IV. The flood
The river had risen during the night. By morning, the lower quays of Valcorbe lay under a grey sheet of water that carried crates, branches and the occasional chair.
Ines watched it from the bridge, hands deep in her coat. Her father had always said the town remembered every flood; the stones kept the marks, one line above the other.
She counted seven lines on the pillar of the old mill. The highest was carved with a date she could no longer read, worn smooth by a century of hands.
Behind her, the bell of the town hall rang nine times. Nobody opened the shops. The baker had set his loaves on the windowsill of the first floor, for whoever could reach them.
A boat came round the corner of the square, rowed by two boys who were clearly enjoying themselves far more than they should. Ines raised a hand; they waved back with an oar.
By noon the water had stopped rising. It would take three days to fall, and three weeks for the smell of mud to leave the cellars. But the town, as always, would add a line to the stone.
End of chapter 4