In the quiet of the Grand-Moûtier at Abbaye Royale de Fontevraud, the wind carried on it the constant whisper of a thousand years. I sat, regretful in my exhale, as the Abbey slept. It is the silence when I am the most terrified and at peace. I lingered on the waxing moon, just three days short of full release, and shook. This place—this holy, sacred, venomous, cruel place—soothed me in the darkness, and I submit.
Midnight, at Fontevraud.
So, there I was with Aesmeh de la Rose showing me around Amboise, France. Now that she’d offered to introduce me to the crew, I had to forgive her for so unabashedly revealing her death to me without my consent. Apparently, when you are a novelist who’s come to tell their stories, those who’ve waited all of those centuries for you to get it together already know your storyline.
From the moment I found myself at the base of the ramparts at Château Royal d’Amboise, a grotesque, morbid sensation settled across my shoulders, then a pressure leaned in against my right arm and I stiffened. “I died here,” a voice whispered. Earlier that morning, while I bought roses and baguettes and began my winding procession through the cobblestone streets, the same voice drew me closer.
Historical Paris is a city filled with ornate churches and people who lost their heads. When I travelled to the City of Light in 2019 to research Woman On The Wall, I didn’t really get it. But, I wanted to. I wasn’t interested in the Eiffel Tower (never even got close to it), Versailles (too far away), or even the Champs-Élysées. I needed to touch faith and death and headed for the only place I knew I could do both—the Île de la Cité.