The Collector of Dying Breaths by M. J. Rose Read Free Book Online Page B

locals who were treated more like family by the host than guests. The atmosphere was easygoing and the food was delicious, and Jac felt less lonely here than she had at home. She was used to being away, on her own, traveling in search of mythological stories to tell. Used to being by herself.
    In the morning, following the directions Serge Grise had given her, she turned out of the inn, onto the main street and then turned right, then left and then, after another stretch, came to the next turnoff. The town disappeared, and she began driving through the woods. Twice she passed a gate but never saw any houses. After another ten minutes she came to the stone well Serge had given her as a landmark. She turned right and took that road almost a kilometer until she reached a set of ornate gates decorated with a coat of arms featuring roses, fleurs-de-lis, a flag and a shield.
    She rolled down the window and pressed the intercom button.
    “Qui est là?” a disembodied female voice asked.
    “Jac L’Etoile.”
    “Entrez.”
    The gate opened. In the distance the château came into view. Planted in the middle of the woods, it was encircled by a moat, complete with an old-fashioned drawbridge.
    Jac was surprised how familiar the château looked, from the elaborately carved limestone facade to the multiple towers and chimneys gracefully rising out of the slate roofs and into the clouds.
    Only the woods seemed wrong. They were too close to the house.
    Why did she think she’d seen this place before? She’d never been to Barbizon. Had Robbie described it? She didn’t think so. Perhaps there was a famous landscape that featured the château that she’d seen. She’d ask the owner.
    As she approached the driveway, Jac thought she saw a man in period dress—a tunic and leggings—and sporting long hair. Then the clouds shifted and she realized there wasn’t anyone there at all. It must have been light playing on one of the columns flanking the front door. No one was waiting for her. It was just her imagination.

Chapter 7
    The door was opened by a tall, broad-shouldered man.
    “I’m Serge Grise,” he said and held out his hand.
    He wore corduroy pants and a matching turtleneck sweater. His hair was thick and chocolate brown.
    Jac let go of the possibility this was the man she’d seen in the shadows and took in Serge’s face. He had slightly sad eyes. Strong cheekbones and a well-attenuated chin. The way his features came together was provocative and handsome.
    “I hope you found us all right?” His English carried a French accent.
    “Yes, perfect directions.”
    He hesitated and then said, “I’m so very sorry about your brother. While he was working here, we spent quite a bit of time getting to know each other, and I came to like him very much.”
    Jac nodded. Watched his face. Observed him instead of listened. She didn’t like to hear other people talk about Robbie. It forced her to think about him being gone. When no one mentioned him, she could pretend that he was off on another of his treks through the mountains in Tibet and that they’d meet back in Paris, at home, soon.
    “I’ve been reading about Buddhism because of Robbie. It’s struck a real chord with me.”
    Something about how Serge said her brother’s name made Jac wonder how close he and Robbie had been. Her brother always said he fell in love with people and then noticed what sex they were. It didn’t matter to Jac if this man and Robbie had been together—quite the opposite. Anyone who had been close to him, she wanted to keep close to her. She’d made a list of all his friends who got in touch with condolences. As if each had a small piece of him and by amassing their names she could one day rebuild him.
    “We talked about me going with him on his next retreat. I’ve always rejected formal religion, but when Robbie spoke about his Buddhism, it was so appealing.” He gestured to the grand hall filled with elaborate decorations. “Though this