I can taste the madness of the Huguenots.

My family has no stake in their story but still, their cross hung in our living room.

As best I know, the Huguenot story is one of closed stone walls. Of peasants in rural France who scraped mud from their shoes, who hung braided garlic in their windows, who shoveled feed for their pigs. Who carried yellow songs, somewhere – slipped into the yawning cabbage leaves, or tied with twine around their hearts. There was a king who erased an ed…