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“Mmm. I see,” replies her companion.
“And organized crime,” she says in a hushed voice just as they pass me.
My heart beats faster.
Organized crime.
“Like, the mafia?”
“Yes, but that’s ancient history. They’re gone now.”
“They’re never really gone…”
Huh. How curious.
I give them a quick look, but they’re already nearly out of my sight. I’ve heard only cursory Corsican history. I’ve heard the mountainous island’s famous for many things. Various streets in the oldest parts of town are connected by old alleyways, hidden staircases, and cold, dark, shadowed passageways as if the city itself is a labyrinth.
The shop next to me is closing its doors, and another to the right shuts off its lights. Up ahead, the only two places left with bright lights, still beckoning tourists and locals to enter, are the tavern and the bookstore. After today’s adventure, I wouldn’t set foot in a bar. The last thing I need is anyone’s attention, much less anyone who’s been hitting the drink. No. Tonight, I need anonymity.
The bookstore it is, then, where introverts gravitate, happy to be in their own separate worlds. I may not indulge in food tonight but bringing home a book might be the next best thing.
One of the things I love best about the island of Corsica is that it’s deeply rooted in ancient tradition. The streets feel as if they’re as old as the mountains themselves. Even the small stores bear the stamp of time with their age-worn brick walls and small, quaint interiors. This bookstore feels as if Belle herself could’ve frequented it before she was kidnapped by the Beast.
I push open the door. The bell jangles, announcing my entrance, and I quickly slip down a side aisle to avoid notice. There are hardly any other patrons here. Just how I like it.
A couple talks to each other in hushed voices in the far-right corner of the room. A tall woman in a short yellow summer dress stands behind them, and I can see the shadow of someone sitting at one of the small round tables in the coffee shop in the opposite corner of the bookstore. The comforting smells of coffee and baked goods make my stomach rumble. Mmm. Maybe I’m finally starting to feel better, since I could really go for one of those delicious croissants right about now.
But first, a book.
I take my time perusing the shelves, fingering the books on the end caps displaying staff recommendations, and end up in the romance section of the store. A large, hardcover edition of contes de fées—fairy tales—catches my eye.
I reach out to stroke the beautiful picture on the front—a thin wisp of a woman in a flowing gown beside a huge, hairy beast. Even if I didn’t know French, I’d know this was a book of fairy tales, featuring my favorite heroine of all time and her intimidating hero beast.
Taking the book off the shelf, I finger the golden edges of the pages. I draw my finger along the embossed lettering on the spine, then open the book.
I nearly squeal. Each story begins with stunning, full-color illustrations. Yes, this is the book I need tonight. I glance at the price and wince. I make good money at La Maison, but this is more than I usually spend on myself…
I don’t want to go home alone. I need something to occupy me tonight.
I pay for the book, still debating with myself about the coffee shop. I don’t like spending money frivolously. As if reading my mind, the cashier smiles at me and hands me a white slip of paper along with my receipt. “Our treat, mademoiselle.”
I glance at the slip of paper, a small advertisement declaring that all hot drinks and pastries are half off tonight. Huh. I can’t remember them ever doing that before.
“Oh, lovely, thank you.” That makes the decision much easier. I’m buying myself a cup of hot tea and a croissant. After all, he gave me the night off with pay. Who wouldn’t want to be paid for reading while eating a pastry?
I turn to the coffee shop and stop, midstride.
“Everything alright, miss?”
“Yes, yes, thank you,” I say in an almost whisper.
No.
This… can’t be. Am I so focused on Monsieur that I’ve conjured him in my mind?
Maybe it’s just someone who looks like him. Maybe… this has just been a weird day.
I have to see for myself.
When I step toward the coffee shop, I can see more clearly, the overhead lighting now directly over me. I stand stock-still while my gaze focuses on the patron in the corner. His back is to me… and he’s wearing an entirely different outfit than he was earlier today…
Why on earth would Monsieur Fabien Gerard be here? Of all places? I’m sure a wealthy, well-known man like him would have no use for a small coffee shop like this.
