Lyon. Elizabeth Amber
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Unfortunately for her, the Pont Neuf was an anomaly in that it had been constructed without buildings lining its sides. It was the only bridge in all of Paris where there was nothing to obscure the river from view except a collection of vendors that set up temporary shop here and there selling everything from scarves to tobacco.
A fleuriste pushing a colorful flower cart, a chef de pâtisserie, and a groomer des chiens, who had all been neatly tucked in the half-round bastions along the bridge’s railings by day, were now fleeing with the approach of nightfall. Entertainers—jongleurs, acrobats, fire-eaters, and slight-of-hand tricksters—were swiftly replacing them, and the air was filling with evening cold and the smells of fresh roasted chestnuts.
Some sort of impromptu festival seemed to be getting underway, and it was making her journey homeward more hazardous than usual. In fact, the pont was swelling with a riot of humanity this evening, she realized. Why, she didn’t know.
A lively farandole had begun and dancers had formed a linked chain, some by means of joined hands and others by means of holding handkerchiefs stretched between them. The meandering line snaked through the crowd, increasing in length as more participants were drawn in. She pulled the hood of her crimson-colored wrap more closely around her and sidestepped, avoiding them.
“Something’s odd here tonight,” she murmured. Absently, she resettled the weighty basket to hang from her opposite arm, the knowledge of its tightly-rolled secret comforting her.
She jiggled her free hand in the pocket of her skirt finding the flakes of oatmeal and the crust of bread there with her fingertips. Both were said to ward off ill magic. Or so her foster mother had claimed. The superstitious Madame Fouche had instilled a knowledge of such charms in Juliette and now she never left home without a talisman of some sort.
Suddenly, the chestnut cart cut between her and her goal, forcing her to veer around it and bump into a lady carrying a poodle.
“Excusez-moi, madame!” she tossed behind her not bothering to stop. She had to keep moving. She had to stay focused. If her mind wandered, there could be trouble. Tuning out the jubilance around her, she glued her eyes to the statue.
“Almost there, almost there,” she chanted. Her breath came in shallow, quick puffs, visible in the raw autumn twilight.
Someone jostled her, nudging her off course and toward the western balustrade. More shoves—harder this time—knocked her to her knees. Her basket hit the ground, spilling half of its contents. Fast as frogs’ tongues, two sets of hands shot out and rifled through the spillage, snatching items at random and leaving others to be trampled.
The familiar, pungent smell of grapemust mixed with something unearthly reached her and she gasped. A quick glance behind her told her it was exactly as she’d feared. Scant inches away were two imps, with pointed ears and grins too wide to be Human and skin that emitted an unattractive mottled glow of violet and puce.
It was them. The “bright-children.” This was the nickname she’d given these creatures as a girl, but she hadn’t seen any of them for three years. She’d begun to think—to hope—that they’d only been figments of her young imagination. So much for the talismans in her pocket. They warded off nothing.
Delighted with themselves, the hooligans giggled and tossed the objects they’d pilfered between one another, thinking it a merry game. One of their new toys was long and slender—a tube tied with a ribbon. The sheet of paper that she’d paid to have stolen had now been stolen from her!
“Arrêtez!” She lifted her skirts and lunged to snatch it back. Heads turned, but no one bothered to assist her. She hadn’t expected them to. No one ever saw these beings, except her.
Grinning, the two pixies made off with their ill-gotten gains, having no idea what they’d done. Scraping the bulk of the foodstuffs back into her basket, Juliette found her feet and gave chase. Their unnatural light flickered ahead whenever the throng shifted just right. But each time she lost them from sight, she feared it was for good.
“Wait! Let’s trade! I’ll give you something else from my basket instead!” she promised, hoping they would hear. “Pears!”
Non! They didn’t care for food. What had she once used to bribe them? Think! Think! Ah, yes! Shiny things. Pins. Polished agates.
Of course she had none of those with her now and the peak-eared creatures were getting away. “Come back!”
The cacophony of the dancers, musicians, and idlers along the bridge rose, drowning her out as the current of hundreds of revelers carried her along.
She found herself disgorged at the far end of the bridge at the Rive Droit, right back where she’d begun her crossing. Frustrated, she spun in a circle that swirled her skirts. She’d lost them—and her cherished parchment tube along with them!
At this rate, there would be no time to add the goods in her basket to tonight’s menu. The culinary delicacies she’d already prepared would have to suffice.
What to do? In her agitated state it was becoming ever more difficult to make a coherent decision. She’d let herself become over-stimulated here in the outdoors, a dangerous thing to let happen.
Frantic, she dove back into the melee, determined to search the length of the Pont Neuf. The line of dancers had grown into a mob and it careened by, nearly squashing her. The bridge almost seemed to bounce under the thunderous pounding of boisterous footsteps. Could it take such abuse? Would it fall and topple her into the river? Dizzying fear flooded her.
She tried to focus; to shut out the crowds. Someone bumped her and the basket fell from her fingers, as she was herded into one of the semicircular bastions that projected outward from the northwest side of the bridge. Bent over the balustrade and pressed there by the surge of the crowd, she almost pitched over it into the garden twenty feet below. Her slippers left the ground and her feet dangled in midair.
Flinging her head back in an effort to right herself, she suddenly found her vision filled with a river of blood that stretched ahead as far as she could see. The Seine. The sunset had turned it into a winding slash of stunning scarlet. Like some sort of immense open vein, it pumped its sanguine waters, slicing through the heart of Paris.
“Non!” she wailed. Rearing back, she tried to regain her balance, only to be shoved forward again so vigorously that the railing squeezed the breath from her lungs and bruised her ribs. Averting her gaze from the river, she peered directly downward, into the comparatively placid Parc Vert Gallant. A smattering of couples dotted its walkways and benches, embracing to form clandestine shadows under the umbrella of foliage turned a seasonable ochre and cherry. Nowhere did she see the pesky thieves who’d taken her things.
Something moved on the ground below, drawing her gaze. An apparition, fading in and out of view. It was like some sort of erotic mirage, which at first appeared only as a series of undulating curves and valleys cast in high relief.
Narrowing her eyes, she tried to bring it into focus. With shocking abruptness, it solidified into reality. She gaped then, unable to believe what she was viewing.
Directly below in the park, was a gentleman. One who was surely as handsome and nearly as brazenly naked as any statue in the royal collection she’d seen at the Louvre. He was lying face down in the grass, his backside and hair painted a brilliant red-gold by the brush of sunset.
The muscles of his shoulders were carved rock, his arms strong and straining, and his weight rested on hands braced where his shadow darkened the grass. A light-colored band haphazardly bisected his ridged torso at the waist. It was his shirt, she realized, which had been thrown back off his shoulders and had caught at his elbows. Trousers sagged low on sleek narrow hips, baring the upper swells of buttocks that were moving in a powerful, rolling rhythm.
As she watched, a woman’s delicate hands slipped under her lover’s arms and around his ribs to stroke the concave curve of his lower back and the globes of his rear. His body was massive, completely obscuring every other part of her with the exception of her long hair spread out on the grass like some dark peacock’s