Pyromancist (Seven Forbidden Arts 1)

After that night, the house had been barred and sealed. It belonged to Joss now. People wondered if he’d sell, although it would have to be to foreigners, they said, from Paris or England, because no one in his right mind, no one from Larmor-Baden or the islands, would ever want to live there.

A trickle of perspiration ran down her spine. The summer was warmer than usual, and the July sun already high. She pulled off her denim jacket and checked the time on her phone. She had to hurry or she’d miss the bus.She arrived at Tristan’s stables on the outskirts of Carnac just before eight. By nine, busses full of tourists arrived to visit the three thousand mysterious prehistoric standing stones. A number of the tourists would rent horses and a guide to explore the oldest part, which dated back to 4500 BC and ran from the border of the stables over four miles toward the sea.

When she pushed open the door of the office, Tristan, almost the age of Erwan, lifted his head.

He grimaced. “Every morning I pray you won’t show up, but here you are again.”

“Where else will I go?” She dropped her backpack by the desk and opened the book in which they noted the tour reservations.

He flicked through some papers on the desk. “To Paris. To university. Anywhere but here.”

“This is my home.”

“You’re wasting away, throwing your talents to the wind,” he said, lifting and slamming down books and old telephone directories.

“Who will take care of Erwan and my animals?”

Tristan looked up. She smiled.

“If it wasn’t for that old man, you wouldn’t be here.”

“He’s all I’ve got,” she said gently.

“No.” He waved a finger at her. “You’re all he’s got.” His expression softened. “Kompren a ran,” he said with a resigned air. I understand.

He plucked open a drawer, rummaged through it, and banged it closed again.

“What are you looking for?” she asked.

“The damn receipt book. It was here,” he pushed his finger on the desk, “just yesterday.”

She walked to the stack of plastic trays they used for organizing their filing and lifted a blue book from the top. “You left it here last night.”

He grabbed it from her. “What will I do without you?”

“Asks the man who wants me to leave,” she said as she took her seat behind the desk.

“You know I have to say things that are in your best interest. I never mean them.”

She smiled with affection. “I know.”

Nobody from here truly wanted anyone to get away. It would be proof that a world existed beyond theirs. As long as they remained here with the people they grew up with, they felt secure. Joss’s return had turned her safe world upside down. The meaning of her dream was a mystery, but the message was clear. Larmor-Baden had become the least safe place for her to be.Chapter 2The last group of tourists came back with the horses shortly before eight in the evening when the megalithic sites closed. Tristan had already counted the money for the day, taken the petty cash box, and left for his small farm ten miles from Carnac. The stable hand, Rigual, and the guide, Golven, took care of the horses. As soon as they were finished, all Clelia had to do was to lock up the office.

Before sunset, she’d be on her way, and home by ten. Erwan would’ve had his dinner by then, and if the tide wasn’t suited for fishing, he’d be sitting on the terrace drinking a Telenn Du, his favorite beer. She’d feed the animals and sit with him until ten thirty to watch the sun set over the sea. Then she’d clean the kitchen and stay up to read until midnight.

In winter and out of holiday seasons, her working hours were less. On rainy days, which were plenty, Tristan didn’t open the stables, which was why she didn’t resent the long laboring days of summer. She enjoyed the late sunsets and the boat or bicycle ride home when the day was ready to quit and everything was quiet. At that hour, peace dawned on the island and she could breathe with an easy rhythm, inhaling the fragrance of the pine needles and freshly mowed grass.

Today however, nothing about her rhythm was easy. Disturbing thoughts distracted her mind. Where was Joss staying? Who was his woman? Why was the strange dream plaguing her sleep and how was it connected to the fires that ravaged the town? Everyone was on edge this summer. Although the fires were always set when the inhabitants were absent—with the exception of the mayor’s house—the habitual July Fest Noz had been cancelled. In the light of the damage done to so many properties, the mayor felt a festival was inappropriate. Besides, most people were fearful of leaving their homes at night, worried they’d come back to ashes. A dull spirit had spread through the mainland and islands this holiday.