Pigeons of Paris [on hold]

Chapter 4

A sharp, icy ring echoed through the street. Emilie woke up. She felt the cold bricks against her back and because of an archway in the wall she sat propped up uncomfortably. When she looked for the cause of the sound she saw, on the pavement in front of her, a small, metallic circle. A group of similar objects lay nearby. Had people been scaring her off by throwing things at her? She remembered the time a toddler – white-blonde hair combed into a snotty cowlick and a green bogey hanging just under his nose, threatening to drop down at any moment – had started hurling stones at her. It had been terrible.

That’s when she noticed it. Why couldn’t she feel feathers bristling on her breast? Why, instead of curved orange claws, did she have a pale smooth hand? What had happened? Emilie started to panic. Fast, raspy breaths were leaving her mouth and her eyes had grown very wide.

The frosty air was biting at her skin, slowly chilling her bones. Emilie could feel her limbs becoming numb and slowly she fell into a state of sub-consciousness.

Black.

            “Bonjour Madame.” Immediately Emilie’s instincts kicked in, her body went rigid and her eyes glazed over. It took a moment before she realised the man was still looking at her enquiringly.

            “Eh, erm... Bonjour,” Taken aback she noticed not pigeon squawks but a soft human voice escaped her mouth.

            “You are far too beautiful to be a beggar, why are you ‘ere?” Good question, why was she here?

            “Erm, I don’t know, I think I am lost,” Emilie stuttered, desperately scrambling to her feet. But, before she had fully straightened her body, she was back on the floor – a tangled heap. She attempted again but whatever she tried she could not balance on her velveteen heels.

            “’ere, let me ‘elp you.” Carefully he placed his hand on hers and helped her take a few steps. “I am Florent, by the way.” He added and Emilie nodded, still focusing on her steps.

Spotting the money on the floor Florent scooped up the coins with an: “And this should be enough money to by the young lady a cappuccino.”

Hand-in-hand they walked through mazes of streets, a women with brown hair that was pinned up in a – now rather messy – pony tail and a skirt and heels she couldn’t walk properly in and a man in plain jeans and shirt but full of charm. He flirted with her and wooed her but it seemed as though Emilie was in another world, she would just nod distractedly.

            “Well ‘ere we are,” Florent announced and he led Emilie into the café. It was warm and cosy and old, heavy music was being played. They sat down and after the waiter had come and Florent had ordered the drinks, he started chatting away again at Emilie.

            “So, what brings you to Paris?” he questioned.

            “Oh, I ‘ave lived ‘ere all my life, really. I do love Paris.” The warmth of the café had brought Emilie back to reality and she was glad she wasn’t sitting outside anymore.

            “Really, but I thought you said you were lost, do you have an 'ouse ‘ere?”

            “Well, erm, I can’t live in my 'ouse anymore. It’s well, erm complicated I suppose.”

            “I understand. But for the time being we cannot let you stay out in the cold. You know what, you can come to my house.”