Zépherine

France, in the golden autumn of the 18th century.

Zépherine de Valençay is twenty years old, stubborn as a November wind and completely uninterested in improving herself. After she spills wine over a baron's jabot at the last ball in Paris - accidentally, she emphasizes, although no one believes her - she is banished to the countryside: to her great-aunt Aurore, to the idyllic Château Beausoleil in Normandy.

What she finds there: copper-colored elm avenues, rose hip jam according to an old recipe, and Armand de Renouard - the son of the neighboring marquis. Arrogant, secretive, and in possession of the best library in the province.

What she doesn't find: peace. At least not immediately.

Because Armand is a mystery that she can't leave alone. And the morning walks through the park are getting longer. And the Marquis' Rococo Ball is approaching - with masks until midnight, iridescent silk in sky blue and the dangerous freedom of being more honest behind a mask than without.

A novel about two people who both know exactly what they think - and take a long time to say what they feel. About autumn light and old books, about jam and cherry trees, about the silence that arises when you stop having to jump up all the time.

Completely. Not perfect. Completely.