He turned away before the stillness could speak louder.
The dust-laced air stirred a whisper of memory, as if the Abbey itself was trying to remind him of something long buried. He adjusted his collar, brushed a hand against the worn wooden doorframe, and wondered—not for the first time—whether these festivals masked more than they revealed.
***
In the days that followed, preparations gathered pace, and a vibrant chaos swept through Corbeil-Essonnes. The narrow streets buzzed with anticipation, and even the most stoic townspeople couldn’t help but get swept up in the rising excitement. Though it disrupted the usual quiet rhythm of the town, the energy was welcomed. For many, it was a break from the monotony; for others, it was a rare chance to shine, to showcase what made their craft or produce unique. Beneath the cheerful disorder, however, subtler disturbances seemed to ripple, unnoticed, through the preparations.
The festival was colorful, a blend of old traditions and new amusements—farmers with their finest produce, artisans with their carefully crafted goods, children darting under lanterns as if the light itself were a game.
The town came alive, all of it funneled through the Abbey and Father Maurice—who set the schedules, approved placements, and decided which vendors earned the best streets.
At the square’s center, Madame Carenne argued about booth placement, her shawl snapping like a banner in the cold air.
Nearby, two little girls twirled beneath a string of glass lanterns being tested for the opening night procession. One paused, pointing at the base of a lamppost where frost had formed a curious spiral.
“It looks like Papa’s old compass,” she whispered to her friend.