Then there is the subject of Hugo’s note, stuck at my fingertips. Best then, to have out with it.
Bianca, he wrote, I am dying. Not soon; don’t fret. Within the year, most certainly, if the doctors are to be believed. The cottage is yours when I die, and all its secrets with it. Regretfully, I must leave the car to Remy. My brother will be adrift, and I know he will turn to you. Please continue to be the friend you’ve been to him since we were all children. All my best, Hugo
There is a knot in my belly I cannot soothe with liquor, company, or passion.