Raising his head, Orville saw Claude Bichain, standing by the piano, one hand on top.
"Your aunt just phoned again ... she's staying at M. Placier's ... she was worried ... she thought..."
"Thank you, Claude."
"I'm glad," Jean said.
"Let me get something to drink."
Orville wanted to explore the buffet: together, they knelt on the floor, both doors open: they nodded: there were vintages and brands across the years: Orville selected a Charpentier brandy.
"How about this?"
"Good," said Jean.
A gust shook the French doors and windows, it was raining hard once more. When they returned to the living room, Claude was adding wood to the fires: he wanted to keep both fireplaces burning, celebrant: for love, he thought, as he laid oak slabs over a pair of iron griffins.
"To us," she toasted, lifting her glass.