The Mask of New Paris ✓

XX. The Drysdale Exile

The next morning, we find ourselves waiting for the skiff that would return the three of us to the Distribution Dock. Joane has offered me to borrow some of her clothing whilst Farah is donned in a Cavanagh servant attire. I tug at the loose shirt that is tucked into a narrow skirt as the skiff approaches the jetty.

Joane's sadness of the previous day has changed into a decisiveness that could break dams. We haven't heard anything of Cecily Boudrot ever since our departure from the library. 

The old man that has managed to arrange the meeting with Joane and Cecily now offers the three of us guidance as we ascend the small bayou boat.

Without looking back, Joane keeps her gaze fixed on the small stream in front of us as the swamp around us awakes. A pelican peers at us in curiosity before his attention gets drawn by a passing fish.

Joane is looking fierce as ever as she descends the skiff and sets foot on the Distribution Dock. Surrounded by all the working men in dark and practical clothing, she seems to illuminate every step she takes. Her pale pink presence doesn't go by unnoticed and a few men even dare to cock her a confused grin.

Without doubt have they heard of the news that Ernest Boudrot had passed away and are wondering how it could be that his only child is now tredding the Dock as if life just goes on.

Farah and I follow silently, aware of the curious stares, and meet up with Joane at the ticket booth. Without even glancing back at the money she throws on the counter, her soft fingers curl around the three simple tickets and she darts away without once looking around.

It is clear that Joane is a leader and it comforts me somewhat that the weight of my shoulders is now shared with two strong women. However, it doesn't ease the fact that I alone am responsible for the ending of this ridiculous search.

Even on the turbulent tram ride back to New Paris, Joane remains stoic. She is almost regally silent. So much, most of the male passengers don't even dare to look in our direction.

"Joane, are you alright?" I care to ask, afraid of the wellbeing of my newest ally. It is getting uncomfortable to be the subject of her cold stare although I doubt she actually sees something with those grim blue eyes.

"Couldn't be better." She manages to let out from between gritted teeth. I frown upon her revelation but don't know what to reply. After all, she has just lost her father and is already on track to find whoever was responsible for it. I am not the one to judge her feelings and musings.

We ride in silence and pass through the thick brick wall that indicates we are approaching the city. Instead of waiting until we reach the Inner City, Joane surprises both Farah and I by standing up as we near that one abandoned tram stop in Quarell Quarter. Not even considering our lack of knowledge, she moves away from our seats as the metal monstrosity is still decreasing speed before it halts completely.

I stumble behind her. Farah follows dutifully behind me.

Once outside, it appears as if we are the only passengers leaving the tram at Quarell Quarter. When I look around, it's not hard to fathom why. The buildings in front of us are on the verge of breaking down, though they aren't as high levelled as the ones in New Paris. They're more shacks than actual houses. Their corrugated iron roofs are dimly reflecting the morning sun. The streets are deserted.

As we continue our way in silence, the inhabitants of Quarell Quarter keep a close eye on us as they peak from behind ramshackled shutters. Some houses aren't even provided with those, so we can easily watch inside the empty rooms with nothing more but dirty cloths hanging on nails and nearly rotten rails. Unease creeps over me.