More recently, it gained international recognition for its innovative architecture, earning the elder Caron a posthumous Swiss Art Award in 1942. Combining clean lines with large panoramic windows, flat roofs, and unadorned geometrical shapes, one judge described the building as “groundbreaking”—custom designed to fulfill its function as a hospital, while also creating a seamless transition between the interior and exterior landscapes.

Lucas Caron said: “It was time we breathed new life into this building. We were confident that with the right vision, we could create a sensitively restored hotel that would pay homage to its rich past.”

Under the guidance of Swiss architectural firm Lemaitre SA, a team has been assembled to renovate the building and also add a state-of-the-art spa and event center.

Subtly refurbished, Le Sommet will make innovative use of natural, local materials such as wood, slate, and stone. The hotel’s elegant, modern interiors will not only echo the powerful topography outside, but will draw on the building’s past to create a new narrative.

Philippe Volkem, CEO of Valais Tourisme, said, “This will doubtless be the jewel in the crown of what is already one of the finest winter resorts in the world.”

For press inquiries, please contact Leman PR, Lausanne.

For general inquiries / bookings, please visit www.lesommetcransmontana.ch.

1

January 2020

Day One

The funicular from the valley town of Sierre to CransMontana scores a near-perfect vertical line up the mountainside.

Slicing through snow-covered vineyards and the small towns of Venthone, Chermignon, Mollens, Randogne, and Bluche, the route, almost three miles long, takes passengers up the mountain in just twelve minutes.

In off-peak season, the funicular is usually half empty. Most people drive up the mountain or take the bus. But today, with the roads almost stationary thanks to heavy traffic, it’s full.

Elin Warner stands on the left in the packed carriage, absorbing it all: the fat flakes of snow collecting on the windows, the slush-covered floor piled high with bags, the lanky teenagers shoving through the doors.

Her shoulders tense. She’s forgotten how kids that age can be: selfish, unaware of anyone but themselves.

A sodden sleeve brushes her cheek. She smells damp, cigarettes, fried food, the musky-citrus tang of cheap aftershave. Then comes a throaty cough. Laughter.

A group of men are jostling through the doorway, talking loudly, bulging North Face sports bags on their backs. They are squeezing the family next to her farther into the carriage. Into her. An arm rubs hers, beer breath hot against her neck.

Panic pushes through her. Her heart is racing.

Will it ever stop?

It’s been a year since the Hayler case and she’s still thinking about it, dreaming about it. Waking up in the night, sheets damp with sweat, the dream vivid in her head: the hand around her throat, damp walls contracting, closing in on her.

Then salt water; frothing, sloshing over her mouth, her nose . . .

Control it, she tells herself, forcing herself to read the graffiti on the wall of the funicular.

Don’t let it control you.

Her eyes dance over the scrawled letters weaving up the metal:

Michel 2010

BISOUS XXX

Ines & RIC 2016

Following the words up to the window, she startles. Her reflection . . . it pains her to look at it. She’s thin. Too thin.

It’s as if someone’s hollowed her out, carved the very core of her away. Her cheekbones are knife sharp, her slanted blue-gray eyes wider, more pronounced. Even the choppy mess of pale blond hair, the blur of the scar on her upper lip, doesn’t soften her appearance.

She’s been training nonstop since her mother’s death. Ten-K runs. Pilates. Weights. Cycling on the coast road between Torquay and Exeter in the blistering wind and rain.

It’s too much, but she doesn’t know how to stop, even if she should. It’s all she’s got; the only tactic to chase away what’s inside her head.

Elin turns away. Sweat pricks the back of her neck. Looking at Will, she tries to concentrate on his face, the familiar shadow of stubble grazing his chin, the untamable dark blond tufts of his hair. “Will, I’m burning up.”

His features contract. She can see the blueprint of future wrinkles in his anxious face; a starburst of lines around his eyes, light creases running across his forehead.

“You okay?”

Elin shakes her head, tears stinging her eyes. “I don’t feel right.”

Will lowers his voice. “About this, or . . .”

She knows what he’s trying to say: Isaac. It’s both; him, the panic, they’re intertwined, connected.

“I don’t know.” Her throat feels tight. “I keep going over it, you know, the invitation, out of the blue. Maybe coming was the wrong decision. I should have thought about it more, or at least spoken to him properly before we let him book.”

“It’s not too late. We can always go back. Say I had problems with work.” Smiling, Will nudges his glasses up his nose with his forefinger. “This might count as the shortest-ever holiday on record, but who cares.”

Elin forces herself to return his smile, a quiet sting of devastation at the contrast between then and now. How easily he’s accepted this: the new normal.