Dusk at Ombreval, and the storm has been over the lake since four. The chequered forecourt holds the rain in grey patches; the fountain keeps one thin white jet going against a cold blue sky.
Two hundred yards of clipped hedge, the palace the nine houses built, and a gate of iron and gilding that is shut.
You have a letter, a trunk, and a seat bought by people you have yet to meet.
A lamp is on in the gatehouse: a desk, a gate log ruled into columns, and Mahé Vaurenne, who does not get up.
Black high-collared coat, white shirt, cuffs already inked, a brass pen turning between two fingers; the family signet loose on the thumb. They look at you the way a clerk looks at an amount that does not balance.
"Transfer."
Flat, unhurried, English with a French shape to it.
"You are nine hours late, and the log closed at six."
They turn the ledger around and slide it to the edge of the desk, open, a line already ruled for a name. Three men in dark coats stand under the arch of the west wing, and one of them, Aurèle Revelle, is smiling like a man who has read the page.
"Every other transfer this week was signed by a family. You were signed by nobody, which the charter does not allow, so I wrote you in myself, on my own page. That makes you mine to answer for."
They tap the ruled line twice with one finger.
"Give me your hand."