GO WEST

Chapter 16: "Entre Nous"

Doug stretched out in his seat, amazed that he could actually do so. "This feels wonderfully decadent," he grinned. "I haven't ever flown first class before."

"My mother insisted," Marie-Ange replied, looking up from the window and giving Doug a bemused shrug. "She would have preferred that we avoid a commercial flight altogether, but eventually settled on this."

"How'd she expect us to get there, then?" Doug asked. "Flap our arms really fast?"

"Ohhhh, she would have found a way," Marie-Ange nodded. "It takes a great deal to get her attention, but once you do, she'll do just about anything she sets her mind to."

"Interesting," Doug said with a half-grin.

The first-class compartment was split three ways, with two aisles running between the three sections, each section only two seats wide. Doug and Marie-Ange had managed to get seats near one of the left-side windows, and Sharon had the seat directly across the aisle from theirs. Looking over at her, Doug noticed that she had her walkman playing, and was leaning back, with a contented smile on her face. Only her white-knuckle grip on each of the armrests betrayed her calm exterior -- apparently Catseye was none too fond of air travel. Doug wondered briefly if she'd end up leaving claw-marks on the seat.

Doug turned his attention back to Marie-Ange. "Did you have a good Christmas?" he asked, smiling.

"Ah, oui," she smiled back. "Your family is so wonderful. They've been so kind to me."

"They like you," Doug shrugged. And what wasn't to like, he added to himself.

"Sometimes I think I would give anything for a family such as yours," she sighed, looking wistful. "So much love, such a feeling of belonging."

Doug very nearly said something about the possibility of her being part of that family one day, but he bit back on that, telling himself to slow way down. He and Marie-Ange had been an "item" for less than a month as it was; it was probably a bit soon to be talking about that.

"I think we've got a pretty good family at the house," he said instead. "You know -- the seven of us."

"C'est vrai," she nodded. "I never had a brother or a sister. Now I feel I have many, and... it is wonderful to belong again."

Doug inwardly flinched, but then another thought caught him. "You know... I think all seven of us were only-children. I never had any brothers or sisters, neither did Dani, neither did Rahne, or Ric, I think."

"Sharon had none either," she added, leaning forward to look over at her friend. "What of Warlock?"

"No, I don't think he did. He was first-born, and I don't think his father had time for any others."

"Très bizarre," she smiled. "An amusing coincidence, n'est-ce pas?"

"Maybe that's why we get along," Doug observed. "Such as we do."

"I believe we do very well, thank you," she said in a mock-huff.

He nodded. "It'll be good to get away from the school for a little while," he went on. "This last quarter about killed me. Again."

"Well you had... what was it... thirty-four units?"

"Yeah, and those are the ones I was actually taking. I tested my way out of about seventy more."

She gave him a look of naked shock. "How?" she asked.

"Mostly math and languages," he shrugged. "Stuff I already know. As it stands, I could graduate with a B.A. in Linguistics except for this one Linguistic History course that's only offered in the spring quarter. By the end of the year, if I keep up the double-time course-loads, I should be able to complete the triple-major, just like you did."

"Triple?" she asked. "I thought it was a double. Linguistics and Humanities, n'est-ce pas?"

"I'm going to add Philosophy," he smiled. "I've absolutely fallen in love with the subject. I've had some great professors in the subject this last quarter, which was a big help. So, three majors, and a minor in Music. Maybe then I can give you a little competition."

"That is... outrageous," she informed him. "A triple-major in one academic year?"

"I've had a big head start," he shrugged, "and I'm suited for it. If I can do it, it'd be a shame not to. Besides, I'm in a hurry to get that Masters and catch up with you."

She returned his mischievous smile with one of mock annoyance. "Still competing with me?"

"Not at all," he assured her. "It's just that you've set some pretty high standards, and I want to live up to them."

"Ah, bien sûr," she nodded, looking sarcastic.

"I love you, y'know," he offered.

At this, her smile became genuine. "I love you, too."

There was a pause.

"Um... Angie..."

"Yes?"

Doug paused. "I've been wondering... how exactly should we play this?"

"I... do not believe I follow."

"Well, this whole trip. Now, you say your mother didn't seem to know anything about what had happened to you?"

"Non. I do not believe anyone at the Academy has told her."

"Right," Doug nodded. "So what if she ever does find out about it? Let's say Miss Frost finally calls her up and tells her that you just... up and vanished last October, and then your mother says that you came to visit over winter break, along with Sharon and some blonde guy."

Marie-Ange thought about this. "I would guess that if Mam'selle Frost has not told ma mère by now, she will not at all. But I do see your concern. If she hears that we were there..."

"She'll track you back to our place, and drag you and Sharon back," Doug finished, nodding. "So we'd better be careful."

"You should not give her your real name," Marie-Ange put in.

"Or my false one, for that matter," Doug agreed. "Tell you what. Since I can speak French like a native, we could tell her I'm from... oh, say, Quebec, and I'm going to the Academy with you. Let's say..." He groped for an apt-sounding name. "Pierre. Pierre Coulombe."

"Mon dieu," she smiled. "Yet another name? You will have an identity crisis if this continues."

"Ah," Doug waved it off, "been there, done that."

"There will be some risk no matter how we do this," Marie-Ange reminded him. "Are you certain you wish to come with us?"

Doug nodded slowly. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm looking forward to meeting your mother. It'd be nice to try to get in good with her at an early stage."

"That's what I'm afraid of," she said, quietly.

"What?"

"Nothing," she shook her head. "Nothing important."

Colbert Estate, Lyon, France
Tuesday, 28 December 1993 11:24 am

Doug had been marginally surprised when someone had been waiting for them at the airport in Paris, holding a sign that said "COLBERT." He had thought this sort of thing only happened in the movies or in beer ads.

He had been even more surprised when this fellow took them not to a private car, as Doug had been expecting, but to a private jet, and brought the three aboard. Sharon looked even more dubious at the idea of trading the large plane for an even smaller one, but she shrugged and went with it. Within ten minutes, they had clearance for takeoff, and off they went.

"Do you know this guy?" Doug had asked Marie-Ange at length.

"I imagine he is the new pilot my mother told me of nine or ten months ago," she explained. "He is the latest addition to the staff, so I have not yet met him."

"Ah."

Not wishing to sound as befuddled as he was, Doug held his questions for the time being, and decided to just go with it, as Catseye was doing.

A few hours later, they began their descent. Looking out one of the windows, Doug saw the French Alps on the horizon, and below them, a river slithered off into the distance (he correctly guessed it to be the Rhône). He also saw the smudge of off-color that was the city of Lyon.

"I may regret asking this," he asked Marie-Ange at this point, "but where are we going, exactly?"

"Quoi?"

"Where are we going to land?"

"The airstrip," she informed him.

"Ah. Which one is that?"

She smiled at him. "Have faith, Douglas. All will be clear shortly."

Doug considered this, then went ahead and buckled his seat belt. Anything for a weird life, he quoted to himself.

The jet made a smooth descent, and an even smoother landing. Smoother even than the Blackbird, Doug remembered vividly. After a while, they slowed, turned about, and taxied to a gradual halt. Here, the pilot came out again to meet them. "Le vol est fini," he smiled. "Mesdemoiselles, monsieur... Venez-vous avec moi."

"Merci, m'sieu," Marie-Ange answered for them. The pilot opened the "hatch," and a stairway unfolded down to touch the ground. He descended first, followed by Marie-Ange, then by Sharon, and last by Doug.

For the first few moments after disembarking, Doug was extremely disoriented. He'd expected another airport, but instead, they seemed to be on a single airstrip. In the distance was what could only be called a mansion, with other, smaller buildings clustered around it like chicks around a mother hen. All around were vast fenced fields, and Doug saw several horses at rest and at play in what appeared to be equestrian ranges. The land seemed to spread out endlessly in either direction, with gently sloping forested hills to the south and east, and the distant smudge of Lyon off to the north and west.

When he finally managed to return his sight to the here and now, he noticed that there was a small cluster of people there to meet them. Marie-Ange was embracing a considerably smaller woman with the same deep-red hair, and Sharon was simply smiling at everyone and apparently pretending that she understood all the French that was flying around. He took a few steps closer, to try to get involved with the reunion process.

"<Mother,>" Marie-Ange was saying, turning back and indicating Doug, "<this is Pierre, the one I told you about. Pierre, this is my mother, Brigitte.>"

Brigitte Colbert turned out to be, as Doug had noticed earlier, a much shorter woman than Marie-Ange, but they had the same red hair and long features. Upon first glance, he immediately decided that it was going to be very difficult to like her. She was dressed all in silk and furs, with entirely too much jewelry, not to mention makeup, and stood in a haughty manner that screamed aristocracy. There was also the way that she looked him up and down with a slow smile, as though he looked like something good to eat. Nonetheless, he bowed to her, and took her hand to kiss it. "Enchanté, Madame."

"Enchantée," she repeated. She then took her eyes from him (to his considerable relief) and looked up at Sharon. "<And who is this?>"

"Hello!" Sharon grinned, leaning over and engulfing Brigitte in one of her characteristic hugs, nearly knocking the much smaller woman over. "Is very good to meet mother redhair!"

"<Mother, this is Sharon,>" Marie-Ange told her, trying to hold back laughter. "<I told you of her in my letters.>"

"<Of... course,>" Brigitte smiled, diplomatically, taking a step back from Sharon and nodding to her.

Meanwhile, one of the others, a distressingly buxom and vigorous blonde in servant's clothing, came up to greet Doug. "Bonjour, Pierre. Je m'appelle Sylvia."

"Enchanté, Madame," he nodded to her, with a small smile.

"<I am the head maidservant of the Estate,>" she went on by way of explanation. "<If there is anything at all I can do to help make your stay more... comfortable... please let me know.>"

She said this with a fluttering of eyelashes and a deep sigh-breath. Doug returned it with a bemused smile. "Merci, Madame."

"<Oh, please, call me Sylvia.>"

Doug cast a desperate glance back to Marie-Ange, and she rolled her eyes at him.

Other servants swarmed over the plane to remove the baggage, and then the entourage began making its way back toward the distant house. Brigitte looked somewhat disdainful of the walking, and Doug had a sudden, vivid image of the woman being carried along in a litter.

"<Did your exams go well, chère?>" Brigitte asked her daughter.

"<Ah, yes, I believe so,>" Marie-Ange nodded. "<The results were not posted by the time we departed.>"

"<And you, Pierre,>" she went on, turning her eyes back on Doug, "<you attend the Academy with my daughter?>"

"<Yes, Madame. This is true.>"

"<How marvelous! And what do you study?>"

"<Music,>" he replied, justifying to himself that the answer was not wholly incorrect.

"<Ah,>" she nodded, looking puzzled.

"<Pierre is a wonderful singer and pianist,>" Marie-Ange added.

"<Really? We may just have to hear him, then, yes?>"

Several of the servants chimed in agreement, particularly Sylvia. Doug looked over at Marie-Ange again, with an I'll-Get-You-For-That look this time. She rolled her eyes at him again.

"<Mother,>" she asked at length, "<when may we meet your new fiancé?>"

"<Oh, him,>" Brigitte waved. "<He left last week. Forget about him. Not a man at all, but a boy.>"

"<I see,>" Marie-Ange nodded, making an effort to keep her expression neutral. Doug could tell right away, though, that this bothered her to no end. Already, she looked uneasy, and he didn't like that at all.

As the day wore on, Doug had the feeling that his life had suddenly become a movie, and he'd missed a reel while stepping out for popcorn.

Chez Colbert was probably the most decadent place he'd ever seen. The house itself was alarmingly huge, enough to make the place in La Jolla seem like a crackerbox in comparison. Silk curtains everywhere, Persian rugs, antique mirrors, crystal chandeliers, honest-to-goodness tapestries and expensive-looking artwork, statuettes, carved wooden furniture... the whole nine yards. His guest room, which Sylvia gleefully showed him to, was about the size of the entire living wing back home. The bed could probably fit him and all six of his teammates (an image he quickly set aside), and there were more swords on the walls than in either of the Conan movies.

Jet-lag wasn't helping. By Doug's own internal clock, it was about time to crash, but now that he was on more or less the opposite side of the world, he was faced with the idea that there was still more day to go out here. But jet-lag couldn't account for all of his discomfort. The world suddenly seemed even more confusing than it normally was. Fate had dropped him in the middle of France and said "Here you are, kid! Oh, didn't you know your girlfriend's from one of the richest families in Europe? Oh, sorry. Take it easy, now!"

Sylvia wanted to help him unpack, but Doug insisted that he could handle it on his own. She departed with a flourish and a bounce.

After a while, Marie-Ange came in. She had changed clothes, putting on a simple pair of jeans, boots, and a cream-colored blouse. She looked so refreshingly normal that Doug felt an overwhelming need to get up, go over to her, and hold her, for support as much as affection. So he did.

"Bonjour," she smiled, softly.

"Hey," he nodded in reply.

"Well... what do you think..?" she asked. She looked almost resigned, as though she didn't really want to hear.

"None of this has really registered yet," he told her. "Um, can I ask you something?"

"Bien sûr."

"Why didn't you... um... tell me your mother was so rich?"

"You never asked," she smiled, faintly.

"Well, no, not as such. I mean, I never asked 'So, Angie, did you grow up in a house that's about the size of the Versailles palace and twice as glitzy?' but you didn't even give me a clue."

"I know," she nodded, looking down for a moment. "I... don't like to talk about it. People tend to... treat you differently if they know you're wealthy. It's taken me all my life to prove my own merit, and that there is more to me than just being the daughter of Brigitte Colbert."

Doug nodded slowly. Suddenly the image of Marie-Ange the overachiever made a lot more sense. "Tell me," he asked.

"Quoi?"

"Tell me about everything. About your mother. About what it was like here."

She looked away. "Are you sure you want to know?"

"Yes," he insisted. "Look, no matter what you tell me, it... Angie, I love you for you, not for any of this," he waved his hand around him absently. "Anything that's made you what you are... I want to know. I won't stop loving you, or love you any less. I mean that."

There was a momentary silence, and she took a deep breath. "Merci," she whispered. "I need to know that."

"De rien," he assured her.

"Now would not be the best time, though," she told him. "If you like, I can show you and Sharon around the house."

"Nickel tour?" he asked, dubiously. "No social time with your mother first?"

"Oh, she'll see us at dinner," Marie-Ange replied with a thin-lipped smile. "Until then, we may do as we will. Come. I can... tell you more later this evening."

"Okay," he whispered.

Given the state of the rest of the mansion, Doug was willing to bet that dinner would be served in a huge, opulent dining room, at a long table big enough for thirty people, with more crystal chandeliers, and so on.

He was mostly right. The table turned out merely to seat twenty, though of course most of it went unused. Brigitte sat at the head, with Marie-Ange and Sharon to one side, and Doug to the other. Servants came and went regularly, bringing on courses, bringing more wine, and making certain everything was going accordingly.

The dinnertime conversation seemed to be taking place on several levels, and Doug wondered if he'd burn out his translation skills trying to decipher them all. On the surface, everything was polite and topical, discussing classes, exams, recitals, their trip thus far, and so forth. Doug and Marie-Ange translated for Catseye, seeing as she knew almost no spoken French; it was odd to see Catseye so reserved as this, but given the circumstances, it could be understood.

Then there were the more personal moments of the conversation. Brigitte seemed to be extremely interested in Doug's relationship with her daughter, and she asked no end of questions about how long they'd been together, how they'd fallen in love, and so forth, even going so far as to make some knowing double-entendres about their intimacy. Doug could swear that Brigitte was telling him "Oh, I know you're sleeping with my daughter, so no need to be coy. I think it's sweet." It was somewhat annoying to him that she was making such free assumptions, especially considering that these were just plain wrong. Given the expressions Marie-Ange flashed him periodically from across the table, she wasn't pleased.

The real thrust of the conversation, though, seemed to be in the body language. Brigitte was in control and poised, in a practiced, yet natural way, as though she'd lived her life as such. Which, apparently, she had. She gave Doug no end of subtle glances from behind her wineglass, and it was quite apparent that she was far more interested in him than in her own daughter. Marie-Ange, meanwhile, was as taut as a bowstring, each smile becoming more and more forced, each motion an effort at staying calm, each word a struggle to keep her voice level. Sharon, even though the spoken words were foreign to her, seemed to be picking up on the tension, and it was flattening her normally upbeat affect.

The dinner took a small eternity, after which time servants cleared the dishes and platters. Doug noticed Sylvia give him a smile as she passed by, and he returned it both wearily and warily. He then made a show of stifling a yawn, and excused himself, stating that the meal was lovely, as was the company, but he was in dire need of sleep. Marie-Ange picked up on this right away, and she, too, suggested that the three travellers call it a night.

As they headed upstairs to their rooms, Marie-Ange said nothing at all, but simply locked her arm around Doug's and held on tightly. He could feel the tension in her bearing and stiff gait, but she waved off his concerns, saying that she was merely tired. She saw him to his room, gave him a small goodnight kiss, then was off.

By this time, Doug had been without sleep for upwards of twenty hours, but after making an effort to get comfortable in the cavernous bedroom, he found himself completely unable to fall asleep. There was far too much to think about at this point.

Rather than sleep, then, he settled down in the satin sheets and lay awake, trying to take in all details of the room. One of the tapestries on the wall caught his attention -- it showed a mounted battle, with dozens of swordsmen on horses fighting dozens more. The detail was incredible, even in the dim light, and he studied each of the individual battles within the whole, idly wondering how each would end. There were a couple of dismounted riders, mortally wounded, their blood spilling on the ground. He wondered how anyone could sleep with this battle going on just a few feet away. In his half-conscious state, it brought back vivid memories. How would these people feel, one side versus another, but each individual knowing their own life could end at any moment? He knew this feeling all too well, as he'd been there. He'd even been the dismounted, his blood spilling onto the ground while the battle carried on around him, not taking notice of his fall...

Enough of that.

He heard the sound of footsteps in the hall outside, which soon receded. So intent he was upon this sound that it took him a few moments to hear the other, closer sound. He looked back at the wall with the war tapestry, and saw, much to his surprise, that a previously nondescript panel was sliding to one side, and the soft glow of a candle came from beyond.

Doug tensed, wondering who this could be. He hoped it wasn't Sylvia, come to check on his comfort again. He decided to play at sleeping, in the hopes that whoever it was would go away, but he kept his eyes open just wide enough to keep the opening in view.

Eventually, the panel slid all the way open, and Marie-Ange crept into the room, holding a candle-lamp in one hand. "Douglas?" she whispered.

"Angie," he said in a relieved sigh, sitting up in the bed. "How in the world did you..?"

"Secret passage," she told him, simply. She set the lamp down on the nightstand beside the bed and sat down beside him. "I could not sleep," she sighed. Doug noticed that she had gone back to jeans and boots, with a sweater this time.

"Neither could I," he admitted. "Are you okay, sweetheart?"

"Not especially," she told him. "Would you like to go somewhere to talk? I suppose that as long as neither of us can sleep, we may as well not sleep together."

There was a pause, during which she seemed to test that phrase in her mind. "You know what I mean," she amended herself.

"Yeah," Doug smiled. "I'll... ah... need to put my pants on first."

"Bonne idée."

She obligingly looked away at one of the walls as he slid out from under the sheets, retrieved his pants from the floor, and put them on. "Do you think I'll need shoes?" he asked her.

"Probably," she nodded.

Once he had his feet properly attired, he stood up and regarded her, smiling. "Lead the way."

She nodded, then picked up the lamp from the nightstand and led him back to the passage. Doug followed her through dubiously. The doorway led into a narrow passage that ran parallel to the room. "Are there many of these?" Doug asked, looking all around.

"They run through the entire house," Marie-Ange whispered in reply. "You can get to anywhere from here, if you know your way."

"I take it you know?"

She nodded. "I explored these passages thoroughly as a child. This was my little kingdom, and there were places of which only I knew. Places where no one could find me."

"Oh," Doug whispered. "How old is this house, anyway?"

"Well over a century," she replied. "It has been the family home for generations. Sometimes I wonder what they used these passages for..." She paused, looked around self-consciously for a moment, then shook her head. "Sharon is waiting at my room."

"And where's that?" he asked.

"Right about... here," she said, stopping at another of the hidden doors (from this side, it was much more apparent), this one partly open. She poked her head and shoulders inside, taking the candle with her, and Doug was momentarily engulfed in blackness. After a pause, she emerged, stepping to one side to allow Catseye to follow her in. "Hello, prettyboy goldenmane!" Sharon said in a loud stage whisper, giving him a wide grin and a hug. "Is fun sneakytime, yes?"

"Where are we going, anyway?" Doug asked.

"Somewhere outside the house," Marie-Ange suggested. "I was thinking the roof of the stables."

"Oohyes!" Catseye agreed. "Come, Catseye lead the way, yes?" She made the shift to feline form and bounded forward.

"Does she know where she's going?" Doug asked Marie-Ange.

"Probably not," she sighed. "Come on."

They followed Catseye through a series of passages, cross-passages, and tiny staircases that led between the floors. After a while, Doug could hear the murmur of voices in the distance. "Where are we?" he asked.

"Near the servants' lounge," she whispered back. "They stay up late most nights drinking and talking. We're not too far from the passage to the stables, though; Sharon's nose is serving her well."

Doug nodded absently, letting his hearing drift toward the muffled voices. He caught a laugh that was quite definitely Sylvia's, then began to make out words.

"<Madame certainly has eyes for Marie-Ange's new man,>" she giggled.

"<She wasn't the only one,>" a male voice replied, and there was a ripple of laughter. Doug recognized the voice as that of the pilot.

"<Can you blame me?>" Sylvia said in her defense. "<At least the girl has better taste in men than her mother.>"

"<Yes, but what about the tall one?>" a second female voice cut in. "<Who might she be?>"

"<A friend?>" the pilot asked.

"<A lover?>" the second woman suggested.

"<Perhaps they are both her lovers,>" Sylvia added. "<I believe she's done well for herself in America.>"

"<I wonder if she likes to share?>" a second, more gruff male voice cut in.

"<Shame on you, Louis,>" Sylvia chided him. "<Can you think of nothing else?>"

"<As though you weren't thinking the same thing, my dear Sylvia?>" Louis chuckled.

The voices began to recede as the continued down the passage. Doug made no sound to acknowledge that he had heard, as he was mildly stunned by the frankness of the conversation, and he wasn't quite sure how to bring it up to Marie-Ange. For her part, Marie-Ange also gave no reaction to the words.

Catseye finally led them to a trapdoor in the floor. She sniffed at it a few times, then looked up at them and nodded. "Horsey smell," she said in a raspy growl. "This way, yes?"

"Oui, this is it," Marie-Ange nodded. "Can you open it?"

"Of course, pretty redhair!" Catseye smiled. She unlatched the door, then pulled it open. Marie-Ange brought the candle closer, revealing a wooden ladder descending into blackness.

"Aren't we on the ground floor?" Doug asked, having momentarily lost his bearings.

Marie-Ange nodded. "This tunnel goes underground. Here, hold the candle."

She passed the lamp to him, then took the ladder down. Sharon soon followed, and Doug knelt over the opening with the candle, keeping them in sight. "Everything okay down there?" he asked.

"Oui, just dark," Marie-Ange called back, softly.

"Catseye sees fine," Sharon added, helpfully.

"Pass me the candle, Douglas," Marie-Ange told him.

Doug lowered the lamp into the pit, and she reached up to grab it by the base. She then held it aside and allowed him to descend. When he had his feet once again on the ground, he saw that they were in a tunnel carved out of the earth, held up by old wood-and-brass bracings. "Bizarre," he whispered. "And what was this for?"

"It leads to the stables," Marie-Ange replied. "Perhaps it was here in case anyone needed to make a quick exit without being seen."

"Come, follow Catseye!" Sharon called from further down the tunnel. "Horsey smell closer now!"

They walked for what Doug estimated to be a few hundred yards, then encountered another wooden ladder leading to a trap door. Marie-Ange again took it first, climbing up to the hatch above and opening it. She then pulled her long legs up out of the hole. A moment later, her face appeared at the rim. "No one is about. Come up."

Sharon gave Doug a huge, pleased-with-herself grin, then clambered up the ladder. Doug brought up the rear, carefully balancing the lamp as he went.

He emerged into an unoccupied stall within a stable about the size of one of Papa Mike's. The familiar horsey smell, as Sharon had described it, was disorienting, as he suddenly felt as though he were back at the ranch. As he got a look around, though, he got a pretty clear idea that this was still Chez Colbert. The horses he did see appeared to be well-groomed and well-pampered purebreeds, and rather than the rustic look of the stables in Julian, this place was neat as a pin, and even, by comparison, decorative.

"Come," Marie-Ange said, interrupting his contemplation. She led the way to a wooden staircase that led first up into the loft, and then up onto the roof.

The night air was crisp and cold, given both the area and the time of year, but there was not a cloud in the sky, and the stars were like fragile scenery, rather than the sparse specks back in the city sky. All around them, the various buildings of the estate lay sprawled out in every direction (Doug found himself wondering what all of them were for, anyway), but most of the lights were out by this hour... whatever hour that might be.

"Quelle heure est-il?" Doug asked vaguely, slipping back into French.

"Minuit," Marie-Ange answered. When Sharon looked at her askance, she repeated it in English. "Midnight."

"Is cat time," Catseye smiled.

They looked at the scenery in the sky for a while, then Doug looked back at Marie-Ange. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"Um... how did your family make all of its money?"

"Steel," she explained, simply.

"Steel?" he repeated.

"Oui. When the industrial revolution came to France, Colbert steel grew more and more in demand. The family had claim to metal-rich land, and forged the finest steel. We went from making swords to just making steel." She shrugged. "I don't know all of the details, but almost all of Lyon's industry came from our steel."

Doug nodded slowly. "That explains all of the swords on the walls, then?"

"Most are antiques. We still employ craftsmen here on the estate to forge others, though. Colbert blades have become... I suppose vogue... for well-to-do mantlepieces all over Europe." She seemed a mix of humored and sarcastic about this.

"So much from just metal?" Catseye asked, apparently not grasping the economics of it.

"The right place, the right material, the right time," Marie-Ange shrugged. "No longer, though. Ma mère has never worked a day in her life. She's had no need to. She's lived a life of decadent luxury here, with the world at her feet, doing nothing except to serve her own pleasures."

"Is soft," Catseye nodded, sagely. "Too soft. Not like Catseye or redhair, yes?"

"And... you're an only child?" Doug went on.

"Oui," she nodded. "As was ma mère."

"Any other family?"

She shook her head. "We are the last of the line."

"Then..." Doug tried to think of a delicate way to put this. "Then you stand to... inherit all of this?"

Marie-Ange looked into his eyes for a moment, then she nodded. "Oui. I am her only heir."

"You... don't sound too happy about it," he observed.

"I'm not," she told him. "I want nothing more than for her to find a man to marry, perhaps even to have another child, so that someone else may hold the family fortune. I do not want it. My happiest moments in life have been the months I spent penniless in Paris, and my years in America. This place, with all its vain trappings and excess..." she waved her hands at the estate, "is not my home. I thank my mother for bearing me, and for providing me with an excellent education, but I will not be the next... lush... to follow in the Colbert name. Let someone else have that honor."

There was a silence, in which Catseye gave her friend a hug from behind. "Is okay, redhair."

"You'd honestly give all of this up?" Doug asked gently, indicating the entire estate.

"In a moment," Marie-Ange replied. "You... do not approve, do you?"

A slow smile spread across Doug's face. "Of course I do. Like I said, I loved you before, and I'll love you without all of this. You're stronger than a lot of people, though, to put this much behind you."

"Wealth has its own unique cost," she replied, mysteriously.

"Tell me," he asked her again, suddenly looking much more serious.

She hesitated. "Perhaps not now."

"Angie," Doug insisted, "I need to know. What happened in this house to make you want so badly to leave it? Hell, what happens here now?"

"Excuse," Catseye put in, delicately. "Are redhair and goldenmane going to have A Moment? If so, Catseye can go say hello to horses."

"Non, Sharon, please stay," Marie-Ange almost smiled. "Let's enjoy the night while we can. I promise to tell you later."

Doug nodded slowly. "Would you like to go?" he asked her. "I mean, leave here. We could just take off for Paris early."

"Non," she replied. "It will only be three days more."

Colbert Estate, Lyon, France
Wednesday, 29 December 1993 4:24 pm

A large part of the following day was taken up by a pleasant ride through the rolling hills and woodlands of the estate grounds. It gave the trio of mutants a chance to get out in the open for a while, which seemed to do Marie-Ange no end of good. Out in the woods, away from the estate proper, she seemed to cheer immensely.

Sylvia, having managed to talk her way into a few free hours, went out with them. To Doug's considerable relief, she seemed to have given up on him; she was good company, and full of all sorts of interesting stories about Madame and her revolving door relationships, but made no further efforts to flirt with Doug -- or at least none as obvious as the previous evening. Nonetheless, Doug had to force himself to keep his eyes to himself -- watching a woman of her build riding a horse was quite a sight...

After the ride, while Doug and Marie-Ange dealt with the horses in the stable, Sylvia went off with Sharon to tell her more stories. Doug was a bit thrown off by this. "I thought Sharon didn't understand French," he commented to Marie-Ange.

"She's trying to pick up on it, I believe. Sylvia can talk for hours and hours when she wishes to, so she'll have plenty to practice with."

Doug helped her with her horse's saddle and blanket, then they moved on to his. "At least she stopped hitting on me," he sighed.

"I asked her nicely," Marie-Ange snorted. "She's the closest I have to a true friend on the staff, so she understood."

"Good to know."

Once they had all of the horses unsaddled, they set to work on giving them each a good scrub. Periodically, a stable hand would come in and insist that Mademoiselle should not trifle herself with this work, at which point Marie-Ange would firmly but politely state that Mademoiselle quite enjoyed it, merci.

This also gave the two of them a brief time alone -- something they had not been able to share comfortably for some time now. Doug found all of his questions about her returning, and he decided that now might be a good time to ask some of them.

"Who was your father?" he asked. "You've never talked about him."

She took a breath, then let it out slowly, leaning on her horse's flank. "I've never met him. He was one of ma mère's many lovers -- just one of a long list. The only difference between him and all of the others is that she was not as... careful with him as with the others."

"Oh," Doug said quietly, deciding that perhaps he had been incorrect. Now might actually be a good time to just drop it.

She went on talking, though. "What I do know of him I learned from some of the older servants, through some research I probably shouldn't have done, and through casting the cards. I actually know more about my grandfather than I do my father."

"Really?" Doug asked, mildly surprised.

"Oui. He was an American, actually, stationed in England during World War II. He was the belly-gunner of a B-17, I believe, and part of a crew that actually flew enough missions to complete their service. He stayed in England, with his wife, whom he'd met there, and raised their son. The son was apparently something of a... free spirit, though. He spent most of his adult life wandering, and one of his wanderings brought him here. I am the result."

She said this last in a very matter-of-fact tone, as though quite used to the concept of having been an accident. "The interesting thing," she went on, "is that my grandfather was apparently a latent mutant, whose power saved his life during that last mission. That, at least, would go toward explaining my own mutancy."

"Have you ever met him?" Doug asked.

"Non," she said, shaking her head. "I don't think I should."

"Why not?" Doug pressed. "Maybe it would be good for him to know that he has a granddaughter that he can be proud of."

She smiled and looked down. "A nice thought."

"Marie-Ange!" came a voice, then. The two looked around to see Brigitte, all five feet of her, enter the stable, wrinkling her nose at the smell. She gave her daughter an artificial smile. "<Ah, there you are, dear,>" she sighed. "<And Pierre also! Good day to you.>" She gave Doug a smile that seemed more genuine, but he decided that he didn't like it anyway.

"<Good day, mother.>" Marie-Ange smiled, politely.

The woman brushed a few locks of her dark red hair out of her face with a gloved hand, to better look at them. "<Oh, my dear, I do not know why you fuss with these animals so,>" she sighed. "<Let the hands wash them; that is why they are here!>"

"<I enjoy this, mother,>" Marie-Ange shrugged. "<Surely you remember that?>"

Brigitte gave them a prim little condescending smile, then. Doug had the distinct impression that the woman's face would crack -- or at least her makeup would. She then blinked a couple of times, as though remembering why she had come in the first place. "<Ah, yes, I wanted to tell you personally,>" this word was directed right at Doug, "<that the evening meal will be served within the hour, so you should both be off to bathe.>"

"<Ah. Very well.>"

Doug smiled back, trying to make it look as genuine as possible. "<My thanks, Madame.>"

"<But of course, Pierre,>" she replied, her voice all but dripping honey. "<Sylvia can show you where the baths are to be found.>"

"<My thanks again.>" He then turned to Marie-Ange. "<Shall we, then?>"

"<You go ahead, Pierre,>" Marie-Ange nodded. "<I'll be along.>"

Taken slightly aback, Doug nodded, then gave the horse one last pat before departing. Brigitte turned to watch him go.

"Il est très beau, n'est-ce pas?" Brigitte then said to her daughter, giving her a knowing grin.

"Oui, c'est vrai," Marie-Ange replied, tightly.

Brigitte nodded, smiling not entirely unlike a crocodile. "Oui. Nous allons lui partager, n'est-ce pas? Oui, je le pense."

"Non," Marie-Ange said in a low, dangerous voice. "Je ne le pense pas, maman. Il n'est pas le vôtre, et je n'ai pas le vôtre."

With that, she strode off toward the house, not looking back. Brigitte was taken aback for a moment, but only for a moment. "Ma pauvre fille," she said in an exaggerated sigh. "Trop jeune pour comprendre."

Colbert Estate, 11:41 pm

Once again, Doug could not sleep, so he lay awake in bed, this time staring up at the ceiling. One of these days, he knew, he'd be able to get his internal clock in synch with the rest of his body -- probably just in time to go back to America.

He considered finding himself a candle, lighting it up, and taking the secret passage down to Marie-Ange's room, to see if she was awake as well. Even though their previous attempts at talking alone had been somewhat less than comfortable, he felt the need to keep trying to coax her into telling him more. It would probably do them both good, he figured, to get all of this out into the open, where they could deal with it.

There came the sound of scraping wood, which Doug recognized as the secret door in his wall. He glanced over, but this time there was no light from inside the passage. Apparently she'd had the same idea.

He decided to play possum, and wait for her. He closed his eyes, and tried to look as though he were asleep.

The door closed again, and this sound was followed by the padding of feet on the carpet. Then, much to Doug's surprise, the covers rustled. She was climbing into the bed with him.

His mind raced as he considered her intentions. Up until now, Marie-Ange had shown no real sexual urges (except for some of the kisses), and he wondered what had brought this on. His mind continued to race, as did his heart, as she snuggled up against him. She didn't seem to be wearing any clothes.

Very slowly and carefully, Doug turned his head to look over at her.

"Bonsoir, M'sieu Coulombe," Brigitte smiled.

Doug screamed loudly and jerked his entire body away from her. "Holy shit!"

"<Oh, no need to get up,>" she smiled at him, reaching one arm out and tracing her hand over his chest. "<Come, lie down.>"

"<If it's all the same to you, Madame, I'd rather not,>" Doug nodded to her, trying to slither further back. He'd managed to get nice and tangled in the covers with his earlier motion, though, so he was not able to get free immediately.

"<Come, come,>" she insisted, smiling vampishly. "<I am a very rich woman, you know.>"

"<How nice for you.>"

"<I have ways of loving men only dream of.>"

"<That's great, but you also have a daughter whom I'm very much in love with, so if you wouldn't mind...>" He jerked back again as she scooted inexorably closer.

"<Oh, Pierre,>" she chided him. "<I can teach you things even my daughter has never learned.>"

"<Not tonight, thanks.>"

"<That will be enough,>" came a third voice, then, followed by a very distinctive CHA-CHUK sound.

As one, Doug and Brigitte turned to look up the twin barrels of the shotgun Marie-Ange was holding. She stood at the foot of the bed, pointing the gun directly at her mother. The small part of Doug's mind in charge of the running tally of surprising skills Marie-Ange possessed quickly added this to the list.

"Marie-Ange?!" Brigitte gasped.

"Bonsoir, maman," she replied, almost conversationally. She then switched to English. "Pierre, get your things together. We're leaving."

"Right," Doug nodded carefully, disentangling himself from the covers. He got dressed very quickly, then started to throw things back into his suitcase. Fortunately, he hadn't done much unpacking, so the task was completed quickly.

As he did so, Brigitte struggled to find her voice. "<But you... you wouldn't..!>"

"<Ah, maman. Have you forgotten the Eight of Swords so quickly, then?>"

Brigitte blanched, and her lower lip began to tremble. "<You... you're mad! Still mad! She... she told me you were cured!>"

"<No, maman, I am quite sane, in spite of your best efforts.>"

Doug had just finished packing when Sharon came into the room. Like Marie-Ange, she was fully dressed. "Hello hello!" she smiled happily. "Everything is ready, pretty redhair."

"You have our bags in the car, then?" Marie-Ange asked.

"Yes. Have keys, too." She held aloft a keyring and jingled it.

"Bon. Do you have everything, Pierre?"

"Yeah," Doug nodded, still a bit stunned by all of this.

"Sharon, take him to the car."

"Angie," Doug said, insistently, "how did you know she'd..?"

"She told me," Marie-Ange shrugged, her aim not wavering.

"Oh. Um, look, I don't think... that you should..."

This time she looked back at him and winked. "Don't worry."

"Right."

Doug slung his satchel across his back, picked up his suitcase, and followed Sharon out of the room, looking back all the while, a stricken expression on his face. After they were gone, Marie-Ange smiled at her mother.

"<We'll be going now, maman. You'll be happy to know that you won't ever see me again. Unless you come looking for me, that is. I would advise against it, though.>"

"<I... I don't understand..?>"

"<I'm giving you your fondest wish. From now on, you have no daughter. Isn't that what you've wanted all along?>"

With this said, she lowered the gun, and it faded away in her hands, until it was gone entirely. "<Adieu. Have a good life.>"

She then turned on her heel and strode out of the bedroom, closing the door behind her.

Thursday, 30 December 1993 1:24 am

They abandoned the car (one of the estate's several) at a train station in Lyon, Marie-Ange making a mental and verbal note that she would send the keys back via post once they arrived in Paris. Finding a train to take them to Paris was little trouble -- Marie-Ange only had to glower convincingly at the ticket queue to get them a private compartment in the next available departure. Apparently she was known by sight to at least some of the Lyonnaise, as the ticket salesman all but fell all over himself to help them as quickly and efficiently as possible, all the while saying what an honor it was to have her in the station.

Doug had commented to her at this point that it wouldn't be very difficult for Brigitte to track them down at this rate, but Marie-Ange seemed to believe that there would be no immediate effort made, if any at all, to find them.

After almost an hour of waiting tensely in the station, they were allowed to board their train. The compartment they were given was in one of the sleeping cars, and was equipped with two narrow couches meant also to serve as beds, an overhead luggage compartment that overlooked the rest of the cabin, and a small washbasin.

Sharon, being the tallest, tossed each of their bags up onto the rack, then clambered up into it herself, shifting into cat-form and settling down in a sphinx pose amidst the luggage, resting her chin on her front paws. Even before the train started moving, she seemed to have fallen fast asleep.

Doug found himself envying her that. For the first twenty minutes of the journey, he and Marie-Ange sat on the opposite couches, wide awake, and looked anywhere but at one another.

"Je suis desolée," Marie-Ange said at length, finally breaking the silence. "I never should have come back here, much less brought you."

"Hey, I'm fine," Doug replied softly. "Don't worry about me. Are you okay?"

She looked up at him, and he amended himself. "Okay, stupid question. Look, I'm sorry this turned out so badly, but it's not your fault."

"Yes it is. If I had told you... warned you... you would have been... prepared for this."

"Prepared to have your mother climb in bed with me?"

"Oh, yes. Had I told you everything, you probably would have tried to talk me out of coming. Which probably would have been for the best."

There was a pause. "You... can tell me now," Doug said then.

She looked away. "Yes, I suppose so," she said at length.

Doug waited for her to gather her thoughts. "When I was an infant, my mother hired servants to care for me, so that she would not have to concern herself with it. When I was about three, she brought in private tutors to instruct me. For the next ten years, I had only tutors -- I never went to a proper school, never met any other children my age. She said she didn't want me associating with people beneath my station." Here, she laughed one short, derisive laugh. "So I stayed on the estate all the time, except to be paraded around in the city, the heir apparent to the Colbert name."

Here, she paused, and looked down again. "Every year, every month, sometimes every week, mother would bring a new lover home, each time assuring me that this one would be a good father to me. None of them ever stayed... Sometimes she would bring one of the servants to bed with her -- the drivers, the stable hands, the maids -- it made no difference to her, so long as it was pleasing. She lived only to satisfy her carnal desires, and she would try anything. At one point, when... when I was... older, she began... sharing me with her lovers."

Doug felt his stomach drop. "How... how old?" he asked, brokenly.

She thought about this for a while. "Seven, when it started," she then replied. "Some of them liked their girls that young. Some of the servants did, as well. Do you remember what I told you about the secret places in the house? That was where I would go to hide from them. Some nights, they wouldn't find me, but I would always have to come out again, and face them. I dreaded every sunset, knowing that it would all start again, and that I could only hide."

Doug felt two overpowering urges: one to be violently ill, and the other to move to the opposite couch, sit beside her, and put one arm around her. He decided to give in to the latter of the two. "I'm sorry," he whispered, hugging her to him with the one arm. "Christ, I'm so sorry..."

"Oh, I stopped believing in the savior at a very young age," she went on. "I was raised Catholic, you know, even named for the virgin mother. 'Marie-Ange,' the Angel Mary."

"Catholic?" Doug gaped. "You mean she actually... claims to be religious?"

"Ohhhh, yes. She believes herself to be the most pious woman in the world. I was taught to believe in God, Jesus, and the virgin mother, but after praying to them for salvation night after night in those tiny hiding places, after seeing what they allowed to happen... I could not believe. I could not believe in any God that would allow this to go on. I had nowhere to turn."

"I'm sorry," he said again. What else, he wondered, was there to say?

They sat in silence for a while again, then she went on. "By the time I was thirteen, nothing had changed. It was almost a game, to be played out day after day, night after night."

"Did you..." Doug began, but then stopped himself.

"Quoi?"

He grimaced. "I hate to ask, but... did you ever consider suicide?"

"Non," she replied, shaking her head. "I cannot begin to guess why, looking back on it, but at the time, the thought of taking my own life never once entered into my mind."

"That's good," Doug whispered. "But did you have any other thoughts? Any other ways of escaping?"

She nodded slowly. "Eventually, it occurred to me that the estate was the source of all of my grief, so I finally gathered the courage to run away. I had no idea where to go. I wandered alone for days, until... they found me." Here, she began to get a faraway look in her eyes.

"Who? Who found you?"

"Gypsies," she replied. "They took me in, not knowing, nor caring who I was. I went from wealth to abject poverty literally overnight, and I enjoyed it. An old woman among them -- a fortune-teller -- took me under her wing, and started teaching me the art of casting the tarot. She taught me the significance of each card, the methods of reading, and the ways of meditating with their aid. I painted my first deck while I was with her. And do you know what? They worked. I learned so much from that woman, and from those introspective castings. Here, finally, was something I could believe in, and count upon.

"Once she had taught me all she could, she urged me to go back out into the real world. I drifted for a while, eventually ending up in Paris, where I made a living playing in a jazz club in the Latin Quarter." She finally began to smile. "As I said, those were among the happiest days of my life."

Doug nodded. "Is that where Miss Frost found you?"

"Non," she said, her expression darkening. "Maman found me first. One of her former lovers saw me playing in the club, and hoping to regain her favor, he told her where to find me. They came and took me back. Maman swore to me that things had changed, and that I would never be ignored or mistreated again. So I went back.

"For a few weeks, it looked as though she meant it, but then, things began to fall apart again, and it became just the way it had been before. By then, she had hired Sylvia, who would sometimes hide me from them, saying that it was... her turn with me... but that was not enough. I turned to my cards for guidance... and..."

She trailed off. "What happened?" Doug asked, gently.

"Maman found me with them. She was furious, and shocked that I could be practicing such unholy arts in her home." She blinked a couple of times, then looked off at the window, watching the blurry darkness pass by. "It was the first time I had ever seen her angry. She tried to take them from me, and..."

"And what?"

"Are you familiar with the Eight of Swords, Douglas?" she asked him.

"Not terribly, no."

Nodding, Marie-Ange groped around the apartment for her handbag, then pulled from it a silk-wrapped deck of her cards. She shuffled through them, then pulled out one and handed it to him.

Doug took the card from her hand and peered closely at it. It was the image of a woman, blindfolded and bound, surrounded by eight huge swords sprouting out of the ground all about her. "Oh," Doug whispered.

Marie-Ange nodded again. "My power showed itself for the first time. From nowhere, ropes bound her in place, a blindfold covered her eyes, and eight swords dropped out of the air, plunging into the floor all around her."

"Jesus," Doug whispered. "What did you do then?"

"I ran and hid myself," she sighed. "Back into the secret places that had sheltered me in the past. I stayed there for days, not coming out at all, not for food, not for water... I could not. I thought I was going mad. Then, finally, someone came and found me there, and brought me out."

Doug nodded with comprehension. "Miss Frost?"

"Oui. By then, perhaps I was mad. I tried to attack her with my cards, but she calmed me, speaking into my mind. She brought me out, and took me to America, to study at the Academy. I thought that finally I was free, and that no one would... hurt me again..."

"And then you met Manuel?" Doug asked, carefully.

Her eyes darkened. "I... do not wish to talk about Manuel," she whispered.

"That's alright," he assured her. "Angie... why didn't you tell me any of this before?"

For a long while, she didn't answer. "I was... afraid."

He shook his head. "Why? What were you afraid of?"

"I didn't want to burden you with my life," she sighed, shaking her head. There were tears in her eyes, but as yet, none had fallen.

"Angie, please, burden me," Doug insisted. "Tell me anything. Tell me everything. Please..."

"I've always felt so... soiled," she whispered. Here, finally, the first tears fell. "You deserve better than this. I hoped you'd never have to know..."

He took her hands and craned his entire body around to look her in the eye. "Look at me. Angie, please, look at me."

She finally looked up to meet his eyes. Though hers were weary and filled with tears, they were still the same beautiful eyes he had fallen in love with.

"Did you think I'd leave you if I knew?" he asked, quietly. "Do you think I'd treat you badly because you've been abused? I love you. I've told you that, and I mean it, regardless of the past, or of anything else that's happened to you. And I'll help you, if you'll let me. Whatever you're carrying inside, I'll share it with you, I promise. Just love me, love yourself, and let me love you, too."

"Douglas," she whispered, looking down.

He took her in his arms and held her to him, shushing her. "Don't cry. It's all behind you. It's all in the past. Let it go."

"I love you, Douglas," she said into his ear. "With all my heart."

"Je t'aime aussi, chère," he whispered in reply. "Believe in that."

She did not answer for a moment. "I... will try," she said at last.

"Please try. I'll do all I can to help you, I promise."

They held one another until their shaking subsided, then Doug repositioned himself beside her. For a long time, the only sounds came from the rhythm of the wheels against the rails, and Sharon's heavy nap-breathing in the luggage rack above.

After struggling with a way to put this, Doug finally spoke. "I... think there's something I'd best get out in the open here..."

"What is that?" she asked, quietly.

His jaw worked for a moment, then he got the words out. "It's just... I want to stay with you. I really do want us to be together, and I just wanted to make sure you knew that..."

He broke off again. "Quoi?" she asked.

"Well... I'm not exactly sure how to say this. I just want you to know that... after all you've been through in your life, I understand perfectly if you're uncomfortable with... having a physical relationship. That's fine with me. If that's not for you, I understand."

She blinked at him. "What are you driving at, Douglas?"

"Okay, bluntly, then. Angie... I find you very attractive, in several ways, including... physically. You're... very beautiful."

"Merci," she whispered.

"But I want you to know that if you don't ever want to... have sex, or anything like that, after all that's happened to you, I won't mind, really. I won't let that stand in the way of loving you. I... thought I should tell you that now, in case you were worried about it."

She looked into his eyes carefully. "Do you mean that?"

"Of course I do," he nodded, smiling gently.

"I'm glad," she whispered, taking a deep breath. "Because... you're quite right. I do not ever wish to have sex again. I've had more... sex in my life than I feel comfortable talking about, and never again."

Doug stared at her for a moment, then nodded again. "That's okay, then."

There was a silence, and this time it was Marie-Ange who seemed to be having difficulty with the words. "I would... not be objectionable, however," she said slowly, "to the idea of... making love. That, I've never done. I've heard it's quite... pleasing."

"Um, yes," Doug swallowed. "I would be inclined to agree. Um."

Very slowly and carefully, she scooted closer to him, and brought her face within inches of his. "Kiss me," she whispered.

Doug was about to say something along the lines of perhaps taking it slowly for a while and maybe developing into this, but he only got past the first couple of syllables before she covered his mouth with a kiss.

After they broke, he had difficulty remembering what he was going to say. "Um," he said instead.

"Make love to me, Douglas," she whispered.

He wasn't sure quite what to say to that. He looked into her eyes, though, and saw there that she was quite serious. "What, here? Now?"

She nodded. "Show me how it is meant to feel."

"I- I don't know if..."

"Please, Douglas... Love me..."

Once again, he found his thoughts racing. On one side, his libido cheered him on, while on the other, his rational mind was at war. To say yes would be taking advantage of her in an emotionally distraught state. On the other hand, to say no, no matter how gently, might make her feel as though he did find her soiled, or unworthy. Yet another part wondered how she could possibly talk about having been sexually abused since the age of seven, and then turn around and wish to make love, even calling it that.

Then she kissed him again, and defenses began to crumble. Again, he studied her eyes. There was no doubt there, nor any trace of emotional unbalance. She knew exactly what she was doing.

Shaking somewhat, his hands began to fumble at the buttons of her blouse. She helped him get started there, then began working on his shirt. She finished first, slipping her hands inside the shirt to place her palms flat against his chest. Doug took a deep, shivering breath, then helped her out of her blouse.

"Are you sure?" he asked her.

"More than I have ever been," she smiled into his eyes. She, too, now looked nervous, but was not about to turn back.

Doug ran his hands up and down her back, then paused on the strap of her bra, looking for a catch.

"It happens," she said between kisses, "to unclasp in front."

"Ah. I see that now."

"Let me."

All of a sudden, Doug had a flash of panic, and he looked up into the luggage rack. "Oh, geez, what about Sharon?"

Marie-Ange craned her neck to look up at Catseye, then shook her head. "Right now she wouldn't wake up if a bomb went off."

"You're sure?"

"Oui. Quite sure." She then got back to the task of unclasping.

As they continued, above them in the luggage rack, Sharon opened one eye slowly, looked down at them, then closed it again, a huge, contented cheshire-cat smile settling across her feline features.

Eiffel Tower, Paris, France
Thursday, 30 December 1993 2:14 pm

"Beautiful," Doug whispered.

"Oui, I had forgotten how the city looked from up here," Marie-Ange smiled.

Doug put his arms around her from behind and held her. "Who was talking about the city?" he smirked.

"Silly," she admonished him.

Catseye peered past them, leaning slightly over the railing. "Is big," she noted. "Very big. Bigger than Boston, yes?"

The three were standing on one of the lower terraces of the Eiffel Tower, with all of Paris spread out below them. They could see the river Seine below them, cradling the tiny island that was the heart of the city. They could see l'Arc de Triomphe in the distance, the bustling Avenue Champs-Elysées, and more people about than they had seen in a long time.

"This place is busier than UTC during holiday shopping," Doug pointed out.

"Welcome to Paris," Marie-Ange told her friends. "We arrived earlier than I expected, but it is nice to be back."

"So when do we see musicplace where redhair played bass?" Catseye asked.

"Oh, it's over in the Latin Quarter," Marie-Ange replied, pointing to one section of the city below. "It will not be open for hours, yet. We have plenty of time to see the city first, if you'd like."

"You know, what I think I'd like right now is a good lunch," Doug nodded. "How about you two?"

"Ahyes! Catseye would love to try Parisfood."

"There is a restaurant near the top of the tower," Marie-Ange said, looking above them and shielding her eyes with one hand. "I do not know if they would require a reservation or not."

"Would you like me to go check it out?" Doug volunteered.

"If you'd like," she shrugged, amiably.

"If I'd like?" he repeated. "The idea of dining at the top of the Eiffel Tower with a good friend and the woman I love, and she asks if I'd like?"

Laughing, she put her arms around him and kissed him again. Sharon rolled her eyes. "Uh oh. Looking like A Moment to Catseye."

"I'll be back in just a second," he smiled at her, kissing her in return. "Je t'aime, mon amour."

"Je t'aime aussi. We'll wait for you here."

"I won't be a moment," he smiled, heading off to find the stairs to the next level.

After he had been gone a while, Catseye fixed her friend with a knowing smile. "Is good, yes?"

"Quoi?" Marie-Ange replied, looking over at her.

Sharon leaned back on the railing surrounding the terrace. "Redhair and goldenmane have good thing going, yes? Catseye much pleased to see redhair happy."

"Yes," Marie-Ange blushed. "It... is a good thing."

After a pause, her eyes darkened. "It cannot last, though," she sighed.

Catseye narrowed her eyes in surprise. "Why say that?" she asked, sounding quite horrified at the thought.

Marie-Ange gave her a familiar resigned look. All of the Hellions had seen it at one time or another. It was the look of someone who had seen the future, and not liked it at all, but knew that it would come to pass all the same.

For a while, neither of the two women said a word, but then Catseye's face creased into a furious scowl. "How can you say that?" she growled, quietly.

"Sharon?" Marie-Ange asked, eyes widening.

"How can you even think that? How dare you think that!"

Marie-Ange was stunned, both at the tone of Catseye's voice, and at her sudden use of plain English. "But..."

"No, don't tell me, let me guess. You predicted it, didn't you? You saw it in your cards, yes?" Catseye glared at her, making no effort to hide her anger. All Marie-Ange could do was nod.

Here, Sharon let out a frustrated growl. "I do not understand you! Why do you continually do this to yourself?! When are you going to start living your own life, instead of what those damned cards tell you?! When will you start believing in yourself, and not them?!"

She stepped closer, until her face was just inches from Marie-Ange's. "You have a chance at being happy, and I will not sit here and watch you throw it all away, do you hear me? Are you so determined to be miserable for the rest of your life? Would you really break off with a man who loves you just because you're afraid of something you think you saw in a bunch of cards?!"

"Sharon," Marie-Ange whispered, horrified.

"No, you listen to me," Catseye snarled, tapping one finger on the other girl's collarbone. "If you love him, forget, for once in your life, what the cards told you. Take charge of your own damned destiny, and make it work, do you understand me?"

Marie-Ange did not reply. Backed against the railing by her friend's anger, all she could do was stare in wide-eyed shock.

Sharon threw up her hands in disgust. "Why am I talking to you? You've already made up your mind." With one last shake of her head, she turned and walked away. Marie-Ange watched her go, her own breathing coming in gasps.

"Wait," she managed at last. "Sharon, wait!"

It was too late, though. By the time Marie-Ange tried to follow her, she had already vanished into the crowd.

A few minutes later, Doug found her there, sitting against the railing. "Hey, I managed to get us a table for three in fifteen minutes," he smiled at her. His features fell, though, as he got a good look at her. "What happened? Where's Sharon?"

"She... left," Marie-Ange whispered. "She just... left..."

Doug helped her stand, and she leaned against him, holding him tightly. "I love you, Douglas, I do. I do."

"And I love you. Angie, what's wrong?"

She did not answer -- just held him close for a long time, and tried to believe.

Hôtel de la Seine, Paris
Thursday, 30 December 1993 7:33 pm

Marie-Ange sat at the foot of the bed, arms crossed pensively, as Doug telephoned the front desk. "<Hello, this is McAudry in suite 27. I was wondering if our companion had left us any word with you. Alright, it's LaChatte, first name Leona, L-E-O-N-A. No? Did you see her come in, by any chance? She's a very tall woman, with lavender hair. Yes, lavender. She's very difficult to miss. You haven't. Ah. Thank you for your help. Goodbye.>"

He hung up, and looked over at Marie-Ange with a frown. "Nothing."

"It's my fault," she sighed. "Douglas, she's alone in a huge city -- in a foreign country, no less! She doesn't know the language, and she could..."

"Angie, listen," Doug assured her, crouching down in front of her and taking her hands. "She'll be fine. She's just taking time to cool off. I don't think she's lost -- she can always just backtrack the way she came. She won't forget how to get back here."

"But what if something's happened to her?"

Doug stifled a laugh. "Angie, I think that you should worry about if something's happened to Paris, not to her. She can take care of herself."

"What should we do, then?" Marie-Ange frowned.

"Well... Does she know how to get to this jazz club of yours?"

"Non. She knows the name of it, though."

"Okay," Doug nodded. "Here's a thought. Why don't we go ahead over there? She knows that's where we were going tonight, right?"

"Bien sûr."

"Right. She might have found her way there already for all we know. Let's head on over, and see if she's there."

"And what if she comes back here?"

Doug thought about this. "We leave a note here for her, telling her that we've gone over there, and we give her directions on how to get there on the Metro."

After considering this, Marie-Ange nodded and sighed. "Bon. I do wish she hadn't gone off like that, though..."

"It'll work out," Doug assured her, absently stroking her long fingers. "Things generally do. What was it all about, anyway?"

She shook her head. "Something I should not have said."

"Can you tell me?"

"I... would rather not."

He nodded. "Okay." After a pause, he went on. "Well, let's do that note, then. Do you know how to get there from here?"

"Oui, bien sûr," she said, reaching around to find her bag. She pulled out a small tablet of drawing paper and a pencil, then began to flip through the pad, looking for a blank page.

Inspecting the pages as they flipped by, Doug noticed several unfinished sketches of guns. "Hey, what are those for?" he asked, pointing to them.

"Oh," she replied. "I was working on these last night. They were for practice."

Doug blinked. "Oh. Wait, so that gun was an animation of yours?"

"Oui," she almost smiled. "I thought you would have known."

"Uh, no, I didn't. I thought you could only pull things out of your cards. I assumed you'd found the gun somewhere in the house."

"Ah," she nodded, the smile getting slightly more heartfelt. "At first, that was all I could do, but my power has... evolved since then."

"You can animate anything you draw?" he asked, astounded.

"Not exactly," she replied, her face creasing as she puzzled over how to put this. "It is complicated. It takes total concentration during the actual drawing process -- if I am interrupted, or lose concentration, I may as well start again. It helps me to keep in mind, when I draw something for this purpose, that I am drawing it for this purpose. Do you remember the morning after Lila's show, when I went off for a while, then came back with a bass and an amplifier?"

"Yeah," Doug nodded. "I thought you'd gone off to a local music store and just bought one. You had that big bag of money, after all."

"Non, I was in my room all along, drawing the pictures of them. It has been speculated that when I animate the drawings, my mind fills in all of the details that the medium would not allow, and bases the construct on my own mental picture."

"Interesting," Doug nodded. "So with you carrying that tablet around, you can basically draw up anything you might need?"

"Given suitable time, yes," she shrugged. "And also the concentration of keeping the constructs active, but after five years at the Academy, that has become second nature."

Doug went on nodding, appreciatively. "Pretty damn cool, that."

She smiled again, then began writing the note. Doug watched the motions of her hand as it moved the pencil across the pad. Her handwriting was immaculate, as always -- one of her distressingly long list of talents.

"Could you make those words come alive?" Doug asked, suddenly.

"Quoi? Is this some sort of literary question?"

"No, no, I mean animate those words you're writing."

She gave him a bemused look. "I have never tried."

"Go on, try it," he smiled, pointing to the note.

Marie-Ange continued looking askance at him for a while, then shrugged and held the note out before her, a look of deep concentration settling upon her long face. After a few moments of focus, during which Doug could swear he could feel the hair on the back of his neck begin to stand on end, she shook her head. "Non. Somehow, I did not think this would work."

"Ah, well," Doug smiled. "It was just an idea."

She carried on with the note, then, and Doug went on watching her. His thoughts were drifting, thanks to the distinct lack of sleep over the last couple of days, and they kept working their way back to what had happened between the two of them on the train. It was a nice distraction, but the more he thought about it, the more uncomfortable it became. There was something unsaid, there, and he'd considered bringing it up several times already, but had managed to dodge the issue each time it had come to mind. If he let it keep going like this, though, he had a feeling he might not like the result.

"Angie," he began.

"Hmm?" she asked, looking up at him.

"Well... about last night..."

Her face tensed for a moment, and it was apparent to Doug that she was making an effort to look unperturbed. "What of it, exactly?"

He rubbed both hands over his face once, then went on. "I haven't been able to get it out of my mind."

"Neither have I," she said, softly. "Do you... have any regrets?"

"No," he insisted. "Well, not as such, no. I was actually going to ask you that question. Angie, I love you -- I mean that. I think what we did last night was a good thing. I'm just worried that we may have done it for the wrong reasons."

She cocked her head to one side. "In what sense?" She looked a bit relieved by his words, but still somewhat tense and puzzled.

Doug considered the next words for a few moments before voicing them. "I just can't get past this little voice in my head. It feels like I... used you, or took advantage of you while you were feeling... emotional."

"You..." she began, then trailed off. "You thought you used me? Douglas, I've worried all day that I had used you. Non, I have no regrets about making love with you, except that I... feel I gave you very little choice. I wanted you so much, but I did not want to... force you."

"No, no, it wasn't like that," Doug shook his head. "I always knew that I could have said no, but I didn't. I wanted you, too." Here, he paused, and then chuckled a couple of times, again rubbing his face with his hands. "Man, this is sounding almost exactly like a conversation Dani and I had last summer... We were so worried that we'd used one another, or worse, offended one another."

She nodded. "So she told me."

Doug's eyes widened. "Oh? And what exactly did she tell you?"

"Ask her," she smirked. Then, her smile took on a wry tone. "I believe I understand what you meant, about the wrong reasons. No one ever told me that this was supposed to be easy."

"You've got that right," he nodded.

"Perhaps," she said delicately, "the next time... and I do hope that there will be a next time... it will not be quite so... urgent."

"I'd... like that, too," Doug whispered. "I can't think of any better reason for it than because we love one another."

He stood up, helped her stand, and then embraced her. "You know, I think things are going to go pretty well for us from here out," he smiled.

Marie-Ange nodded in reply, but could not find her voice, so she just held him tightly.

Le Sous-Sol, Latin Quarter, Paris
Thursday, 30 December 1993 8:22 pm

True to its name, Le Sous-Sol was a basement bar nestled somewhere in the Latin Quarter. Already, the place was filling up, in anticipation of the Thursday night show. According to Marie-Ange, they had live music here every Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday night, provided by the in-house band. The show would be beginning at nine, and even now, the crowd of regulars was getting ready for the event. Drinks poured freely, spirits were high, and the conversation was deafening in the tiny, dark space.

"<Nice place,>" Doug commented to Marie-Ange as they descended into the smoky blackness. He had to almost shout to be heard.

"<We get a broad-based crowd here,>" she told him. "<Local residents, a good amount of students, and even tourists.>"

"<Do you see Sharon?>"

Both of them peered from one side of the room to the other, looking for any lavender heads towering over the crowd level, but they found none. "Merde," Marie-Ange muttered under her breath.

"<Maybe she'll get here later,>" Doug suggested, trying to be optimistic. "<Do you see anyone else you know?>"

"Oui," she nodded, looking over at the bar and smiling. "<Come, I'll introduce you.>"

She led Doug over to the bar, and they managed to find two stools next to one another. One of the bartenders, a thin, athletic-looking man with short black hair and a wispy goattee, drifted over to them. "<What can I get for you?>"

"<Good evening, Henri,>" Marie-Ange grinned at him. "<The beard suits you; you look positively diabolical.>"

Henri's eyes bugged. "Oh, mon dieu! Marie-Ange? C'est toi?"

Laughing, she leaned over the bar, and they kissed one another on both cheeks. "<You're looking wonderful, Henri! Are you playing tonight?>"

"<Yes, of course! What are you doing here, little sister? I thought you were going to be staying in America!>"

"<I'm on holiday,>" she explained. "<Henri, I want you to meet someone very dear to me.>" She put one arm around Doug's shoulders. "<This is Pierre Coulombe. Pierre, this is Henri Thibaudet.>"

Henri reached to shake Doug's hand, seemingly taking measure of him as he did so. "Bonsoir, Pierre. <Are you an American, then?>"

"<More or less. So you're part of the band, eh?>"

"<Yes, I play drums,>" he nodded, giving Doug a puzzled look. "<So, you've been seeing my little sister, then?>"

"<Be nice, Henri,>" Marie-Ange admonished him. "<Henri always looked out for me,>" she then explained to Doug. "<He and Claire both. Speaking of which, where is Claire? And where is your father?>"

"<Papa's in the back, warming up,>" Henri told them. "<Claire is back there as well, but she'll be coming out to cover for me once we take the stage. Why don't you go on back to see them? I'm sure they'll be glad to see you back.>"

"<Thank you, Henri, I believe we shall. Oh, before we go, if you should happen to see a very tall woman with lavender hair come in, would you please let me know? She doesn't speak French well at all...>"

"<A friend of yours?>" Henri asked, looking at her askance.

"<Yes, a friend from school. We're expecting her.>"

"<Ah. Very well. A pleasure meeting you, Pierre.>"

"<The pleasure was all mine,>" Doug smiled. Henri continued to look at him somewhat off-center, perhaps puzzling over his flawless accent.

From there, Marie-Ange led the way to the back of the place, through an unmarked door. This led to a dim, narrow hallway, lit only by a couple of bare hanging bulbs.

"This place is always so dark," Marie-Ange commented, in English this time. From down the hall, they heard the sounds of a trumpet playing.

"Who's that?" he asked her.

"That would be Rene," she nodded. "Henri and Claire's father. He both owns the club and leads the band. He also hates being interrupted while he's practicing, so..."

She led him down the hall, past one door (from which the trumpet sounds came), and down to another. "I wonder what they've done with it?" she commented, mostly to herself, then opened up the door and fumbled inside for a lightswitch.

The room beyond turned out to be a storage area, with crates of wine and beer bottles stacked against three of the four walls. An old, battered cot was up against the far wall, but it was more a table than anything else now, with boxes piled under and upon it. Some well-used drums had been stuffed in here as well, along with a few chairs in need of repair.

Marie-Ange stepped inside carefully, looking back at Doug with a vague smile. "More cluttered than I remember, but still mostly the same."

"What is this place?" he asked, looking around.

"I lived in this room for several months," she explained. "I would play bass most nights in the bar, and then sleep here. It was part of my wages, I suppose you could say. They let me stay here, since there was no way I could have paid for my own apartment here in Paris at thirteen."

Doug took another look around, and found that his earlier assumption had been correct. It really was a dark, dank, dingy room, more resembling a dungeon than anything else. "I thought you said these people took care of you," he commented, reproachfully.

"This was the best that they could do," she sighed. "They had an apartment in the building upstairs, and it was too small for the family as it was. This was the only place they could put me. But it was fine with me, since I was a runaway, and I was willing to take anything so long as they would not send me home again."

She made room at the end of the cot and sat down, looking around. "I found myself in this room. I meditated on the cards every night while I was here. I learned so much about myself..."

Doug sat down next to her. "Were you happy here?"

"Oh, yes," she smiled. "No pressures of wealth, no need to hide, or to look over my shoulder every night... My whole life was making music."

"Did they know who you were?"

She shook her head. "Not until Maman came looking for me. They never even asked for my last name."

"So who's in the band? The whole family?"

"Non, only Henri and Rene. Claire does not play, nor does Mireille, Rene's wife."

"Oh, is that where you got the name?" he asked, smiling.

"Ah, oui."

They were so intent upon the conversation that they did not become aware of the approaching footsteps until someone poked into the room from the outside. He was a compact, muscular, middle-aged fellow, with a messy grey mane of hair spilling out from under a beret, and a long, bushy moustache of the same color. His wrinkled face drew back in surprise as he saw Marie-Ange. "Mon dieu!"

"Rene!" she grinned, hopping up from the cot and giving the man a huge embrace. "<You look well!>"

"<My God, Marie-Ange? You... grew so!>" Rene gasped, incoherently. "<My dear girl, where have you been?!>"

"<At school in America, silly,>" she reminded him. "<You know that. I'm on holiday with two dear friends. Rene, this is Pierre Coulombe.>"

Doug stood up and shook the man's hand, and tried not to be surprised when Rene kissed him on both cheeks. The man seemed nothing short of elated to see Marie-Ange again. "<This is wonderful!>" he said. "<How long will you be in Paris?>"

"<A few days,>" Marie-Ange replied. "<We're looking forward to hearing you play tonight!>"

"<Hearing us? Oh, dear girl, join us! Do you still play?>"

"<Oh, yes, of course! I have never forgotten.>"

"<Have you ever heard her?>" Rene asked Doug, beaming. "<One of the finest improvisational jazz musicians I have ever heard!>"

"<Yes, I've heard her,>" Doug nodded, smiling, "<and I agree. She's one of a kind.>"

"<Oh, Rene, Pierre is also a wonderfully talented musician,>" Angie told the old man. "<And he plays just about anything! Piano, guitars, horns, recorders...>"

"<Wonderful!>" Rene gushed. "<Do you play jazz?>"

"<I've dabbled,>" Doug shrugged.

"<Oh, we will simply have to hear you play,>" Rene insisted, "<both of you. The patrons will love it!>"

"<We also have a saxophone player with us,>" Doug added. "<If she can find the place, of course.>"

"<Even better!>"

At that moment, a fourth person came into the room, this one a fairly short young blonde woman who all but shouldered past Rene and threw her arms around Marie-Ange. "<Oh, Marie-Ange! Henri told me you were here! It's so good to see you!>"

"<Hello, Claire!>" Marie-Ange grinned, kissing her on the cheeks. "I missed you.>"

"<This is incredible... Oh, Henri also said to say that there is someone here for you. A woman.>"

Marie-Ange shot a look to Doug. "Sharon?" she asked.

"<One way to find out,>" he shrugged.

"<Yes. We should go and see who it is. Rene, I would be happy to play tonight, but don't you already have a new bass player?>"

"<Oh, yes, but I'm sure he would not mind sitting out a few moments for you. And you, Pierre?>"

Doug looked at Marie-Ange, but she only rolled her eyes merrily at him. "<Ah, yes, certainly,>" he nodded. "<I'd love to.>"
 
 

The four went out into the bar proper, Rene and Claire going off behind the bar and leaving Doug and Marie-Ange alone for the moment. The stage, in one corner of the main room, was now abuzz with activity, as Henri and several others set up their instruments, including a simple drum kit, a few guitars on stands, and an upright piano that had probably been there longer than the stage itself.

As it turned out, the woman in question was indeed Sharon. She spotted them from the bar, then padded over to them, a path clearing for her as she went.

"Bonsoir, Sharon," Marie-Ange smiled wryly, looking apologetic. "Are you alright?"

She nodded. "Catseye got lost on Metrotrains," she sighed, looking sheepish. "Was ages getting back."

Marie-Ange hugged her. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you angry."

"Is okay redhair," Catseye said in her ear, holding her tightly. "Was only worried, is all."

"I'm glad you found us," Marie-Ange sighed. "I wanted to tell you that you were right."

Catseye looked at her, surprised. "Think so honest, redhair?"

She nodded, pitching her voice so that only Catseye's sensitive ears would hear. "I will take your advice, and try."

The two looked at one another for a while, and then hugged again. Doug gave them both a bemused look. "Everything okay?"

"Of course, goldenmane!" Catseye beamed. "Will be fine now!"

The three found one of the last unoccupied tables, and took a seat, just as things began to get underway on stage. Of the five-piece band, Doug only recognized Henri, on drums, and Rene, leading the way with his trumpet. Doug did not have much experience with jazz, but he could hear the skill in Rene's masterful playing. Every note from the trumpet was pure and distinct, and he wove his melodies around the structure laid down by the guitarist, bass-player and pianist.

"Do you recognize any of them?" Doug asked Marie-Ange.

She nodded, briefly fishing in her purse for her tablet and pencil. "The dark-haired woman playing the piano is Veronique," she told him, "and the tall moustached fellow playing guitar is Jean-Loup. I do not know the bassist."

Doug looked down at the tablet in her hands as she began to sketch. "What are you working on?" he asked.

"A saxophone," she replied. "In case Sharon wishes to play."

"Play what?" Sharon asked, having heard her name.

"Rene asked before if we would like to play with them later," she explained.

"Really?" Sharon asked, eyes widening. "Ooh, Catseye would be happy and pleased to play for Parispeople!"

Marie-Ange nodded and smiled. "I should hurry, then."

The band played on, even as Marie-Ange sketched furiously, drawing an open saxophone case with the dismantled parts of the instrument nestled within. Catseye had her eyes glued to the stage, and was rocking back and forth in her seat as the band played, thoroughly enjoying herself. Doug watched as well, paying particular attention to Rene and his trumpet. The man was a master, no question.

They played a set of original compositions, then went on to some good old-fashioned Charlie Parker tunes, one flowing out of another. At length, Marie-Ange finished her drawing, and shook her head, as though coming out of a trance. Doug looked over at the page, and was impressed with the accuracy of the sketch, given the short amount of time and the conditions.

"Will it work?" he asked.

"Let's find out," she nodded, looking at the sketch and concentrating. After a moment, the image wavered, then disappeared.

"Was it supposed to do that?" he asked.

She nodded and smiled, then scooted her chair back and reached under the table to close the open case that had just appeared there. Doug looked down at it, somewhat surprised. No one could possibly have seen it appear there in this darkness. Besides, everyone else was watching the band.

At length, Rene stepped up to the microphone (Doug wasn't sure why they had one, seeing as none of their songs had had vocals yet) and addressed the applauding crowd. "<Thank you, my friends! Tonight, we have some guests with us, and I hope you will welcome them warmly. Some of you who have been here in past years may remember our young lady with the swift fingers, Marie-Ange! She has come back to us for the night, and brought two friends from her school in America! Shall we invite them up?>"

The applause grew in intensity, and Marie-Ange gave Doug a look of purest happiness. This was her life, he knew. She motioned her head to the stage, and they stood up. Sharon gleefully took the sax case from the floor and followed them up.

Up on stage, Marie-Ange exchanged hugs and kisses with Jean-Loup and Veronique. There was a brief discussion, after which the bassist (whose name turned out to be Herve) kindly allowed Marie-Ange to use his bass for a time, and Veronique abandoned the piano for Doug. Sharon began unpacking the new saxophone and assembling it, looking quite pleased with herself.

Before taking the piano bench, Doug exchanged words with Marie-Ange. "I should warn you that I don't know much jazz."

"Oh, it's easy," she assured him. "The first rule is that there are no wrong notes in jazz."

He nodded. "That's heartening."

"You'll do fine," she laughed. "Go on now."

With one last nod, and a thumbs-up to Catseye, he took a seat at the piano, making sure he could see the others from where he was.

They let Marie-Ange start it off with a bluesy passage of outlined chords on the bass. Jean-Loup quickly caught on, and gave her a rhythmic accompaniment on his guitar, at the same time that Henri entered the picture, using brushes over his snare and high-hats to keep the quiet mood. Doug watched Jean-Loup's hands for the chord changes, then came in a couple of measures later, following along. He played by feel, seeing as if he looked at the keys, he'd probably lose track of what they were doing.

Rene joined them at last, playing a melody that wove out and around and between the chord passages. He played for a couple of measures, then nodded to Catseye. Nodding back, she came in on the sax, repeating his melody back to him, note for note. They continued in this way for a while, a two-part fugue between the two horns. Each of the players slowly began to get into it at this point, with Jean-Loup adding some brief passages of lead-notes to his rhythm-playing, and Marie-Ange giving them rapid, rumbling passages from the bass. Doug watched her carefully as she played; she reminded him of John Entwistle of The Who, as she herself did not move much, but her fingers were a blur on the strings.

They continued on, modulating in and out of several different keys as they went, just doing one long improvisation, spotlighting each of them in turn. Marie-Ange was the first to do a solo, followed by Jean-Loup, then Sharon, and even Doug, who decided to ham it up a little with some ratty old saloon sounds, earning him a smile and a wink across the stage from Marie-Ange.

When they finally wrapped it up, Doug's adrenaline had him on the edge of the bench. It had been one of the most amazing musical experiences of his life. To date, his work had been mostly concerned with accuracy and perfect harmony, while here, there was a broader freedom, and where there was more dissonance than he was used to, it had its own particular beauty.

Rene beamed at the newcomers. "<Very well done! Do any of you sing?>"

"<Pierre sings,>" Marie-Ange nodded, pointing to Doug.

"<Now wait just a second,>" Doug shot back, holding up both hands.

"<Come, come, sing us an American song,>" Rene grinned. "<I like to hear what they are doing over there.>"

Doug considered this. "<Does anyone have an acoustic guitar?>"

"<We have one in back,>" Veronique nodded, from where she'd been watching. "<I'll get it for you.>"

"<Come, come,>" Rene insisted, motioning for Doug to join him at the center of the stage. "<What will you sing for us?>"

"<How about something Californian?>" he asked.

Rene wrinkled his forehead. "<The Beach Boys?>" he asked.

"<No, something a bit more recent than that,>" Doug smiled. "<Ah, should I try to translate it into French?>"

"<Non, sing it in English,>" Rene told him. "Many of us know it anyway," he added in an accented, but unflawed English.

"<There is a joke,>" Jean-Loup added here. "<If a person speaking two languages is called bilingual, and a person speaking three languages is trilingual, what do you call a person who speaks only one?>"

"<An American,>" Doug nodded. He'd heard that one many times.

Marie-Ange giggled. "<Pierre is an exception.>"

Veronique arrived with an old classical guitar, which Doug took from her dubiously, then began to tune it. "Merci. <Ah... Jean-Loup, watch me for the chord changes. Henri, when I nod to you, come in full, using the sticks, not the brushes. Angie, I think you'll recognize this one...>"

"<Oh?>" she replied, cocking an eyebrow at him.

He nodded, then turned to the microphone and addressed the crowd. "<This is a song from California, done by a group called> 'Toad the Wet Sprocket.' <It's called> 'Before You Were Born.'"

With no further ado, he launched into the rhythm-guitar opening, and belted out the first verse for all the bar to hear. He had the momentary satisfaction of seeing the surprise on the faces of most of the patrons before he nodded to both Henri and Marie-Ange, indicating that they should jump in here. They did so, Jean-Loup following soon after, adding his electrical sound as well. Rene did nothing - merely watched them, smiling.

After the first verses, Doug nodded to Sharon, who took what should have been a guitar solo and instead played it on her sax, giving it a whole new and different sound than Doug was used to. It was fun to hear, though, and Sharon played it perfectly. She'd only ever heard the song once or twice, when Toad had been put into the six-disc mix back home, but that alone seemed to be enough for her to have committed it to memory.

After the solo, Doug turned to Marie-Ange and sang the last verse to her.

And how can it happen, now that you know the cause
That nothing is changing, and everything's wrong
But pain is the healing, and the tears sting like alcohol
Just keep on there breathing
We'll help you down the long, long road back home

"<Wonderful!>" Rene grinned at them.

"<They do love American music here,>" Marie-Ange nodded.

Doug nodded back, and smiled. "<And how about you?>"

"<I know what I love,>" she grinned, reaching with one hand to bring his face closer to hers and kiss him. "<Come, let's play some more.>"

Hôtel de la Seine, Paris
Friday, 31 December 1993 11:41 am

Doug and Marie-Ange woke up in one another's arms, an enviable position by both of their standards.

"Good morning," she yawned, smiling at him fuzzily.

"Bonjour," he whispered back, holding her close to him.

For a while after that, they just lay in silence. "That," Doug said at last, "was an incredible evening."

"I had almost forgotten how it felt," she smiled, sitting up to yawn and stretch. When she looked down at Doug, he was smiling at her.

"And what are you looking at?" she asked him.

"What does it look like I'm looking at?" he asked in reply.

She crossed her arms over her bare chest. "Not much to look at, I'm afraid."

"Nonsense," he chided her. "Angie, you're very beautiful. Believe that. I know I do, small breasts included. If you were built like Jennifer, say, it'd throw your whole look completely off."

She gave him an amused look, then retrieved her robe from the floor and slipped it on, standing up. After another stretch, she suddenly got a very surprised look. "Where is Sharon?" she asked.

Doug looked down at the foot of the bed, where Catseye had been curled up asleep. The covers were rumpled where she'd been lying, but she was gone. "Maybe she went out for breakfast?" he suggested.

"Her bags are gone," Marie-Ange said, the bottom dropping out of her voice.

Doug swung himself out of bed, then, and got his own robe on. "Oh, shit, what would she want to leave for?"

It was then that Marie-Ange found the note lying on the dresser. She picked it up and read it silently. "Oh... Oh, this would... I see."

"What?" Doug asked, stepping over to see the note. "What's it say?"

She handed it to him. It was written in what could only be called a meticulously messy penmanship.
 

Catseye gone home for holiday. Will meet you at La Jolla.
Be well, be loved, and do not worry- Catseye will be fine.
Enjoy time alone- is little of this already, yes?

Love,
-Catseye

Marie-Ange sighed. "She tends to vanish during most holidays. She never tells us exactly where she goes, though."

"That's right," Doug nodded, remembering her disappearance shortly before Thanksgiving. "Will she be okay, do you think?"

"Once she gets out of France, I'm sure she'll be just fine," Angie nodded. "Sharon is very resourceful. She's made several of these trips before, and always returned quickly." She looked relieved by this. "It's also possible she may have wished to give us some time alone."

Doug smiled. "That was sweet. She's right, too. Once we get back home, there'll be precious little of that."

They stood together in silence for a while, then Marie-Ange sighed. "There is still much here to see before we go on. Where should we begin?"

"Doesn't matter," Doug shrugged, then put his arms around her. "Just so long as it's with you."

She smiled and let herself be held. "No hurry, then," she replied. "We can start right here."

Next: "Who's Gonna Ride Your Wild Horses?"

Go West #16: "Entre Nous"
by Jeremy Bottroff, 11 April 1994

This story (c) 1994, 1999 Jeremy Bottroff

"Entre Nous" (Between Us) performed by Rush, lyrics by Neil Peart, music by Alex Lifeson and Geddy Lee, (c) 1980, 1999 CORE Music Publishing (ASCAP) CAPAC, Canada, from the album PERMANENT WAVES

"Before You Were Born" performed by Toad the Wet Sprocket, lyrics by Glen Phillips, music by Glen Phillips and Toad, (c) 1991, 1999 Wet Sprocket Songs (ASCAP), from the album FEAR

Marie-Ange Colbert (Tarot), Manuel De la Rocha (Empath), Danielle Moonstar (Mirage), Douglas Ramsey (Cypher), Rictor, Rahne Sinclair (Wolfsbane),  Sharon Smith (Catseye), Warlock, Hellions, Massachusetts Academy (c) 1999 Marvel Entertainment Group

Brigitte Colbert, Sylvia Maurant, Michael McAudry, the Thibaudet family (Claire, Henri, Mireille, and Rene, plus their Friends In The Band Veronique, Jean-Loup and Herve) created by Jeremy Bottroff, (c) 1999 Jeremy Bottroff

A Mutated Milieu version of a No-Prize for anyone who gets the reference to Marie-Ange's grandfather.  Hint: He's not a Marvel character.

Pierre Coulombe is actually the name of another user from Genie: one who never read Go West, I believe, but who was a member of John Terra's Justice League Genie as the Crimson Frog.  More on that a few chapters down the line.

University Towne Center is extremely busy during the holiday season, for what it's worth.  You can't even get within hailing distance after the 21st of December or so...