Chapter 6 - The Silver Candlestick
The interior of the ruined chapel grew darker by the second, the red light of the setting sun fading into a deep, bruised violet that gathered in the corners of the vaulted ceiling like pools of ink. Roland took another step forward, his boots crunching against the dry leaves and broken slate that covered the aisle. He held out his left hand, his thick fingers curling in an invitation that looked more like a threat.
"The boy, Élise," he repeated, his voice dropping into a low, predatory murmur that made Lucie whimper and tuck herself behind her mother’s skirts. "Don't make me use the iron on you in front of the children. It’s an unseemly thing for a Sunday evening."
Élise did not answer. She felt the cold, heavy weight of the silver candlestick in her right hand, her fingers finding the ridges of the ornamental vine leaves that were carved into the base. Her knuckles were white, her heart pounding against her ribs like a trapped bird. She knew she had only one chance. If she missed, if she failed to disable him with the first blow, his weight and his rage would crush her before she could reach the door.
"Mommy," Lucie whispered, her hand tightening on Élise’s apron. "The owl is in the window."
Roland frowned, his eyes instinctively flicking upward toward the large, circular rose window above the altar, where the stained glass had long since fallen away, leaving only an iron framework against the darkening sky.
Sitting on the central iron bar was a massive, snowy-breasted mountain owl. Its large, round yellow eyes were fixed directly on Roland, its feathers ruffled against the cold wind that was beginning to lift the dead leaves off the chapel floor.
For a fraction of a second, Roland hesitated. The superstition of the Cévennes ran deep in his blood, inherited from generations of peasants who believed that the white owl was the harbinger of a sudden grave.
That fraction of a second was all Élise needed.
She lunged forward, her boots slipping slightly on the damp slate, and swung the heavy iron candlestick with all the strength of her calloused arms. The lead-weighted base caught Roland squarely across the side of his jaw with a sickening, wet thud.
The master of the Monier estate let out a choked groan, his iron-tipped cane flying from his hand and clattering down the altar steps. He stumbled backward, his hands reaching for his face as blood began to dark-stain the collar of his fine wool coat. He didn't fall, but his balance was gone, his legs weaving like a drunkard's as he slammed into the side of the wooden choir stalls, splintering the old walnut panels with his shoulder.
"Run, Lucie! Take Matéo!" Élise screamed, dropping the candlestick, which left a greasy smear of silver oxide and dark blood on the stones.
She snatched Matéo from his basket of ferns, shoving him into Lucie’s arms before grabbing the little girl’s shoulder and dragging her down the side aisle toward the broken sacristy door.
"You... you bitch!" Roland roared behind them, his voice thick and distorted by his broken jaw.
Élise heard him scrambling among the leaves, his heavy boots kicking the stones as he tried to find his cane in the dark. "I’ll hunt you to the coast! I’ll buy every gendarme from here to Marseille!"
They burst through the sacristy door into the old churchyard. The graves were overgrown with wild elderberries and briars, their stone crosses tilting like broken teeth under the pale light of the first autumn stars.
The air was sharp, smelling of cold granite and wet moss. Élise did not look for the road; she remembered Agnès’s instructions: “Follow the smell of the elderberries.”
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They scrambled through a gap in the dry-stone wall, their skirts tearing on the brambles, and found themselves on a narrow, precipitous goat track that dropped vertically into the gorge of the Gardon river below. The path was barely two feet wide, a ribbon of white limestone that hung between the dark sky and the roaring, white-water rapids five hundred feet below.
Behind them, from the dark shadow of the chapel door, came the sound of a heavy, rhythmic breathing. Roland had found his cane. He stood on the wall, his silhouette massive against the grey light of the stars, his face obscured by a white bandage he had torn from his shirt, his eyes glittering with a madness that no longer belonged to the world of men.
