“He is if someone is looking for the rest.”
Elias said nothing.
Clara drew her knees closer.
“You’ll take him anyway.”
“That depends.”
“On money?”
The insult landed because it was accurate.
Elias leaned back slightly.
“Yes.”
Clara seemed surprised.
He continued.
“Money is why I came.”
She looked almost disgusted.
He had expected that too.
“Ten thousand francs,” he said.
Her eyes widened.
“That is what your son is worth to Adrien Valcourt.”
Clara’s face changed again.
Not fear now.
Recognition.
“You said my son.”
Elias became still.
“You told me he wasn’t yours.”
“I told you nothing.”
“No.”
She looked down at the infant.
“Valcourt told you.”
“Yes.”
“He told you I stole him.”
“Yes.”
“And you believed him.”
“I followed you.”
“That isn’t the same thing.”
“No.”
For several moments neither spoke.
Then Luc made a weak sound beneath the blankets.
Clara reacted instantly.
Elias watched her open the cloth slightly and press her cheek against the child’s forehead.
Her own hands were shaking.
He stood.
She recoiled.
“Stay there.”
“We’re making a fire.”
“No.”
“You want him alive?”
The brutality of the question shocked her.
It was intentional.
“Then we make a fire.”
“There’s smoke.”
“Roof is already broken.”
“They’ll see it.”
“Not in this wind.”
“You don’t know who’s behind you.”
Elias looked at her.
“There are three men.”
Colour left her face.
“So close?”
“Half a day, perhaps less.”
“Valcourt’s?”
“Yes.”
“You led them here.”
“No.”
“They followed you.”
“Probably.”
She gave a short, humourless laugh.
“Then you did.”
Elias accepted that.
He crossed to a stack of dry wood beside an iron brazier.
Clara watched every movement.
“I had a daughter once,” he said.
The words surprised both of them.
He crouched and struck a match.
Clara did not respond.
The fire took slowly.
“They’re not paying you to tell me your life.”
“No.”
“Then why are you?”
Elias fed another piece of wood into the flame.
“Because I want you to understand why I know what cold does to children.”
Silence.
“How old?”
“Six.”
Clara looked at the child.
“What happened?”
“Pneumonia.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t know me.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
Elias watched the fire.
