𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐄 | ꜱᴘᴏᴛ ᴄᴏɴʟᴏɴ

𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄

FRENCHIE NEEDED TO GET OUT OF MANHATTAN.

Above her bed on the stands, the ceiling was decorated with the pale light of a candle glowing down on her. The tiles sat across the ceiling, changing from gold to white.

The squeaking rumbled through the room, and gold tiles flapped like wings of a bird. Except a small desk on the wall, the room had no regular furniture--no chairs, tables, or dressers.

As far as Frenchie could tell, it didn't even have a bathroom. The walls were carved with the names of the past residents and the time they stayed. Frenchie's was longer, as she had been staying with Medda for a little over a year now.

At the end of the room, a five foot tall, full-color picture of Medda in classic swedish clothing. She held a gold-tipped fountain pen, and had wings of polished gold, which glittered so brightly that Frenchie claimed that if they were candles, Medda would have produced enough light to shower Manhattan.

Frenchie studied the picture, looking for anything she had in common with the swedish meadowlark. Blonde hair? Nope. Clean clothes? No. Perfectly curled hair? Definitely not. In her robes and sandals, Medda looked like a really beautiful, really cool bird.

Yeah, Medda's music writer. A big honor. Sure, if she didn't have to work two other jobs just to keep herself and Jack on their feet. Not to mention the other tons of newsies she was constantly raising on her own.

Frenchie got up and rubbed her neck. Her whole body was stiff from bad sleep. She wasn't as calm and collected as she had let on. Even the thought of going on a trip on a cold day like this made her gag.

Next to the wall, Frenchie's clothes were laid out for her: boots, hat, and a blue dress that Medda had given her when she first started writing. The first thing she grabbed was the key necklace that her mother had given her. She still wasn't sure what it was to, but she kept it on at all times in case it came in useful.

Frenchie thought about her dream, hoping no more memories would come back to her about the match factory, or losing her mother when she needed her the most. She knew she had been able to help her before. The circumstance was real. But her head ached when she tried to remember the second part.

She stared at the painting of Medda. "You're welcome to help."

The picture said nothing.

"Thanks, Medda," Frenchie muttered.

She changed clothes and checked her reflection in a glass. Her face looked watery and strange in the item, like she was dissolving in a pool of blue. Definitely she didn't look as good as Medda had last night after she'd done her show.

She slipped on her new boots, ready to get out of the loud, mostly empty, small vaudeville show dressing room. She made her way out of the hall and met Snotface in the middle of the street.

"French!" he called out. "I'm going to meet with Jack before we leave. Care to come?"

Frenchie nodded and followed Snotface into the newsboys losing house. Jack was already awake, poking around the room, looking at old paintings he had hung up on the walls back from when she lived there. Before she moved out and lived with Medda.

"That's a new one," Frenchie said.

Jack turned.

Snotface and Frenchie were peering over his shoulder. Frenchie's expression was sad, like the picture brought back hard memories. "You're gettin' a lot better, Jack."

"It's alright," Jack said. "Not like I couldn't do better."

Switchblade was dressed for travel, with a winter coat over his dirty clothes, a knife at his belt, and a backpack across his shoulder.