The Sacrifice Stone Read Online Free

Martin’s aunt must be a Van Gogh fan.’
    ‘Perhaps we’ll find his ear,’ she remarked.
    ‘That one, do you think? It’s certainly yellow.’
    She looked where he was pointing. On the level above them, a spur of the old city wall apparently forming part of its boundary, was a low tile-roofed house made of yellow stone. On the end facing them was a colonnaded terrace, healthy-looking greenery rambling over and between the graceful arches.
    She recalled how much rent they were paying. ‘It can’t be. It’s far too lovely.’
    ‘I bet it is.’ He was getting out of the car. ‘There aren’t any other yellow houses in the square.’
    She followed him to the flight of steps leading up to the terrace. On the gate at the top it said, ‘La Maison Jaune’.
    He had a set of keys in his hand. Swiftly he took the padlock off the gate, then ran up the remaining steps and unlocked the door. Turning on lights, she saw they were in a terracotta-tiled hall; on the telephone table was a note addressed to Joe.
    ‘It’s the right place, no doubt about it.’ She didn’t think there had been any need to tell her. ‘Martin’s aunt says welcome, linen’s in the cupboard on the landing, and there’s a restaurant round the corner if we arrive too late to shop.’
    Suddenly hot food was what she wanted more than anything. Preferably accompanied by a bottle of wine. ‘What are we waiting for?’
    ‘Don’t you want to unpack?’
    ‘No. I want to eat.’
    He laughed suddenly. ‘So do I. Come on!’
    *
    They unpacked no more than overnight necessities on arriving back: Beth had got her bottle of wine, and, when they’d finished a wonderfully filling meal of fish soup followed by an unidentified but delicious white sea fish with a mussel sauce, Joe threw caution to the winds and ordered a couple of brandies.
    Trying to make up the beds, Beth decided that smooth sheets and nice hospital corners were beyond her: I’m too tired, she thought, and not entirely sober. I’ll do it properly in the morning.
    Her room looked out to the back of the house; the old city wall ran along beneath her window. Joe called out, ‘Better close your shutters — I’ve just swatted a mozzie.’
    She did so, although it seemed a shame to shut out all that beauty and atmosphere. We’ll get some of those electric things tomorrow, she thought as she lay down. And we could get a ...
    Her mind was wandering. Almost asleep, she saw again the long miles of motorway, cars flashing by. The hills of Provence rose up ahead, and a brilliant sun beat down on a rocky hillside. Junipers cast deep shadow on the pale land.
    The dream had begun.
    *
    The sunshine of her dreams greeted her in the morning. As she went through into the kitchen — also tiled with terracotta, bright blue crockery against pale yellow walls making a satisfying contrast — she noticed that the tiles under her bare feet felt warm where the sun fell on them.
    There was coffee in the larder, but no milk except for a jar of creamer. She made herself a cup, taking it out on to the terrace.
    The quiet peace of the house and the garden — which was informal, and slightly overgrown — seemed to settle round her: this, she thought as she sank into an old-fashioned wooden steamer chair, is going to be heaven. And to think I was expecting it to be a tip! Sorry, Martin’s auntie.
    Half an hour later there was still no sign of Joe. She had a shower, finished unpacking her bag, made her bed with corners her mother would have approved, and brought in from the car Joe’s box of books, leaflets and notes; she couldn’t see his laptop computer, and decided he must have taken it into his room.
    The next thing’s shopping, she thought. I’ll tell Joe I’m going out.
    She knocked on his door, then banged, then went in. He seemed to be fast asleep, but, watching, she saw his eyelids twitch.
    ‘Aren’t you going to get up? It’s gone eleven.’
    ‘I’m so tired!’
    She stifled the urge to say she