III.

It was not until evening of the next day that Jehan was missed. He tended to be difficult to find at the best of times, and it was not surprising that he should vanish for a day after a fight with his father. Only on the second afternoon did anyone begin to wonder.

"Tiresome boy," the countess was heard to say irritably, on being informed that her elder son was not to be located. "Why is he never about when one wants him?" She had planned to deliver one of her honeyed lectures on filial duty -- guaranteed to rouse more rebellious sentiments than it quelled -- and was, as always, annoyed at being prevented.

"And always underfoot when one doesn't," said the dour young man by the door, with a faint smirk.

"Morien," rebuked the countess perfunctorily, and to the anxious maid: "Yes, yes, go along."

Whereupon the girl scurried off, trailing a widening wake of gossip on her way back downstairs.

The countess turned calmly back to her mirror. She was no beauty, Estelle de Mauriel, but she had been striking, and remained so by what sometimes seemed sheer force of will. Morien -- sturdy where his siblings were slight, his hair dark gold where theirs was fair -- bore a more visible resemblance to his father than to her. He watched her through half-lidded eyes as she picked up a comb.

"You have no tact, darling," she told his reflection indulgently.

Morien shrugged. "It's true, no? Besides, neither have you."

Estelle gave him a brilliant smile. "Ah, but a mother is allowed such remarks."

"He's off somewhere sulking," said Morien contemptuously. "As usual. When he gets lonely he'll be back."

"No doubt."

In the nursery, Gwynnis tried vainly to console her woebegone charge. "There now, my duckling, smile for your Gwynnis, do. You're not still a-fretting over that Lady Emma, are you?"

"No," said Marguerite with plaintive honesty.

"Well then, what's the matter?"

But Marguerite, though miserable, would not explain. She shook her head mutely, and curled up tighter in the old rocking chair.

"Come, we'll go out in the garden."

"I do not want to."

"But look, duckling, it's a lovely day. Won't you--"

"I do not want to." Marguerite was not a Blanchard for nothing; when pressed, she grew imperious. Gwynnis yielded with a sigh.

"At least eat something, sweeting."

"I do not want to. I feel sick..." which was true enough. Her secret seemed to have lodged somewhere in her insides like a bad mushroom, and gave her a queasy feeling.

On the third day concern set in. Inquiries were made. Searchers went out, combing the shore, the crags above, the surrounding countryside -- and returned no wiser, whereupon the count, roaring imprecations, sent them out to do it all over again.

But of Jehan there was no sign.