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PROLOGUE.





Some stories start with an event, something important, cluing you into the intrigue and drama about to start. When there is a murder in the first few pages, you know there’s going to be an investigation in the book. When someone meets a handsome stranger, you get the feeling he’ll have an important role to play. When they talk about the recipe for almond cookies, the reader prepares himself for a story on food. It’s common sense to create an opinion based on the tension in the first few pages.

If the particular story you’re involved in has no action in the beginning it must start with the calm before the storm. The young girl will be sitting alone in a window seat pining away for true love. You, as the reader, just know that her knight in shining armour is just round the corner, no matter how much she sighs and complains. The future murder victim will be doing something ordinary, such as brushing his teeth and you just know that he won’t make it past page ten. There is a feeling of expectations in that part of the book; a premonition of what’s to happen. People know that something is coming.

You don’t really ever hear stories where nothing happens or no one appears because, unless that author is, in fact, God, no one will read it. No one cares about the ten years before the great EVENT. The time where the phantom of the Opera just sits under the opera and practices his scales and knot tying abilities. WE don’t really care about the time before the excitement, we just want the thrill of the reveal. The great gasping moment where we discover who’s done what and with whom. If we wanted to be bored we’d look to our own lives. The whole reason people read books is to escape to a place better than where they are, in theory. It’s all about exotic locations and desperate plotlines.

I , personally, have always hated this pattern in literature. I wanted to know if there is a hero or heroine or very cuddly bear out there, who has nothing happen to them in their story.

Absolutely nothing.

No hunting for honey or conquering kingdoms or arranged marriages or needles in haystacks. My life was boring, and nothing amazing went on when I walked down dark paths or stared at attractive men from across the room.

My life was dull. It was very dull. I didn’t even find any honey. I wondered if you could make a good story about absolutely nothing, like Seinfeld. I figured it would be liberating, to have a story that was actually as boring as real life can be. There had to be a sort of freeing feeling to write a story that was real and not exciting in the least.

Then, I looked at my own story, which I had thought relatively dull and realized that I had an event too, which made me feel a bit conformist. It seemed that despite my hopes, you could not have a life without at least one moment.

To be fair, some people have higher expectations out of their life. To some people, me winning the primary school spelling bee would be considered life changing.

Events, in my humble opinion, consist of people appearing, like Humphrey Bogart or things changing, like your address or the season, or, of journeys, to places like Casablanca or Middle Earth. I didn’t think certain things counted, like the trip you take at two in the morning when you just have to have that Advil, though I suppose you could get kidnapped on the way home. They had to be stimulating things, or breathtaking experiences! My life didn’t have any of that sort of excitement.

I do have a story, though, or at least I think I do. As I look back, I wonder how the hell I couldn’t have realized what I had gotten myself into. Now, it seems like an extremely scary and exciting thing. Then, it was just another thing that I knew would end up getting me into trouble.

My story started by leaving the place I had lived all my life, though it didn’t seem that important to me at the time. It was only across the Channel. I mean, people swim the English Channel all the time. One could conceivably swim over, set out for an hour or two, and then swim back home. There was nothing amazing about it. I didn’t feel special or remarkable, like I’d just started on some big important mission in life.

That’s another thing I’d always wondered, since we’re on the subject of life changing experiences: how did people feel?

Did they realize the significance of the situation?

It always seems they should have some sort of sixth sense, or possibly a little sign pointing to this life defining moment. I figured I would have known if such an important thing were happening to me. Maybe a big sign would come down and sparkle as it read “This is the Moment!”.

Of course, incomprehensive as I am, there was no sixth sense, and if there was a sign I didn’t see it. In this moment of epic proportions, I couldn’t wait for the time to go by. My impatient nature kept me nervous and worried as I looked around.

There were people next to me, speaking extremely loudly in Russian and my hair kept falling out of the bun I had put it in. I was sure I looked out of place, with the look of general shock on my face. At the time, it was just another plane ride, another attempt.

So, I didn’t think about the ramifications. There was plenty of time for me to do so, as I waited for the plane to land but, it seemed I hadn’t cared much. There hadn’t been a single worry that I could remember from that flight and the subsequent waiting. It was probably a good thing I hadn’t been stressing out. God knows what a headache that would have been.











































1. Hide and Seek





Just be calm, the rational side of me said, as the taxi swerved through the late afternoon traffic.

Calm.

Calm would be difficult for a number of reasons. First of all, I was in Paris, the city I had been dreaming of seeing since I was a little girl. It seemed like a place where people would actually break into song on the streets. It was one of those magical places, I could just feel it, as I watched the Eiffel Tower in the distance. Chopin had lived here, with George Sand and Lizst and all those other brilliant people. There was something special about it, as the sun streaked red and orange over the buildings.

The next reason was that I had just run away from my legal guardian. I giggled at the thought, slightly alarming the cab driver. I had literally, run away from the person I was supposed to belong with. It was beyond sick, this euphoric feeling. Duncan was probably comically scratching his head. I giggled again, then frowned at myself.

That led me to the third reason I should be calm. I had just run away from one of the most powerful men in Europe. He wouldn’t be happy. He would probably find me within a week and drag me back home, kicking and screaming. I had mental pictures of extremely important men in suits pulling me as I protested. That would be fun, I thought sarcastically.

I shouldn’t have done it really, but I was old enough to be treated rationally, as an adult. He treated me like a piece on a chessboard, a boring piece too, like a pawn. I didn’t get to be one of those cool bishops or knights. So, finally, my nerves had snapped and I had simply run away. Maybe next time, he would believe me when I said something.

This wasn’t a spur of the moment thing in any way shape or form. The details such as where and how were rather spur of the moment, yes but in fact, I had planned this from infancy, practically. I had planned different methods of escape, like air balloons, planes, or really big birds, or sea turtles. It was something I liked to do when I couldn’t sleep or when Duncan forced and extremely unpleasant thing upon me. It calmed me down a lot and made me smirk at him, which annoyed him and made me happy.

Thinking that I had actually accomplished my goal was making me jittery and excited all over again. I had the urge to jump about and crow and send Duncan pictures of me gloating over my triumph. I had done this all by myself. Single-handedly outwitted the man of the age, the great Duke of Falsonshead.

Then, another reason to be calm came over me. I was renting a flat from a young woman, above a café, which she owned. It probably wouldn’t be very permanent, due to the aforementioned guardian but I still didn’t want to bother her. My uncle had the oddest tendency to destroy anything that got in his way and if she had harboured his legal charge, then she would be in trouble. I would have to be very explicitly clear with her, which would undoubtedly make her rescind her offer of rent. I winced slightly at the thought, biting my lip. Still, I couldn’t lead her on, without her knowing what she was getting into.

The lorry stopped. I gulped and paid the man, who seemed to know what I was up to. He pulled my two extremely large bags out of the trunk. Looking at their impressive bulk and then to the stairs leading up to what would be my flat, if I would be allowed to stay, instantly exhausted me. I didn’t imagine they had a lift.

It was on the corner, across from a park and the street was made of old cobblestone. Lights were brightly shining through the windows and it looked very comfortable inside. It was a little bit boho and a little bit prim around the edges. There was that nice old crumbly at ease feeling. The pictures I had so hastily looked over on my laptop had more than lived up to expectations. It was a whimsical little place, with what appeared to be a cult like following. Not the fashionable people so much as the people who waited for their laundry every week or the one’s who passed by here every day. There was a funny little happiness about it.

From the website, the café boasted good food, despite its out of the way location and odd locals. The owner was a mere little slip of a thing from the pictures. It seemed odd to me that she should be in control of the whole operation when the waiters she commanded seemed only a few years younger than her.

I looked over the street and watched the taxi whiz away taking my last tie to sanity with it. Something in me was suddenly getting cold feet as I stood with my two enormous bags and laptop, backpack, and address in hand. Now that rationality had caught up to foolishness, it was balking.

Someone noticed my appearance and rushed out. It was a small, I wanted to call her a girl, but she was a woman, with a black apron tied around her thin waist. She had a mass of curly blonde hair. Not corkscrew curls, but really curly curly hair. It wasn’t frizzy, though and it fit her well, making me jealous already. Her eyes were huge and a hazel green colour. A few freckles fell on her nose and face. She only came up to my forehead and I was only around five feet four inches.

“Are you Catherine Gray?”, her voice was high and her French was easy and lilting. She clasped her hands together and I almost thought she was making a joke but she seemed honestly excited to see me. It appeared this was the owner, Marie.

“Uh, yes. Yes, I am”, my English took her by surprise, but only for a moment.

“Oh how lovely!”. She smiled brightly at me switching to my language. “You look so nice! We are going to get along wonderfully.” Normally, this statement would make me gag but I actually believed her for a second. I stopped her as she started to go off on a tangent talking about food and rent and…….the alley cats.

“Wait.” I took a deep breath. “First there’s something you need to know about me”. I should just tell her, so she doesn’t try to sue me later. Back at boarding school, one little girl had tried that when I persuaded her to run away with me. My uncle hadn’t been very amused.

“Oh, dear. Please don’t tell me you hire by the hour?”. She looked glum suddenly. I started to speak then realized what she said and gulped.

“NO! No, of course not. I’ve run away from my guardian and I expect he may want to find me at some point. He’s not likely to take kindly to you renting to me, so I just wanted you to know, in case anything should happen.” I waited for the refusal and the threat to call the police. It didn’t come.

Instead she smiled again, and grabbed my arm, “Oh. That’s fine. I don’t mind. Now come on, let me show you your new home!”. She gestured grandly toward the stairs. I just looked at her. Was she deaf? Had anything I had just said sunk in?

“You did hear me right?”.

She nodded, “You’ve run away from your guardian and he’s a little bit testy. We’ll deal with that when we come to it.” She rushed to grab one of my bags.

I considered my options as we struggled up the stairs. I could try to make the complete meaning of my words to sink in or I could ignore the fact this girl appeared to be completely bonkers and just go with it. If I managed to get the information across, she would probably send me home. If I didn’t she wouldn’t do a thing.

It looked like I’d just had my first stroke of luck.

“My name is Marie Vernond”, the girl said when she had opened the flat for me after we’d climbed the stairs.

“Oh, nice to meet you.” My voice was strangled, still surprised she hadn’t complained at my background. I would have.

“In the morning, feel free to come down and have breakfast. Just walk around like you own the place. You have a kitchen but it’s so much more convenient if you just come downstairs.” I nodded mutely. “I may be busy though, so you’ll have to care for yourself.” I nodded again. At this point, the sheer glow of her had sent me into shock.

“That’s fine.”

“Good! Tomorrow you’ll meet my friend Christien. He has breakfast here too and of course, Abbe, the cook.” She noticed a sweater hanging out of my carry on.

“OH! Look at that! It’s beautiful!”. She looked at it like it was some sort of precious thing.

How had I found someone so………nice? She was close to me in age, she liked me immediately which was unheard of, and she had offered to feed me. I would pay her of course but still as land lords went, Miss Vernond was exceptional. It felt like walking into a fairy tale. All that was missing were the mice.

“You can borrow it if you want to, I don’t wear it much”. She looked at me as if I had just offered her the moon. Her eyes were as big as saucers.

“Really?”.

I chuckled, despite myself, “Sure.” Suddenly there was a rap on the floor beneath us.

“Oh,” she said, glancing down as if she would see something, “I forgot about Abbe.”

Clearly torn, I helped her out, “It’s okay, you can go.”

“I’m being a terrible hostess.” Hostess?

“Aren’t you supposed to be my landlord?”, I asked.

She smiled at me, and waved as she walked out the door, muttering something in French about her friend “Christien” and “Idiot”.

I was tired, my whole body aching and part of my insides too. It had been nerve-racking spending the whole day waiting for someone to find me, hoping that he wouldn’t. My hair hurt in its bun and I pulled it out, wincing slightly as I ran a hand through it. There was a bed in the back of my flat that looked extremely attractive, with or without sheets.

Marie was an interesting creature, I thought as I laid down, not bothering to take off my clothes. She seemed genuinely interested in me, and she’d only known me for about two minutes. Christien, I wondered if that was a girl or a boy. It seemed an odd name, not really fitting a girl and a bit hard to pull off for a boy. My eyes drifted closed and it didn’t matter that I was in the greatest city ever or that I had momentarily escaped Duncan. I was in a bed and I was tired and no one would try to wake me up at ungodly hours. Yippee.

My restful repose didn’t last long however, as I started up in the middle of the night. Part of me refused to comprehend what was before me. I was obviously still dreaming. There were no stone walls in front of me. No loose brick eight stones to the left of the door, where I hid my cash and any other interesting little tidbits. There was no rain soaked window with the old fashioned glass panes, which were almost opaque. It was an uncommonly large window, for a castle whose windows were mostly used for archers, and looked out over the wide wide sea of grass and the occasional bush. The cold large bed was absent as well.

I wasn’t in Falsonshead’s house. Where was I? It wasn’t London either, since there wasn’t a red thing in sight. Duncan’s London townhouse was infamous for the colour red and the oriental flair one of his more eccentric ancestors had given it. The rooms were rather narrow and often didn’t have any windows whatsoever. You could hear the hum of machinery from the kitchen from my room and the place where I was was deadly silent.

I remember being sent to London and then coming up with the idea. That was it, I thought. I had had the idea. The idea to leave and go to Paris. Usually my ideas didn’t work. Usually, there was much too much involved in my plans to make them rationally feasible.

Then why was I sitting on a mattress in a plain blue room, with a balcony to the left of me? I didn’t really recognize this room. There was a tv across from me and end tables on either side. There was a wardrobe of white in the corner, with a tilting door. The door was on the far right corner and it was open. I climbed off the bed and noticed a small little area with a desk and empty shelves, leading to another bigger room with more windows.

I jumped up and ran to the window. There was a rather dark street, with a park and it really looked like that picture of ……………Paris. I was in Paris. This wasn’t a dream. My nefarious plan had actually worked. Remarkable, I thought as I stumbled back into bed. I was in Paris. I should really get a medal for pulling that off.

There was a dim feeling of achievement, as I drifted back to sleep. The feeling of accomplishment one would feel when they finally complete that Rubix cube they got when they were five or when you finish reading the book you used to hate. It was an odd feeling, not quite elation but more…..relief.