To Outwit an Angel

4. Signora

Sharlene's POV:

Maybe I should've paid better attention at the Freewill Baptist Church, which my parents forced me into every Sunday morning. If I had, I might understand why the world was spinning around me, like I stood in the middle of a washing machine. The dirt bike hadn't thrown me half as far or hard as it hurled Lori. The image of her limp body catapulting through the night air, only to skid across the mud, churned nausea in my gut. That didn't help stabilize this endless spiral through lurid color and violent sound.

Finally, I stilled on my own feet. Cool air brushed across my damp forehead, and a warm, almost candlelike light beckoned my eyelids to open. Still, I scrunched my eyes tightly and crossed my arms over my chest as protection from the winds of change.

But nothing changed. The universe itself didn't dare acknowledge the nightmarish slide into hell it just flung me through. What the hell had happened? Why wasn't I in pain? Was I standing? Eventually, curiosity got the better of me. My eyes fluttered open, and I whirled around to scan my surroundings.

Somehow, a massive hall surrounded me. Gilded pillars spiraled like licorice up to the ceiling, while the bases appeared to be solid marble. A row of intricate chandeliers followed either wall and twinkled like Christmas lights. This has to be a palace!

This thought let a giddy thrill override my timid curiosity.

Simpering at my invisible inferiors, I promenaded down the hall. Only a tyrannical ruler could afford such splendor. I was sure of it. Naturally, that could only lead to one question: where on God's green earth was I? Versailles, circa 1780? The Winter Palace, circa 1910? Would Tsar Nicholas II himself round the next corner? Maybe Marie Antionette? Maybe the two arm in arm? Who knows! I could be in the afterlife for ill-fated royalty, but then why would I be here?

There was that question again. The answer could only be unearthed through discovery. I had to walk faster than my regal march allowed.

My trot would've progressed to an unladylike sprint almost immediately, had it not been for the structured gown I was wearing. It was certainly Victorian, but of what decade, I had no idea. The long-trained gown neared the line of terribly ugly without going too far. On my old body, it would've looked hideous, like an ornate rug sewn into a dress, but it suited the flamboyant silhouette of this woman. Still, I saved my judgment for when I got my hands on a mirror.

After a dizzying mess of halls and rooms, I found myself in a ballroom, which brimmed with inebriated rich people. I wove through the crowd in search of something, but I had no idea what. A man, I think? Hell, when was I not?

"La Carlotta!"

The name rang a bell, scratched a weird itch in my brain as if I enjoyed the words being said, but I didn't pay it any attention. Between the chatter and yells, it melded into the teeming crowd.

A man jumped out directly before me.

"Signora Giudicelli, you've returned?"

Great, these people spoke French, it seemed. So, for all my language skills counted, I might've as well encountered Marie Antoinette. I only knew a single word and doubted "oui, oui" passed me off as French for more than a second.

I said it anyway.

"Oui."

"Our first day as manager and the prima donna runs off! what are the odds, Andre?"

"Highly unlikely."

Oddly enough, I understood their words. They were French in every sense, so I must speak French then!