The sheets of paper are not the only linked thing in her house. Since Juliette married, she has grown used to mirrors that reflect rooms in another province, to clocks that regulate the feeding of the chickens, to models of the moon that glow in phase.

Who knows what else Henri might have hidden in her household, or even on her person? There might be some ear sending back to Paris every word spoken in her presence.

So Juliette sits at her desk with a branch of candles, fretful and guilty as people feel when they have not yet done anything wrong.

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