The Chateau by the River
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Synopsis
A faded photograph leads a woman to a ruined French castle where she will discover the truth of her own identity . . . and the enduring mystery of love.
Traveling to France on business, Alexandra Dawson has decided to seize the opportunity to explore a mysterious piece of her own heritage—a half-burnt picture of a woman who looks eerily like her, taken more than a hundred years ago in a local castle. In the charming rural village of Chandeniers, she discovers something else too—the gruff, ruggedly good-looking heir of the crumbled chateau.
Eric Lagnel is completely uninterested in Alex's queries, until he realizes that she may have stumbled on a way to save the building. Their unlikely partnership is a surprise. But as Alex slowly unravels the secrets of her great-great-grandmother's photograph—and the true history of the chateau—she begins to understand that no one is ever prepared for the ways love can heal old wounds and open the hardest hearts.
Traveling to France on business, Alexandra Dawson has decided to seize the opportunity to explore a mysterious piece of her own heritage—a half-burnt picture of a woman who looks eerily like her, taken more than a hundred years ago in a local castle. In the charming rural village of Chandeniers, she discovers something else too—the gruff, ruggedly good-looking heir of the crumbled chateau.
Eric Lagnel is completely uninterested in Alex's queries, until he realizes that she may have stumbled on a way to save the building. Their unlikely partnership is a surprise. But as Alex slowly unravels the secrets of her great-great-grandmother's photograph—and the true history of the chateau—she begins to understand that no one is ever prepared for the ways love can heal old wounds and open the hardest hearts.
Release date: December 25, 2018
Publisher: Lyrical Press
Print pages: 304
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The Chateau by the River
Chloé Duval
Author’s Note
Dear Reader,
First of all, I’d like to thank you all, from the bottom of my heart, for picking up this novel. I put all my heart and all my soul into it and I hope you’ll love my characters as much as I do. I’ve lived with them for so long that to this day yet, almost a year after writing the words “The End,” I still have trouble remembering that they are not living people who I can visit anytime I want to. I hope they will feel as real to you as they do to me.
But before you dive into their story, please let me tell you about the real fairy tale behind The Château by the River.
A few years ago, as I was surfing idly on the internet, I found an article from a French online newspaper, telling the story of a very old and very beautiful castle in ruins, lost to the wilderness of nature after a huge fire destroyed it in the 1930s: le château de la Mothe-Chandeniers, situated in the small town of Les Trois-Moutiers, in the Loire valley. Because the fire had rendered it uninhabitable, the castle had quickly been abandoned by its owners. Without any maintenance, each year that passed after that fateful day, the castle deteriorated a bit more, until it became a real danger to the life of anyone who approached it. For the last few years, the current owner had tried everything he could think of to save the castle from total destruction, but to no avail. When the article was written, tired of fighting without any results, he had decided to have the castle dismantled.
When I read the article, my heart broke, and for a few days, I could think of little else than this castle. I wanted to do something, anything, because the castle lover in me couldn’t bear the thought of such a magnificent building, so old, which had lived through most the events that forged France, being destroyed. But I didn’t have the first idea of how to be useful. So I did the only thing I could think of: I wrote a book about it. For the necessities of my story, as I was a romance novelist and not a historian, I changed the name of the castle, and a few details of its history, so that I could do what I wanted with it. That’s how Gabrielle and Thomas, and Alex and Éric were born.
It took me around a year and a half to write The Château by the River. And by the time I was finished and it was published in France, the real castle had made the headlines: after a very successful crowdfunding operation, the castle had been bought by a few thousand contributors, from all around the world, with the intent of stopping its destruction.
The doomed castle, “my” doomed castle, had been saved.
As you can imagine, dear reader, I was really, really happy to see that unexpected turn of events! The next few years will tell how this fairy tale will unfold. But for now, let’s dive together into Alexandra’s and Gabrielle’s story, and the castle that linked them through time.
Happy reading!
Chloé Duval
Prologue
Thomas
La Rochelle
February 1900
Thomas leaned on the rail of the Étoile du Nord1 and stared at the horizon, waiting.
He waited for the bell signaling the ship’s departure, waited for the coast to fade and disappear beyond the waves, waited for the pain to subside and for the gaping hole in his chest to close over.
Time heals all wounds, they said. He would forget.
But he knew all too well it was a lie. He would never forget her.
In the distance, the first glimpses of daylight were beginning to chase the dark away. The deck was bustling, awash with a diffuse unrest from which an occasional order or question could be heard. The seagulls’ hungry cries rang out overhead as they fought over a bread crust or an old piece of vegetable, viciously pecking at each other.
In spite of the freezing cold, the docks were crowded with fishmongers, sailors, and traders come to oversee the delivery of their various goods. A few latecomers ran up, dragging heavy luggage behind them. And at the very end of the dock, swaddled in several layers of clothes to keep out the cold and biting wind, the passengers’ loved ones waved as they exchanged a last goodbye, a final smile, a lingering gaze with those they would not see again for a very long time—if they ever did.
Thomas stepped back, retreating to the bow of the ship, away from the commotion and tearstained smiles. How ironic life could be, he thought bitterly. Six months ago, he had nothing to look forward to other than a dull life and endless days to fill as best he could—and he was content. What one does not have, one cannot lose.
He had found out in the most brutal manner that he was entirely wrong.
There is always something that can be lost.
Or someone.
Fleeting images crossed his mind, and he closed his eyes, jaw clenching painfully as his heart broke again.
The sailors on the dock were casting off, and the railing began to hum softly under his fingertips; the tugboats stood by, ready to tow the ship out to sea so it could begin its long journey toward America, where he could start over again and leave his past behind.
Everything was ready and had been for a long time. He had crossed the sea several times, met with investors, partners, chosen warehouses and workshops.
He’d had it all planned out.
And everything had changed.
She’d waltzed into his life one day with her sweet smile and dreamy gaze and upended all of his carefully prepared plans, illuminating every aspect of his life.
For a few wonderful weeks, he had felt himself change under her influence, becoming happier, lighter. Life—his life—had begun to hold meaning.
He’d found himself thinking of the future. Hoping. Dreaming.
But dreams were fickle, deceitful things. When they lasted too long, you started to believe in them. And when they fell apart, when the bubble burst and reality came rushing back in, the fall was a hard one. And the higher you climbed, the harder you fell.
He had hurtled down the whole damn mountain.
He’d found the strength to stand back up, somehow, keep his head high and move forward even though he was only an empty shell, a shadow of his former self. A shadow of the man he’d been with her.
But a shadow could be a positive thing. It was a close friend, almost comforting. He’d been lost in the shadow once before. He was familiar with it. He almost relished the return.
He knew it would in time swallow the pain that ran through every inch of his being. He would grow numb again, distant.
He wouldn’t fall for the same trick again. Angels couldn’t love monsters.
The ship slowly drew away from the dock. At last, Thomas was leaving.
For good.
There would be no going back this time. Not ever. He was leaving the country that had brought him only pain and shattered illusions, never to return.
He kept his gaze on the horizon, refusing to acknowledge the sharp knife piercing through his heart, or the urge to jump ashore and run to her to beg on bended knee for her to explain. To love him.
It was too late anyway.
1 Northern Star.
Chapter 1
Alexandra
Chandeniers-sur-Vienne
Present day
“In fifty meters, turn left. You have arrived at your destination.”
The low, masculine voice purring with a delicious Scottish accent was coming from the GPS on my phone.
Don’t judge me. We all have our guilty pleasures. I’d downloaded the app six months ago and ever since then, I sometimes—read: every day—turn on the GPS to drive home, just to hear its husky, sexy accent.
Even if all it did was tell me to merge and keep right.
Jamie’s fault, Your Honor. Everything is James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser’s fault.
I looked around for the crossroads Fake-Jamie had just signaled and switched on my turn signal to swerve onto an adorable paved street. A few seconds later, I drew level with the aptly named L’Auberge du bout de la rue,2 which was indeed at the end of the street. I had booked a room there for the next few days.
I smiled to myself as I got out of the rental and spun on the spot, taking in the scenery, the ambience, the sounds, the smells.
This was it. This was what France meant to me. Charmingly old-fashioned cities with cobbled streets and centuries-old stone buildings. In this place, everything breathed history. No matter where you went, where you looked, you could almost feel the presence of the people who had lived there a hundred, two hundred, a thousand years earlier. And the town of Chandeniers, at the very heart of the Loire valley and the surrounding vineyards, was the perfect embodiment of my idea of a historical French city, from the little stone bridge to the old water mill and the many book stands lining the banks of the Vienne River. After several weeks’ hard work, I was more than ready to kick back and enjoy playing tourist.
I sighed blissfully and swung the car door shut. Like most of the houses on the street that ran parallel to the river, the inn was built with white stone and had blue shutters. Its name gleamed in wrought iron letters over the door.
“If I could afford it, I would buy a vacation home here in a heartbeat!” I muttered to myself as I climbed the steps. “This place is amazing!”
I reached for the heavy doorknocker to signal my arrival when the door abruptly swung open and I came face-to-face—or rather, face to shoulder—with what seemed to be a Tom Hiddleston doppelganger with a little boy clinging to his hand.
“See you tomorrow?” He dedicated a smile—one I could objectively say was devastating—to someone inside the house.
“See you tomorrow!” a female voice confirmed.
He turned around and almost ran straight into me.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
He stepped to his right just as I stepped left. We repeated the maneuver for a few seconds before we came to a stop, laughing.
Yup, that smile definitely qualifies as devastating.
“Shall I go right and you left?” he suggested.
“My left or yours?”
“Mine, or else we could be here all night. While it is the intended purpose for an inn, it kind of defeats the point if you stay on the threshold.”
I held back another laugh and stepped right, he shifted the other way and at last we could resume the courses of our normal lives.
“Good day to you.”
“You too.”
“Come on, Quentin, let’s go.”
“Yes, Papa.”
I watched them walk away then turned back to the door, which was still hanging open. A woman in her thirties stood there. There was a distinctive pout on her impish, bright-eyed face as she tracked the man for a few moments, before she shook her head slightly and turned to me.
“Hi, what can I do for you?”
“Hi. I’m Alexandra Dawson; I phoned this morning to confirm my booking.”
“Ah! I was waiting for you! Please come in.” She moved back to let me through. “I’m Marine Clément, the owner. Welcome to the Auberge du bout de la rue!”
“Thank you, Ms. Clément.”
“Please! Call me Marine. Ms. Clément is my mother!” She laughed. “I don’t think I’m quite old enough to go by Ms.!”
“I will, if you call me Alexandra,” I replied brightly. “I couldn’t agree more, to be honest.” I leaned closer to add in a mock whisper: “Ever since I got here, everyone’s been calling me Ms. Dawson; it feels like I aged twenty years in a month. I feel like I should check for wrinkles every morning!”
“Don’t worry, there isn’t one in sight!”
“Phew! What a relief!”
We moved inside as we joked together and she proceeded to charm me utterly. The inside was just as lovely as the outside. The furniture was rustic but modern, in shades of faded pink, beige and plain wood. Potted plants and flowers in every nook and cranny completed the inn’s old-fashioned charm. It was cozy, warm, comfortable. In a word, perfect.
“Wow. I love what you’ve done with the place,” I told her.
“Thank you! I’m glad you like it. You’re from the US, right?”
“Is it that obvious?” I joked. “And here I thought my accent was perfect.”
“Oh, it’s fairly good. But you can’t hide it completely. Where are you from?”
“California, the Napa Valley more precisely. Ever heard of it?”
“Wine country, right?”
“Exactly!”
“Well, you must feel right at home here. Wine is kind of our local product.”
“I’m one hundred percent in my element. Actually, I even work for a wine company.”
“So you’re here on business?”
“Yes and no. I was on a business trip with my supervisor, but she went back yesterday and I stayed to take a vacation.”
“You’re going to think I’m biased, but you couldn’t have chosen a better place. We’re at the heart of the Loire valley, there are castles all around, a wine road to die for, and just between the two of us, Chandeniers is the most beautiful city in the world.”
“Nice speech.”
“One hundred percent unbiased too.” Marine laughed and added, “Shall I show you to your room?”
“Lead the way.”
I followed her up the stairs and down a narrow corridor to a smallish, absolutely adorable room tastefully decorated in shades of blue and off-white. The bed—a four-poster—had thin, transparent blue curtains, the same tone as the walls and the window curtains, hanging from the canopy, and an antique bedside table with a pretty reading lamp. A small desk and chest of drawers, obviously antiques as well, sat in a corner. Perched on the edge of the windowsill, a lavender bouquet gave off a sweet and enticing aroma. The pictures on the walls represented the town of Chandeniers, adding the final, perfect touch to the room.
“The bathroom is through there,” Marine indicated as I entered. “There are some extra blankets and towels in the cupboard. If you need anything just let me know. I hope you’ll be comfortable.”
“I’m sure I will be.” I couldn’t contain my enthusiasm. “This is amazing! Everything in this house is amazing.”
“Thank you. I got everything from bargain hunting and yard sales and renovated all the furniture in the inn myself.”
“Everything? That must have taken ages!”
“It did, but I enjoy it so I don’t mind. I’m working my way slowly through the furniture, replacing what came with the house with my own projects. It’s my hobby, but I don’t have as much time to devote to it in the summer.”
“Well, kudos to you. You not only have exquisite taste, you also have a knack for making all this old stuff look new again.”
“Thank you! I love anything that has to do with the past.”
“Oh? Are you something of a historian?”
“Not really, but I do know quite a bit of history, especially if it’s local. I’ve done some research on the town’s past.”
Interesting. Duly noted.
“Oh, and before I forget, here’s the Wi-Fi code for the inn, and your key.” She handed me a small card and a keyring.
“Thank you. This is perfect.”
“Do you need anything else?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I’ll let you settle in. Oh, and I have some hibiscus mint juice in the fridge. Would you like a glass?”
“How nice. Yes. Thanks a lot!”
“Do you want me to bring it up here, or should I serve it in the garden out back? It’s lovely under the trees.”
“Garden, no hesitation.”
“Then come and join me when you’re ready.”
“I’ll be right down.”
When Marine had left, I fished my phone out of my handbag and snapped a few pictures of the room that I immediately forwarded to my best friend, Bea. The poor thing was no doubt even now working in her air-conditioned bank office in Santa Rosa.
Her reply came almost immediately.
I hate you.
I laughed and sent back:
Love you too.
Way nicer than the places you’ve been staying in for work so far.
Totes. I’m in love.
When are you starting your investigation?
Soon as I’m settled in and have finished my hibiscus juice.
Luxury at its finest!
Embracing the holiday feeling!
I want updates. Every minute.
Done.
My supervisor’s here. Meeting in five. See you later, Ms. Family Girl.
Later, alligator. Good luck with the meeting. Call you as soon as I’ve done recon.
I then fired off another message to my fiancé to tell him more or less the same thing, but with a lot more “<3.” I finished with:
Call you soon? I know you’re busy but I miss you! <3 Luv ya.
I put the phone away. Given the time, I was ready to bet Spencer was in a meeting and wouldn’t be able to reply for a while. But a beeping sound almost immediately proved me wrong. Against all expectations, my lawyer boyfriend had written back.
Hello you!! Got to go to a meeting but promise, I’ll try to call as soon as I’m out. Miss you too. <3 Be careful and keep me posted. Luv ya more.
I read it several times, happy at the thought we’d be able to speak at last. Between the time difference—a horrible thing, I cursed whoever had invented it—my work and his, over the last few weeks our communication had come down to brief texts sent between meetings, lunches and business interviews. I had reached the point where I’d called his answering machine a couple of times in the middle of the night or early in the morning just to hear the sound of his voice. I make no apologies. I missed my fiancé, and sometimes when life doesn’t deliver, you have to resort to desperate measures. So I made do with his answering machine and waited for things to get better.
I’d been waiting for things to get better for quite some time now.
Spencer was about to become the youngest partner of the prestigious Wilson, Murdoch and Finch legal office. He’d been working for two years now on a huge case—something to do with corruption inside a pharmaceutical company that had cost several dozen people their lives—that required all of his attention and time. So it wasn’t unusual for me to spend my evenings alone while he locked himself in the office or met with colleagues.
I wasn’t happy with our situation. To pretend otherwise would be a lie. Solitary evenings were long and weekends even longer. But it was the price to pay to be with him, and I had known it when I had signed up for a relationship with him. Spencer was a top-notch lawyer, and he never backed down on anything. I’d never seen him sacrifice his work for his private life. The stakes were too high, and they were worth neglecting our time together for a while. When the trial was over, I’d have him all to myself again, and I’d be able to show him just how proud I was of him.
In the meantime, I had to be patient.
I clicked on the answer bar and typed a new message, my fingers flying over the digital keyboard.
Be careful too. And don’t forget to eat. Wouldn’t want you to lose those perfect muscles of yours.
I always knew you only liked me for my looks.
Of course! Why else would I marry you? ^^ Go and save the world. It needs you. Xoxo
I smiled as I closed the messaging app and put my phone down. I sat on the bed and grabbed my handbag—or rather, the suitcase, masquerading as a handbag—and extracted the folder containing the reason for my presence here. An old, yellowing photograph, the edges slightly scorched, whose every detail I knew by heart.
Gabrielle Villeneuve.
My paternal great-great-great-grandmother.
2 The Inn at the End of the Street.
Chapter 2
Gabrielle
Angers
November 1899
It is a truth universally acknowledged that what can go wrong in life…will go wrong. Thus, it is always whenever one has forgotten their umbrella at home that it starts raining—both quite suddenly and unexpectedly hard for November.
This is not my lucky day, Gabrielle thought glumly. Any more trouble and this would read like a comedy of errors.
She looked up from beneath the entrance porch where she’d taken shelter and sighed.
The entire day had been a nightmare.
She’d woken tired—hardly surprising since she had been reading well into the early hours of the morning—and she’d needed to summon her entire force of will to part with the cozy comfort of her goose-feather quilt and pillow. It had taken a truly herculean effort to rise. The ambient humidity had further made it impossible to brush and style her hair. The hairpins she usually generously littered her thick, unruly waves of hair with had chosen this as the perfect time to hide—of course they had.
The rebellion had continued with her hot chocolate deciding that it belonged on her dress rather than in her cup. Gabrielle had barely avoided a serious burn and had to return upstairs to change—and fix her hair again, as the painstakingly tied knot had come loose when she’d peeled her stained garments off. With so many mishaps, it was a miracle she’d managed to open the bookstore on time. By the time she’d flipped the sign on the door, Gabrielle had been expecting the worst to be yet to come.
But contrary to her expectations, the rest of the morning had been relatively calm—apart from a definite lack of cooperation from the ladder she had used to retrieve a book on botanicals. Only one thing had kept her from falling flat on her face with an utter lack of anything resembling grace or balance—the presence of Étienne, the store employee.
That had almost been the last straw. Gabrielle had given serious thought to going back to bed, where she would not risk a major accident every few minutes. But the prospect of seeing Sophie for lunch had proven too alluring. The brief moments she could share with her best friend were all too rare and precious for her to give up on them for so small an inconvenience. As the clock struck twelve, she’d fled the bookstore and her own bad luck as though the devil himself were on her heels.
Gabrielle noticed Sophie’s excitement from the moment she sat across from her, out of breath but rather relieved to have made it in one piece without any further misadventures.
“Gabrielle, I have a marvelous idea!” Sophie exclaimed as soon as her friend sat down, even as she absentmindedly pushed the books she’d borrowed last week across the table.
“It must be truly marvelous. You look ready to skip! What is it?”
“Would you like…”—she paused for dramatic effect, then plunged ahead—“to travel with me to Paris next May to visit the great Exposition Universelle?”
“Just the two of us? You and me?”
“Yes! Just the two of us, like we always dreamed.”
“Yes! A thousand times yes!”
For an hour, they discussed their plans, eyes bright with excitement, picturing themselves dressed in their very best dresses and hats, arm in arm, strolling down the streets of the City of Lights, that magical capital of culture, romance and adventure. Men would stop and stare as Sophie walked by—they always did. They would laugh, happy and carefree, with nothing on their minds except for the fun they would have and the opportunity to discover everything Paris had to offer.
They suggested dates, worked out how much money they’d need to save to be able to afford such an extravagant trip, planned the shoes and clothes they would need to pack. But time flew by and they promised to speak of it again as they parted ways, quietly cheerful, the morning’s misadventures forgotten.
Gabrielle might have managed to forget her bad luck, but it certainly had not forgotten about her. She’d barely gone three steps before the first drops of rain hit. Less than thirty seconds later, the sprinkles had turned into a downpour, soaking the precious books she carried—not to mention her clothes—and forcing her to shelter under the nearest porch roof.
Dear Lord. She sighed. She most definitely was cursed today.
Across the street, her reflection in the grocer’s shopwindow seemed to mock her. Grimacing, Gabrielle gave herself a quick once-over. With no hat to hold them back—she had left in a hurry—unruly blond locks had already begun to unravel from the bun at the back of her neck. Any longer in the rain and she’d look like a wet dog. She considered her options. Even if she ran as fast as she could with a drenched skirt that clung to her legs and a pile of books under her arm, it would take at least two or three minutes to return to the bookstore. She had two choices, then: wait here for the rain to abate, which did not seem likely in the foreseeable future, or accept that she would look like a pathetic mutt left out in the storm when she reentered the store.
Sighing, she hefted the books higher under her left arm, seized her skirt in her right hand and ran out in the rain, hoping against hope she wouldn’t twist her ankle on the cobblestones.
That would really be the last straw.
A few minutes later, drenched and shivering and her books utterly soaked despite her best efforts, she pushed open the door to Les livres d’Héloïse,3 sending the bell clanging merrily. She paused on the threshold and leaned on the doorframe, out of breath, gazing over what had always been her home. Immense oak shelves lined the soft beige walls she had painted with her father a few years ago, overflowing with books. Pictures painted by a local artist, all featuring books and readers, dotted the room with splotches of color, as did the vases of fresh flowers she made a point to replace regularly. Today’s were vivid crimson roses she had bought at the market the day before, giving off a sweet scent that filled the store. All these elements painted a picture of comfort, of coziness and warmth, a cocoon to retreat to when the world proved too difficult to deal with. Gabrielle took pride in what her father and she had created here. And she hoped that so did her mother, from where she now dwelt.
A wave of nostalgia washed over her.
Her father had built the bookstore for her mother. Héloïse Villeneuve, née Héloïse Desmarais, a booklover if ever there was one, had dreamed all her life of living among books. “Gabrielle,” she used to say, “books are an inexhaustible treasure trove. Every book is a door to a new world, one where anything is possible, where anyone can dream without limits and be totally, utterly free. A book is the greatest gift one can give to another.” Héloïse loved books, Maurice loved Héloïse, the decision had been easy—Gabrielle’s father had opened a bookstore and named it after his wife: Les livres d’Héloïse.
Gabrielle had been seven when her mother had died from the consequences of a miscarriage. After her death, nothing had been the same; nothing had the same flavor or the same touch of magic. Her mother had the ability to transform their ordinary lives into a fairy tale with nothing but a smile, and Gabrielle had needed many months before she could overcome her grief and begin to enjoy life again.
Her father, though, had never quite recovered. In order to make up for Héloïse’s absence, he’d smothered his daughter in love and affection, becoming father and mother, brother and sister, teacher and mentor. He’d been the one to reinstate the tradition of bedtime stories, which they had never since stopped, though these days Gabrielle was the one to read to her father.
The bookstore was the only thing they had left of Héloïse, and whatever energy Maurice did not pour into raising his daughter, he devoted to it. As the years went by and Gabrielle grew older, her role and duties at the bookstore had steadily become more important. Until one day she was in charge of the day-to-day running of the store while Maurice, who, unlike his wife and daughter, had always been more interested in books as objects rather than their contents, immersed himself in a new task: locating and buying specific books for his customers. He quickly gained a reputation as a learned bibliophile, able to find any book wherever they might be and whatever the effort involved.
Gabrielle felt a smile stretch her lips.
Maman would be proud of us, truly.
Movement from the back of the shop caught her eye. Étienne, the assistant her father had hired two years ago, was waiting on Mr. Demers, one of their oldest patrons. He looked up when the bell jingled and his gaze slid—very, very slowly—over Gabrielle. All of a sudden uncomfortably aware of the way her soaked dress clung to her body, she motioned for him to keep quiet, unwilling to let their customer see her in such a state. Étienne nodded slightly to indicate his understanding and turned back to Mr. Demers, though not without one last glance toward her. From where she stood, Gabrielle could not decipher his expression, but she didn’t need to. For some time now, she had noticed the way he looked at her. She did her best to ignore the blazing glances he directed her way, hoping the sudden crush he seemed to have developed would fade if she did not encourage it. So far, she hadn’t had much luck and Étienne did not seem to catch her drift.
Étienne is a nice boy, she thought as she slipped through the shelves, but he doesn’t make my heart skip.
No one had made her heart skip yet.
She had almost reached her destination—the narrow staircase at the back of the shop, leading to the apartment she shared with her father over the store—when the door flew open and Gabrielle hit…a wall.
I forgot there was a wall here, she thought as she swayed and one of her books toppled to the ground.
A noise came from the wall, and two powerful hands reached out to grab her and hold her steady.
And now the walls move and talk. Curiouser and curiouser.
Had she fallen down the rabbit hole? She was suddenly aware that said wall wore a thick black wool coat, still damp, and exuded far too much warmth for an inanimate object. Still breathless, Gabrielle let her eyes wander up the coat’s arm to broad shoulders, absently noting the tie partially hidden behind a black scarf, and from there to a man’s face half
Dear Reader,
First of all, I’d like to thank you all, from the bottom of my heart, for picking up this novel. I put all my heart and all my soul into it and I hope you’ll love my characters as much as I do. I’ve lived with them for so long that to this day yet, almost a year after writing the words “The End,” I still have trouble remembering that they are not living people who I can visit anytime I want to. I hope they will feel as real to you as they do to me.
But before you dive into their story, please let me tell you about the real fairy tale behind The Château by the River.
A few years ago, as I was surfing idly on the internet, I found an article from a French online newspaper, telling the story of a very old and very beautiful castle in ruins, lost to the wilderness of nature after a huge fire destroyed it in the 1930s: le château de la Mothe-Chandeniers, situated in the small town of Les Trois-Moutiers, in the Loire valley. Because the fire had rendered it uninhabitable, the castle had quickly been abandoned by its owners. Without any maintenance, each year that passed after that fateful day, the castle deteriorated a bit more, until it became a real danger to the life of anyone who approached it. For the last few years, the current owner had tried everything he could think of to save the castle from total destruction, but to no avail. When the article was written, tired of fighting without any results, he had decided to have the castle dismantled.
When I read the article, my heart broke, and for a few days, I could think of little else than this castle. I wanted to do something, anything, because the castle lover in me couldn’t bear the thought of such a magnificent building, so old, which had lived through most the events that forged France, being destroyed. But I didn’t have the first idea of how to be useful. So I did the only thing I could think of: I wrote a book about it. For the necessities of my story, as I was a romance novelist and not a historian, I changed the name of the castle, and a few details of its history, so that I could do what I wanted with it. That’s how Gabrielle and Thomas, and Alex and Éric were born.
It took me around a year and a half to write The Château by the River. And by the time I was finished and it was published in France, the real castle had made the headlines: after a very successful crowdfunding operation, the castle had been bought by a few thousand contributors, from all around the world, with the intent of stopping its destruction.
The doomed castle, “my” doomed castle, had been saved.
As you can imagine, dear reader, I was really, really happy to see that unexpected turn of events! The next few years will tell how this fairy tale will unfold. But for now, let’s dive together into Alexandra’s and Gabrielle’s story, and the castle that linked them through time.
Happy reading!
Chloé Duval
Prologue
Thomas
La Rochelle
February 1900
Thomas leaned on the rail of the Étoile du Nord1 and stared at the horizon, waiting.
He waited for the bell signaling the ship’s departure, waited for the coast to fade and disappear beyond the waves, waited for the pain to subside and for the gaping hole in his chest to close over.
Time heals all wounds, they said. He would forget.
But he knew all too well it was a lie. He would never forget her.
In the distance, the first glimpses of daylight were beginning to chase the dark away. The deck was bustling, awash with a diffuse unrest from which an occasional order or question could be heard. The seagulls’ hungry cries rang out overhead as they fought over a bread crust or an old piece of vegetable, viciously pecking at each other.
In spite of the freezing cold, the docks were crowded with fishmongers, sailors, and traders come to oversee the delivery of their various goods. A few latecomers ran up, dragging heavy luggage behind them. And at the very end of the dock, swaddled in several layers of clothes to keep out the cold and biting wind, the passengers’ loved ones waved as they exchanged a last goodbye, a final smile, a lingering gaze with those they would not see again for a very long time—if they ever did.
Thomas stepped back, retreating to the bow of the ship, away from the commotion and tearstained smiles. How ironic life could be, he thought bitterly. Six months ago, he had nothing to look forward to other than a dull life and endless days to fill as best he could—and he was content. What one does not have, one cannot lose.
He had found out in the most brutal manner that he was entirely wrong.
There is always something that can be lost.
Or someone.
Fleeting images crossed his mind, and he closed his eyes, jaw clenching painfully as his heart broke again.
The sailors on the dock were casting off, and the railing began to hum softly under his fingertips; the tugboats stood by, ready to tow the ship out to sea so it could begin its long journey toward America, where he could start over again and leave his past behind.
Everything was ready and had been for a long time. He had crossed the sea several times, met with investors, partners, chosen warehouses and workshops.
He’d had it all planned out.
And everything had changed.
She’d waltzed into his life one day with her sweet smile and dreamy gaze and upended all of his carefully prepared plans, illuminating every aspect of his life.
For a few wonderful weeks, he had felt himself change under her influence, becoming happier, lighter. Life—his life—had begun to hold meaning.
He’d found himself thinking of the future. Hoping. Dreaming.
But dreams were fickle, deceitful things. When they lasted too long, you started to believe in them. And when they fell apart, when the bubble burst and reality came rushing back in, the fall was a hard one. And the higher you climbed, the harder you fell.
He had hurtled down the whole damn mountain.
He’d found the strength to stand back up, somehow, keep his head high and move forward even though he was only an empty shell, a shadow of his former self. A shadow of the man he’d been with her.
But a shadow could be a positive thing. It was a close friend, almost comforting. He’d been lost in the shadow once before. He was familiar with it. He almost relished the return.
He knew it would in time swallow the pain that ran through every inch of his being. He would grow numb again, distant.
He wouldn’t fall for the same trick again. Angels couldn’t love monsters.
The ship slowly drew away from the dock. At last, Thomas was leaving.
For good.
There would be no going back this time. Not ever. He was leaving the country that had brought him only pain and shattered illusions, never to return.
He kept his gaze on the horizon, refusing to acknowledge the sharp knife piercing through his heart, or the urge to jump ashore and run to her to beg on bended knee for her to explain. To love him.
It was too late anyway.
1 Northern Star.
Chapter 1
Alexandra
Chandeniers-sur-Vienne
Present day
“In fifty meters, turn left. You have arrived at your destination.”
The low, masculine voice purring with a delicious Scottish accent was coming from the GPS on my phone.
Don’t judge me. We all have our guilty pleasures. I’d downloaded the app six months ago and ever since then, I sometimes—read: every day—turn on the GPS to drive home, just to hear its husky, sexy accent.
Even if all it did was tell me to merge and keep right.
Jamie’s fault, Your Honor. Everything is James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser’s fault.
I looked around for the crossroads Fake-Jamie had just signaled and switched on my turn signal to swerve onto an adorable paved street. A few seconds later, I drew level with the aptly named L’Auberge du bout de la rue,2 which was indeed at the end of the street. I had booked a room there for the next few days.
I smiled to myself as I got out of the rental and spun on the spot, taking in the scenery, the ambience, the sounds, the smells.
This was it. This was what France meant to me. Charmingly old-fashioned cities with cobbled streets and centuries-old stone buildings. In this place, everything breathed history. No matter where you went, where you looked, you could almost feel the presence of the people who had lived there a hundred, two hundred, a thousand years earlier. And the town of Chandeniers, at the very heart of the Loire valley and the surrounding vineyards, was the perfect embodiment of my idea of a historical French city, from the little stone bridge to the old water mill and the many book stands lining the banks of the Vienne River. After several weeks’ hard work, I was more than ready to kick back and enjoy playing tourist.
I sighed blissfully and swung the car door shut. Like most of the houses on the street that ran parallel to the river, the inn was built with white stone and had blue shutters. Its name gleamed in wrought iron letters over the door.
“If I could afford it, I would buy a vacation home here in a heartbeat!” I muttered to myself as I climbed the steps. “This place is amazing!”
I reached for the heavy doorknocker to signal my arrival when the door abruptly swung open and I came face-to-face—or rather, face to shoulder—with what seemed to be a Tom Hiddleston doppelganger with a little boy clinging to his hand.
“See you tomorrow?” He dedicated a smile—one I could objectively say was devastating—to someone inside the house.
“See you tomorrow!” a female voice confirmed.
He turned around and almost ran straight into me.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
He stepped to his right just as I stepped left. We repeated the maneuver for a few seconds before we came to a stop, laughing.
Yup, that smile definitely qualifies as devastating.
“Shall I go right and you left?” he suggested.
“My left or yours?”
“Mine, or else we could be here all night. While it is the intended purpose for an inn, it kind of defeats the point if you stay on the threshold.”
I held back another laugh and stepped right, he shifted the other way and at last we could resume the courses of our normal lives.
“Good day to you.”
“You too.”
“Come on, Quentin, let’s go.”
“Yes, Papa.”
I watched them walk away then turned back to the door, which was still hanging open. A woman in her thirties stood there. There was a distinctive pout on her impish, bright-eyed face as she tracked the man for a few moments, before she shook her head slightly and turned to me.
“Hi, what can I do for you?”
“Hi. I’m Alexandra Dawson; I phoned this morning to confirm my booking.”
“Ah! I was waiting for you! Please come in.” She moved back to let me through. “I’m Marine Clément, the owner. Welcome to the Auberge du bout de la rue!”
“Thank you, Ms. Clément.”
“Please! Call me Marine. Ms. Clément is my mother!” She laughed. “I don’t think I’m quite old enough to go by Ms.!”
“I will, if you call me Alexandra,” I replied brightly. “I couldn’t agree more, to be honest.” I leaned closer to add in a mock whisper: “Ever since I got here, everyone’s been calling me Ms. Dawson; it feels like I aged twenty years in a month. I feel like I should check for wrinkles every morning!”
“Don’t worry, there isn’t one in sight!”
“Phew! What a relief!”
We moved inside as we joked together and she proceeded to charm me utterly. The inside was just as lovely as the outside. The furniture was rustic but modern, in shades of faded pink, beige and plain wood. Potted plants and flowers in every nook and cranny completed the inn’s old-fashioned charm. It was cozy, warm, comfortable. In a word, perfect.
“Wow. I love what you’ve done with the place,” I told her.
“Thank you! I’m glad you like it. You’re from the US, right?”
“Is it that obvious?” I joked. “And here I thought my accent was perfect.”
“Oh, it’s fairly good. But you can’t hide it completely. Where are you from?”
“California, the Napa Valley more precisely. Ever heard of it?”
“Wine country, right?”
“Exactly!”
“Well, you must feel right at home here. Wine is kind of our local product.”
“I’m one hundred percent in my element. Actually, I even work for a wine company.”
“So you’re here on business?”
“Yes and no. I was on a business trip with my supervisor, but she went back yesterday and I stayed to take a vacation.”
“You’re going to think I’m biased, but you couldn’t have chosen a better place. We’re at the heart of the Loire valley, there are castles all around, a wine road to die for, and just between the two of us, Chandeniers is the most beautiful city in the world.”
“Nice speech.”
“One hundred percent unbiased too.” Marine laughed and added, “Shall I show you to your room?”
“Lead the way.”
I followed her up the stairs and down a narrow corridor to a smallish, absolutely adorable room tastefully decorated in shades of blue and off-white. The bed—a four-poster—had thin, transparent blue curtains, the same tone as the walls and the window curtains, hanging from the canopy, and an antique bedside table with a pretty reading lamp. A small desk and chest of drawers, obviously antiques as well, sat in a corner. Perched on the edge of the windowsill, a lavender bouquet gave off a sweet and enticing aroma. The pictures on the walls represented the town of Chandeniers, adding the final, perfect touch to the room.
“The bathroom is through there,” Marine indicated as I entered. “There are some extra blankets and towels in the cupboard. If you need anything just let me know. I hope you’ll be comfortable.”
“I’m sure I will be.” I couldn’t contain my enthusiasm. “This is amazing! Everything in this house is amazing.”
“Thank you. I got everything from bargain hunting and yard sales and renovated all the furniture in the inn myself.”
“Everything? That must have taken ages!”
“It did, but I enjoy it so I don’t mind. I’m working my way slowly through the furniture, replacing what came with the house with my own projects. It’s my hobby, but I don’t have as much time to devote to it in the summer.”
“Well, kudos to you. You not only have exquisite taste, you also have a knack for making all this old stuff look new again.”
“Thank you! I love anything that has to do with the past.”
“Oh? Are you something of a historian?”
“Not really, but I do know quite a bit of history, especially if it’s local. I’ve done some research on the town’s past.”
Interesting. Duly noted.
“Oh, and before I forget, here’s the Wi-Fi code for the inn, and your key.” She handed me a small card and a keyring.
“Thank you. This is perfect.”
“Do you need anything else?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I’ll let you settle in. Oh, and I have some hibiscus mint juice in the fridge. Would you like a glass?”
“How nice. Yes. Thanks a lot!”
“Do you want me to bring it up here, or should I serve it in the garden out back? It’s lovely under the trees.”
“Garden, no hesitation.”
“Then come and join me when you’re ready.”
“I’ll be right down.”
When Marine had left, I fished my phone out of my handbag and snapped a few pictures of the room that I immediately forwarded to my best friend, Bea. The poor thing was no doubt even now working in her air-conditioned bank office in Santa Rosa.
Her reply came almost immediately.
I hate you.
I laughed and sent back:
Love you too.
Way nicer than the places you’ve been staying in for work so far.
Totes. I’m in love.
When are you starting your investigation?
Soon as I’m settled in and have finished my hibiscus juice.
Luxury at its finest!
Embracing the holiday feeling!
I want updates. Every minute.
Done.
My supervisor’s here. Meeting in five. See you later, Ms. Family Girl.
Later, alligator. Good luck with the meeting. Call you as soon as I’ve done recon.
I then fired off another message to my fiancé to tell him more or less the same thing, but with a lot more “<3.” I finished with:
Call you soon? I know you’re busy but I miss you! <3 Luv ya.
I put the phone away. Given the time, I was ready to bet Spencer was in a meeting and wouldn’t be able to reply for a while. But a beeping sound almost immediately proved me wrong. Against all expectations, my lawyer boyfriend had written back.
Hello you!! Got to go to a meeting but promise, I’ll try to call as soon as I’m out. Miss you too. <3 Be careful and keep me posted. Luv ya more.
I read it several times, happy at the thought we’d be able to speak at last. Between the time difference—a horrible thing, I cursed whoever had invented it—my work and his, over the last few weeks our communication had come down to brief texts sent between meetings, lunches and business interviews. I had reached the point where I’d called his answering machine a couple of times in the middle of the night or early in the morning just to hear the sound of his voice. I make no apologies. I missed my fiancé, and sometimes when life doesn’t deliver, you have to resort to desperate measures. So I made do with his answering machine and waited for things to get better.
I’d been waiting for things to get better for quite some time now.
Spencer was about to become the youngest partner of the prestigious Wilson, Murdoch and Finch legal office. He’d been working for two years now on a huge case—something to do with corruption inside a pharmaceutical company that had cost several dozen people their lives—that required all of his attention and time. So it wasn’t unusual for me to spend my evenings alone while he locked himself in the office or met with colleagues.
I wasn’t happy with our situation. To pretend otherwise would be a lie. Solitary evenings were long and weekends even longer. But it was the price to pay to be with him, and I had known it when I had signed up for a relationship with him. Spencer was a top-notch lawyer, and he never backed down on anything. I’d never seen him sacrifice his work for his private life. The stakes were too high, and they were worth neglecting our time together for a while. When the trial was over, I’d have him all to myself again, and I’d be able to show him just how proud I was of him.
In the meantime, I had to be patient.
I clicked on the answer bar and typed a new message, my fingers flying over the digital keyboard.
Be careful too. And don’t forget to eat. Wouldn’t want you to lose those perfect muscles of yours.
I always knew you only liked me for my looks.
Of course! Why else would I marry you? ^^ Go and save the world. It needs you. Xoxo
I smiled as I closed the messaging app and put my phone down. I sat on the bed and grabbed my handbag—or rather, the suitcase, masquerading as a handbag—and extracted the folder containing the reason for my presence here. An old, yellowing photograph, the edges slightly scorched, whose every detail I knew by heart.
Gabrielle Villeneuve.
My paternal great-great-great-grandmother.
2 The Inn at the End of the Street.
Chapter 2
Gabrielle
Angers
November 1899
It is a truth universally acknowledged that what can go wrong in life…will go wrong. Thus, it is always whenever one has forgotten their umbrella at home that it starts raining—both quite suddenly and unexpectedly hard for November.
This is not my lucky day, Gabrielle thought glumly. Any more trouble and this would read like a comedy of errors.
She looked up from beneath the entrance porch where she’d taken shelter and sighed.
The entire day had been a nightmare.
She’d woken tired—hardly surprising since she had been reading well into the early hours of the morning—and she’d needed to summon her entire force of will to part with the cozy comfort of her goose-feather quilt and pillow. It had taken a truly herculean effort to rise. The ambient humidity had further made it impossible to brush and style her hair. The hairpins she usually generously littered her thick, unruly waves of hair with had chosen this as the perfect time to hide—of course they had.
The rebellion had continued with her hot chocolate deciding that it belonged on her dress rather than in her cup. Gabrielle had barely avoided a serious burn and had to return upstairs to change—and fix her hair again, as the painstakingly tied knot had come loose when she’d peeled her stained garments off. With so many mishaps, it was a miracle she’d managed to open the bookstore on time. By the time she’d flipped the sign on the door, Gabrielle had been expecting the worst to be yet to come.
But contrary to her expectations, the rest of the morning had been relatively calm—apart from a definite lack of cooperation from the ladder she had used to retrieve a book on botanicals. Only one thing had kept her from falling flat on her face with an utter lack of anything resembling grace or balance—the presence of Étienne, the store employee.
That had almost been the last straw. Gabrielle had given serious thought to going back to bed, where she would not risk a major accident every few minutes. But the prospect of seeing Sophie for lunch had proven too alluring. The brief moments she could share with her best friend were all too rare and precious for her to give up on them for so small an inconvenience. As the clock struck twelve, she’d fled the bookstore and her own bad luck as though the devil himself were on her heels.
Gabrielle noticed Sophie’s excitement from the moment she sat across from her, out of breath but rather relieved to have made it in one piece without any further misadventures.
“Gabrielle, I have a marvelous idea!” Sophie exclaimed as soon as her friend sat down, even as she absentmindedly pushed the books she’d borrowed last week across the table.
“It must be truly marvelous. You look ready to skip! What is it?”
“Would you like…”—she paused for dramatic effect, then plunged ahead—“to travel with me to Paris next May to visit the great Exposition Universelle?”
“Just the two of us? You and me?”
“Yes! Just the two of us, like we always dreamed.”
“Yes! A thousand times yes!”
For an hour, they discussed their plans, eyes bright with excitement, picturing themselves dressed in their very best dresses and hats, arm in arm, strolling down the streets of the City of Lights, that magical capital of culture, romance and adventure. Men would stop and stare as Sophie walked by—they always did. They would laugh, happy and carefree, with nothing on their minds except for the fun they would have and the opportunity to discover everything Paris had to offer.
They suggested dates, worked out how much money they’d need to save to be able to afford such an extravagant trip, planned the shoes and clothes they would need to pack. But time flew by and they promised to speak of it again as they parted ways, quietly cheerful, the morning’s misadventures forgotten.
Gabrielle might have managed to forget her bad luck, but it certainly had not forgotten about her. She’d barely gone three steps before the first drops of rain hit. Less than thirty seconds later, the sprinkles had turned into a downpour, soaking the precious books she carried—not to mention her clothes—and forcing her to shelter under the nearest porch roof.
Dear Lord. She sighed. She most definitely was cursed today.
Across the street, her reflection in the grocer’s shopwindow seemed to mock her. Grimacing, Gabrielle gave herself a quick once-over. With no hat to hold them back—she had left in a hurry—unruly blond locks had already begun to unravel from the bun at the back of her neck. Any longer in the rain and she’d look like a wet dog. She considered her options. Even if she ran as fast as she could with a drenched skirt that clung to her legs and a pile of books under her arm, it would take at least two or three minutes to return to the bookstore. She had two choices, then: wait here for the rain to abate, which did not seem likely in the foreseeable future, or accept that she would look like a pathetic mutt left out in the storm when she reentered the store.
Sighing, she hefted the books higher under her left arm, seized her skirt in her right hand and ran out in the rain, hoping against hope she wouldn’t twist her ankle on the cobblestones.
That would really be the last straw.
A few minutes later, drenched and shivering and her books utterly soaked despite her best efforts, she pushed open the door to Les livres d’Héloïse,3 sending the bell clanging merrily. She paused on the threshold and leaned on the doorframe, out of breath, gazing over what had always been her home. Immense oak shelves lined the soft beige walls she had painted with her father a few years ago, overflowing with books. Pictures painted by a local artist, all featuring books and readers, dotted the room with splotches of color, as did the vases of fresh flowers she made a point to replace regularly. Today’s were vivid crimson roses she had bought at the market the day before, giving off a sweet scent that filled the store. All these elements painted a picture of comfort, of coziness and warmth, a cocoon to retreat to when the world proved too difficult to deal with. Gabrielle took pride in what her father and she had created here. And she hoped that so did her mother, from where she now dwelt.
A wave of nostalgia washed over her.
Her father had built the bookstore for her mother. Héloïse Villeneuve, née Héloïse Desmarais, a booklover if ever there was one, had dreamed all her life of living among books. “Gabrielle,” she used to say, “books are an inexhaustible treasure trove. Every book is a door to a new world, one where anything is possible, where anyone can dream without limits and be totally, utterly free. A book is the greatest gift one can give to another.” Héloïse loved books, Maurice loved Héloïse, the decision had been easy—Gabrielle’s father had opened a bookstore and named it after his wife: Les livres d’Héloïse.
Gabrielle had been seven when her mother had died from the consequences of a miscarriage. After her death, nothing had been the same; nothing had the same flavor or the same touch of magic. Her mother had the ability to transform their ordinary lives into a fairy tale with nothing but a smile, and Gabrielle had needed many months before she could overcome her grief and begin to enjoy life again.
Her father, though, had never quite recovered. In order to make up for Héloïse’s absence, he’d smothered his daughter in love and affection, becoming father and mother, brother and sister, teacher and mentor. He’d been the one to reinstate the tradition of bedtime stories, which they had never since stopped, though these days Gabrielle was the one to read to her father.
The bookstore was the only thing they had left of Héloïse, and whatever energy Maurice did not pour into raising his daughter, he devoted to it. As the years went by and Gabrielle grew older, her role and duties at the bookstore had steadily become more important. Until one day she was in charge of the day-to-day running of the store while Maurice, who, unlike his wife and daughter, had always been more interested in books as objects rather than their contents, immersed himself in a new task: locating and buying specific books for his customers. He quickly gained a reputation as a learned bibliophile, able to find any book wherever they might be and whatever the effort involved.
Gabrielle felt a smile stretch her lips.
Maman would be proud of us, truly.
Movement from the back of the shop caught her eye. Étienne, the assistant her father had hired two years ago, was waiting on Mr. Demers, one of their oldest patrons. He looked up when the bell jingled and his gaze slid—very, very slowly—over Gabrielle. All of a sudden uncomfortably aware of the way her soaked dress clung to her body, she motioned for him to keep quiet, unwilling to let their customer see her in such a state. Étienne nodded slightly to indicate his understanding and turned back to Mr. Demers, though not without one last glance toward her. From where she stood, Gabrielle could not decipher his expression, but she didn’t need to. For some time now, she had noticed the way he looked at her. She did her best to ignore the blazing glances he directed her way, hoping the sudden crush he seemed to have developed would fade if she did not encourage it. So far, she hadn’t had much luck and Étienne did not seem to catch her drift.
Étienne is a nice boy, she thought as she slipped through the shelves, but he doesn’t make my heart skip.
No one had made her heart skip yet.
She had almost reached her destination—the narrow staircase at the back of the shop, leading to the apartment she shared with her father over the store—when the door flew open and Gabrielle hit…a wall.
I forgot there was a wall here, she thought as she swayed and one of her books toppled to the ground.
A noise came from the wall, and two powerful hands reached out to grab her and hold her steady.
And now the walls move and talk. Curiouser and curiouser.
Had she fallen down the rabbit hole? She was suddenly aware that said wall wore a thick black wool coat, still damp, and exuded far too much warmth for an inanimate object. Still breathless, Gabrielle let her eyes wander up the coat’s arm to broad shoulders, absently noting the tie partially hidden behind a black scarf, and from there to a man’s face half
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