The scent of tisane aux herbes hung thick over 9 Rue des Canuts as Tante Joséphine stirred her medicinal brew in a cobalt Le Creuset pot—a relic from her wedding dowry, now stained by years of desperate hope. When the tabac shop's phone jangled, she abandoned the pot at the communal limestone sink, its enamel still steaming.
Danielle Dubois chose that moment to descend the west-wing staircase, silk robe billowing like a vengeful sail. "Encore vos saletés, Joséphine?" She lifted the pot with two fingers, as if handling radioactive waste. "Cette cour n'est pas votre décharge!"
Crash.
The Le Creuset exploded against the cobblestones. Shards skittered toward Monsieur Thibault's prized geraniums.
Joséphine charged from the tabac, hair escaping its bun in furious tendrils. "Folle! C'était ma dernière chance—"
"—de faire un enfant?" Danielle's laugh was icicle-sharp. "Même les herbes savent que vous êtes stérile!"
The courtyard held its breath:
Monsieur Thibault's cane tapped frantically against his oak door
The Bernard family froze mid-noodle-drying
Mémé Louise clutched her rosary on the south-wing steps
Joséphine lunged. Nails met silk. "Poule arrogante!" Danielle shrieked, raking Joséphine's cheek. Blood bloomed like rouge on parchment.
Mémé Louise staggered forward, her voice fraying. "Mes filles, arrêtez—" A gasp cut her plea short. She crumpled against the fig tree, hand clawing at her chest.
Lydia Shaw pedaled into the chaos at that moment, school satchel slipping from her shoulder. "Mémé!" She cradled her grandmother, glaring at Danielle. "Qu'avez-vous fait?"
Danielle adjusted her torn robe. "Regardez votre tante! C'est elle qui—"
"—qui défend son honneur!" roared Cousin Bastien, bursting through the gate. Grease-streaked from his auto repair shift, he brandished a pied-de-biche (crowbar) like a medieval mace. "Où est le salaud qui a touché ma famille?"
Alain Girard emerged from the west wing—Danielle's fiancé and a freshly minted Ministry of Culture attaché. His Savile Row suit mocked the courtyard's decay. "Contrôlez votre brute, madame," he ordered Joséphine, flicking Le Creuset dust from his cuff.
Bastien thrust the crowbar at Alain's chest. "Brute? Je suis celui qui va vous apprendre les manières, monsieur le fonctionnaire."
Negotiations commenced in the Bernard's noodle workshop:
Under the fig tree, Lydia pressed a damp cloth to Joséphine's cheek. "Ça va, tante?"
"Comme ci, comme ça," Joséphine winced. "Mais cette Dubois… elle a touché Mémé. Ça, je ne pardonnerai jamais."
Nearby, Cousin Clémence—Bastien's sister—scowled at the west wing. "Regarde-moi ça!" She mimed Danielle's preening. "Elle croit qu'épouser un rat de ministère la rend noble? Son Alain a l'air d'un dindon en costume!" A turkey in a suit.
Lydia stifled a laugh. "Clémence!"
"C'est vrai!" Clémence's voice carried deliberately. "Certaines femmes sont comme le vin tourné—belles bouteilles, mais ça donne la nausée."
Danielle stormed onto the cobblestones. "Entendu, ta gueule?"
Bastien materialized, tire iron now in hand. "Problème, Dubois?"
Alain pulled Danielle back, whispering urgently. Lydia caught fragments: "…scandale… ministre verra les journaux…"
A tense silence fell. Finally, Alain announced: "Nous remplacerons la marmite. Et voici pour les médicaments." He slapped a 50€ note into Monsieur Thibault's palm.
As the Dubois faction retreated, Clémence spat toward their window. "Bon débarras!"
At the tabac shop's zinc counter, Clémence bandaged Joséphine's cheek. "Alors, cette perle de Sterling?" she probed Lydia. "Il t'a regardée comme un loup affamé dans la cour."
Lydia flushed, sorting phone tokens. "C'est juste un camarade de classe."
"Cam-ara-de?" Clémence drawled. "Quand il t'a touché le front…" She fanned herself dramatically. "Même Alain n'a pas regardé Danielle comme ça!"
Their banter halted when Gavin Sterling appeared at the shop's bead curtain. Sunlight haloed his disheveled hair—he'd clearly cycled full-tilt from Lyon's affluent Presqu'île district.
"Vingt appels, Shaw," Gavin leaned against the cigarette display, breathing hard. "J'ai cru que le Rhône t'avait reprise."
Lydia gestured to the chaos outside. "Désolée. On avait… une guerre de Le Creuset."
Gavin's eyes narrowed, taking in:
Bastien polishing his tire iron with ominous care
Mémé sipping tisane in a wicker chair
Le Creuset shards glittering like battlefield relics
"Guerre?" He picked up a cobalt fragment. "Ou répétition pour notre documentaire?"
Clémence snorted. "Documentaire? C'est comme ça que les jeunes riches appellent l'espionnage maintenant?"
Gavin ignored her, his focus laser-locked on Lydia. "Élodie veut tourner ici demain. Les 'vraies gens de Lyon', dit-elle." He nodded toward Danielle's window. "Elle compte filmer votre voisine aussi."
"Non!" Joséphine shot up, wincing. "Pas de caméras! Elles portent malheur!"
"Au contraire." Gavin's voice dropped, for Lydia alone. "Les caméras peuvent être des boucliers. Montrez-leur Danielle en tyran… et le monde verra pourquoi vous méritez ces 10,000€."
Lydia hesitated. In the courtyard, Monsieur Thibault swept Le Creuset dust into a dustpan—each scrape echoing like a shovelful on a grave.
"D'accord," Lydia whispered. "Mais Danielle ne doit pas savoir."
Gavin's smile didn't reach his eyes. He pressed something into her palm—Sophie Lacroix's pearl, cold and accusing. "Gardez-la. Une rappel que certaines batailles se gagnent dans l'ombre."
As he left, Clémence whistled low. "Il vous a donné un bijou? Sainte Marie, c'est sérieux!"
Lydia curled her fingers around the pearl. Outside, Bastien began singing La Marseillaise at Danielle's window, tire iron beating time against the stone. The courtyard held its breath, balanced on a knife-edge between vendetta and redemption.