Dust motes dance in the amber light of the late afternoon as Maître Dupuis sets the heavy document on the desk. The air in the office smells of old vellum and the dry, sweet scent of the Provençal hills just beyond the blinds. Daniel Vaury watches the notary’s steady hands, feeling the weight of the silence. He has spent years running from the red dirt of the vineyard, yet here it is, returned to him in a few pages of legal script.
Everything is his: the vines, the debts, and the centuries of dust. But it is the smaller item that draws the eye, a cream-colored envelope resting atop the will. Written in his father’s erratic, dying hand is a single name that makes Daniel’s throat tighten: For Mathieu Aubert, upon my death.
He wants me to go to him. The thought is a bitter stone. The man who broke his father’s spirit is the one he must now find. The notary does not speak, his face a mask of practiced neutrality as he offers the final piece of the inheritance. Maître Dupuis slides the heavy, wax-sealed envelope across the mahogany toward Daniel’s waiting hand.
