“So, are you trying out the sled, then?” Julien asked. “I thought I saw you two flying down that slope before nearly taking us out.”

“Oh, that was Cédric’s fault—he gave me the wrong directions.”

“Hey, you’re the one holding the reins!” protested Cédric from his spot behind Louise. “Look where you’re going! My directions were fine—there was no one in the way when I warned you.”

“Maybe, but what’s the point of having a co-pilot if I can’t blame him when things go wrong?”

“Sledding around here is a little dangerous,” Julien observed, as if making casual conversation. “Even though the streets are fairly empty at this hour, a car could pass through.”

“That’s true,” Francis added, seizing the opportunity to shift the focus of the discussion—and, ideally, to convince these little delinquents to clear the sidewalks with their infernal contraption. “So you should pack up your sled and head home. I’m sure there are far more productive things to do indoors.”

“Or, alternatively,” Julien suggested, “you could take the sled somewhere else. Just across the bridge, I noticed a hill even steeper than this one, leading out into the fields. It would probably be more fun to slide down there—not to mention, you wouldn’t risk running anyone over. Or getting run over yourselves.”

“That could work too…” Francis muttered.

Anything was fine, as long as it meant leaving Louise and company behind—especially since it was now clear that Cédric wasn’t the only child there. Five or six more kids were gathered at the top of the nearby slope, undoubtedly waiting their turn to use the sled.

What he didn’t expect was for Julien to suggest going with them.

“It’s just to make sure they don’t get lost and accidentally end up in the river,” he had said, as if Saint-Genix was so full of treacherous slopes that one couldn’t possibly tell which one he meant unless it was marked with a giant X.

It was complete nonsense.

Francis quickly realized that, aside from the excuse of performing a good deed, Julien had another motive entirely.

“You’re not actually thinking of going down, are you?” Francis asked, his tone skeptical.

This was barely ten minutes later, when both of them stood atop the hill Julien had pointed out, now surrounded by a cluster of children.

“Why not?” Julien grinned. “They let me borrow the sled.”

Julien said this with unmistakable pride, as if, instead of an unstable contraption made of the finest wood, he had been entrusted with the reins of a brand-new carriage, spacious enough for six people, pulled by a pair of sturdy horses.

And it was true—the children's generosity was limited to just one ride, but it was there, and in a way, it was almost admirable.

“But it’s too small,” Francis continued, trying in vain to be the voice of reason. “An adult can’t fit in there.”

Ignoring him completely, Julien not only fit into the sled but also left just enough space for another person to sit right behind him. Of course, there was no humanly possible way to avoid looking cramped or to keep his legs from bending into an awkward position just to use the footrests, but he didn’t seem to mind.

“Push me?”

“What?”

“I’d ask one of the kids, but I thought you’d enjoy it more. After all, who hasn’t dreamed of shoving a rival journalist down a slope?”

“I would never do that. That would be incredibly rude,” Francis protested. Was Julien trying to pin grievances on him again, based on how he imagined him to be? “What kind of person would wish for that?”

“No one at all, of course,” Julien replied, suddenly nervous. “You’re right—it would be terribly improper. A true artist would never stoop to such a thing.”

“You’ve thought about it, haven’t you?”

“I—I object! There aren’t any slopes in Lyon steep enough or free of prying eyes to carry out such a nefarious plan against… someone perhaps not entirely innocent. So no, I’ve never wished for that.” Then, in a near-whisper, he added, “I only prayed you’d step into a puddle and sink in up to your knee.”

“Incredible.”

It wasn’t as if Francis didn’t know Julien had a temper—he had to, if he’d gotten riled up enough to trade barbed words with him in the press for all these years. But in moments like this, Francis couldn’t help but think there was a stark contrast between the Julien everyone saw—the ever-charming, affable figure—and the way he truly was when someone managed to get under his skin.

“And to think, the worst I ever wished for you was that you’d be late to the office, or that you’d spill ink all over a stack of blank papers.”

“Really?”

Of course not. Julien had been rather ruthless in his retaliations, but Francis wasn’t exactly innocent either. He had certainly entertained the idea of Julien wasting half his morning’s work or ruining his trousers with that hypothetical spilled ink.

But honestly, seeing Julien’s relieved smile at the thought that Francis had never harbored any real ill will toward him made him bite his tongue and opt for a lighter version of the truth.

What was the point in admitting it now? It wasn’t as if Francis still wished him harm. That was all in the past.

“Is he going or not?” one of the children asked, met with a chorus of impatient agreement. Apparently, Francis wasn’t the only one growing tired of waiting. “If he won’t do it, I’ll push him.”

“No need, I’ll do it myself.”

Francis said this with a conviction he did not feel. Something that became painfully obvious when, as he stepped forward to carry out the task, he hesitated once again.

Should he push Julien by the back or grab the sled from behind and shove it forward? Honestly, neither option seemed appropriate. Then again, it wasn’t as if he had ever taken a course on how to send a rival journalist down a hill without making it look like an act of spite.

And that was another thing—no matter how rough he might seem, Francis had never enjoyed games that required applying force on another person. So it was hardly surprising that he lacked experience in most of the pastimes children found entertaining.

“Come on, hop in,” Julien offered, noticing his hesitation.

“What?”

“If you don’t, I suspect they’ll take matters into their own hands. And I don’t think they’ll be too concerned about whether you’re actually in a sled or not.”

Francis looked at the children, and sure enough, he could now detect those subtle signs of impending mutiny—gestures that hadn’t been there five seconds ago, before Julien pointed out just how disastrous things could get.

Was it a bluff? Possibly. The kids were impatient, not cruel. And yet, something told Francis it was better not to test them.

“I should have stayed on level ground,” he muttered, already taking a seat behind Julien in the sled, wondering why in the world such an obvious solution hadn’t occurred to him sooner.

“Nonsense. This should be the dream of your life—second only to launching me down the hill alone, of course.”

“I have no martyr complex, thanks.”

But despite that, Francis was already settling in, still uncertain about where to place his legs or what to hold onto once that contraption on skis started moving.

Perhaps he would have spent another few moments debating whether or not to grab onto Julien’s waist, had he been given the chance. But before he could make a decision, a couple of the kids, unwilling to wait any longer, gave the sled a powerful shove from behind.

At first, it merely rocked forward. Then, just seconds later, it shot down the hill at a breakneck speed.

Francis was convinced he was going to die.

He squeezed his eyes shut and clung tightly to Julien, who seemed to be having the time of his life—like a child who had just been given the toy they had always wanted—maneuvering reins that, as far as Francis could tell, did absolutely nothing to slow their descent, no matter how much he tugged on them.

With his eyes closed—because if he was about to crash, he preferred not to see it coming—Francis could still hear the little mob of children chasing after them, shouting indistinct things amid the rush of adrenaline and the absolute certainty that this was going to end badly.

The ride couldn’t have lasted more than ten or fifteen seconds, and yet to Francis, it felt much longer. It was almost anticlimactic when, upon reaching a flat area, the sled came to a stop on its own—without colliding with anything.

“See? I had everything under control,” Julien declared, not as a question, but as a statement of undeniable fact.

And no, Francis saw nothing at all. Because the moment his feet touched solid ground again, he collapsed.