Season of Ashes Ch. 03-05

He'd learned as many tricks as he could to blend in with a crowd; people of his size were difficult to hide, but there were still ways of making eyes pass over him. By softening his military rigidity, wearing a faded tee, adopting a casual air of nonchalance with his partner...they might be able to slip by unnoticed. Still, they didn't want to take any chances. He steered Milicent along the far wall, using a group of Asian tourists as a screen between the two of them and the man. Ducking his head as if engaged in a casual conversation with Milicent, he pulled her into the nearest shop, the shelves stacked high with cheap souvenirs for tourists.

There. A rack of sunglasses, cheap plastic affairs that were sold for ten times their worth and would undoubtedly break as soon as they left the country. He pulled two pairs of wide aviators off the rack, pretending to consider them as he watched the man in the grimy mirror. He hadn't noticed them; he was still more concerned with getting his lunch. Fujiwara breathed a sigh of relief, and handed a pair of sunglasses to Milicent with a half shrug.

"Better than nothing. Tourist shit is a good way to avoid wayward eyes. I'm going to have a look for a jacket or something."

It was a shame to see Milicent's elegance so defiled, but it would help keep eyes off them, and they didn't need the attention that came with her glamour. Garish clothing emblazoned with slogans for tourists would hide them in plain sight. He let his arm fall from around her waist -- though he couldn't help himself; his fingers lingered for a moment on the small of her back. Racks of clothing lined the back of the small shop, and he tugged a too-large jacket off the shelf without looking. VIVE LA FRANCE! It proclaimed this with bright lettering, managing somehow to be a size or two too large, but ill-fitting clothing would do for a short time.

He piled his spoils on the counter before the unenthusiastic cashier, waiting for Milicent to return with hers. Behind the counter, his eyes caught a glimpse of a familiar package: Ted Mullins' favoured brand of cigarettes. Fujiwara suppressed a shudder; he could already taste the acrid smoke on his tongue. Never again. Never.

Milicent

While Dominik shepherded her away from the improvised bulwark of the vending machine and toward the sheltering obscurity of the shop, Milicent relied on every ounce of her inhibitory willpower to keep her gaze from straying in the direction of the resurrected driver. It was difficult work, for it engendered all sorts of uncertainties in her head. Was he looking at them? Was he moving? Was he exchanging a look with an accomplice? She was depriving herself of precious intelligence with each ignorant step she took. There was also a hint of superstition to her misgivings -- the sort of illogical certainty that makes one confident that a spider will disappear as soon as one's gaze strays.

It was therefore reassuring to acknowledge, by virtue of a brief sidelong glance, that the driver was still in place, still ostensibly unaware that his quarry had wandered near, and still unwavering in his resolve to purchase a snack. She noticed his left foot drag and squeak along the tile as he shuffled forward in line; he hadn't fully recovered from his misadventure.

She accepted the sunglasses from Dominik, nodded in response to his remark, and proceeded to camouflage herself amidst the racks and shelves of the shop. At her height, it was easy enough to merge with the masses, so she concentrated on merchandise that would best obscure her features to close observers. The glasses would distort any impressions of the upper half of her face and hide, beneath their reflective veneer, the intensity of her eyes. To complement the effect, she selected a brimmed floppy hat, off-white in colour, which could easily be slanted to immerse her expression in shadow. A cursory glance at the knitwear yielded a powder-blue cardigan sporting atop its breast pocket a pale-gold representation of the Eiffel Tower. She might as well dress for the weather.

Folding the garment over her arm, she began making her way to the register.

"Madame?"

Milicent's hair flew as she turned in the direction of the voice. An elderly woman, tightly bundled in a puffy jacket and a long skirt, held out her hand to Milicent; the fingerless glove sheathing her hand boasted a large hole that exposed the centre of her palm.

"S'il vous plaît? Pour manger?" Milicent must have looked exceptionally confused, for the woman immediately transitioned to another tongue with all the adroitness of the train station's disembodied announcer. "Please? Money? For eating?"

"No. Sorry. I don't have--" --Money? A silly thing to say, Milicent realised, when she was obviously in the midst of a shopping spree. Her momentary hesitation seemed only to invigorate the beggar, but the cashier spared her of any further distress with a quick "Va t'en!" The woman scowled and scurried off with a grumbling litany of insults.

Milicent took stock of her surroundings and sighed in relief; the brief incident hadn't aroused any undue attention. She slipped on the sunglasses to conceal the direction of her gaze and risked a veiled glance toward the driver. He was enjoying the riches of a successful hunt: his hand gripped a checkerboarded napkin sheltering the crusty bread that slowly diminished with each of his mousy bites.

Fury seized her. Saliva washed around in her mouth, tangy and metallic. She thought she might scream. It wasn't fair. This insignificant little worm was free to slither around with impunity while she was forced to dance with the shadows. Intrusive thoughts flashed through her vision: she was back in the Peugeot, hands fumbling for control of the gun, only this time she succeeded in angling the barrel toward her foe -- and watched the pretty viscera of his pink brains ornament the roof of the car.

The episode passed almost as quickly as it came. She swallowed, head spinning, and wondered if she might throw up. Milicent considered every inconvenience a grave injustice, so it was only fitting that she regarded the miscarriage of her mission -- and all its attendant consequences -- as a disgrace of unparalleled awfulness.

Her fingers were trembling somewhat when she removed her sunglasses, piling them with the hat and cardigan and placing them on the counter next to Dominik's finds. She passed behind him, carelessly glancing at a row of postcards while the cashier tallied their total, and whispered her thoughts to him: "He knows what we don't."

Milicent assumed that the driver wasn't alone. There was no sight of his partner, who had either succumbed to his injuries or was beginning the slow process of recovery, but there would be other accomplices -- figures whom neither Milicent nor Dominik would be able to recognise. There would be protocols in place: regular check-ins, reports, schedules, routes. Dispatching this solitary pawn could very well have a domino effect that would invite the wrath of forces Dominik and Milicent were ill-equipped to handle by themselves. Sometimes it's better not to pull on a loose thread, lest the whole sweater come undone.

Milicent tried to fight the bloodthirst. But she couldn't help monitoring, out of the corner of her eye, the driver's progress through the station. Having finished his meal, he tossed the napkin into a bin and walked toward the public toilets. He handed a coin over to the uniformed troll that guarded the latrine entrance, then made his way into the men's facilities. Out of sight.

Dominik

He didn't bother counting the change as the attendant passed it across the counter. Instead, Fujiwara tugged on the too-large hoodie, flipping the hood up to cover his angular features. He turned to hand the cardigan to Milicent, only to see her standing rigidly, her eyes fixed on the man who was now stepping into the toilets.

He couldn't blame her, but at the same time, he knew that it was a mistake to entertain any fantasies of further revenge for the previous night's attack. The impulse he felt was much the same, but it wasn't possible. There would be others, and they would notice a missing compatriot. He stepped between Milicent and the man, looking down at her with a reflection of her own anger. He leaned in, his voice low.

"We can't afford to, Milicent. We don't know how many others there are, or what they're planning. The safest thing is to get to the train. Get out of the city before they know we've left." The man behind the counter looked at them with an unblinking boredom, plugging headphones into his ears. His job was done; he'd sold more overpriced rubbish to idiot tourists, and he certainly didn't care to hear their quarrels. "If we get arrested here, we have no way of solving this."

His tone was grim; he spoke with urgency as he tried to make himself heard over the rage he saw in her.

Her fury was barely controlled; he could see the coiled tension in her body that threatened to erupt into action. As much as he'd come to know Milicent, he'd only seen a brief glimpse into her character. There was no telling what she was capable of when infuriated, and there was only one thing he could think to do that would distract her from her fury. He cupped her cheek, leaning in to press his lips to hers in a kiss.

It was slow, not the hunger that he'd shown the night before. Her lips were soft and warm against his, and his left hand slid over her hip, lightly resting there as he tried to mollify her. He let his touch linger, his lips an inch from hers as he spoke again. His breath was hot on her skin, and he leaned forward to murmur into her ear. "Easy, Milicent. Don't throw it all away just to teach him a lesson. We're going to get the fuckers who did this, but we have to be careful. Just trust me, okay?"

This was the riskiest part of the plan. If they blew their cover now, they had more than thugs to contend with; they'd draw attention from the police as well. He knew she was aware of that -- but he just didn't know her well enough to tell how she'd react to enemies in such close proximity. The espionage trade brought many different types; he'd seen other agents blow their cover seeking revenge before, and he wasn't going to let it happen to Milicent. Not if he was there to prevent it.

She was right. The driver knew what they didn't; he knew where to turn to for assistance, knew what traps were waiting for them, or what reinforcements were available to him. He knew who was behind this, or at least who had hired him. The temptation was there; the urge to beat the man into a pulp until he spilled what he knew, but they were powerless. Their enemies held all the cards, and they would be set upon in a matter of minutes if they tried to do anything about it. Instead, he forced his mind back to the present. Back to the things they could do, rather than fantasies of revenge.

He slid his arm around her waist again, though his grip dug into her flesh through the shorts she wore. He was determined to keep her focussed on the present, and prevent the rage from overcoming her. They had other issues to worry about. Milicent's earlier suggestion was a good one, they should get phones. Something they could use to keep in touch, something that would let them keep track of the world around them, and wasn't tied to them specifically. The electronics store next to the souvenir shop would be priced for convenience rather than frugality, but it would have to do. They didn't have a choice. He swept their purchases off the counter, placing the hat on Milicent's head at a jaunty angle, and handing her the sunglasses and cardigan.

Music throbbed from speakers as they stepped inside. An acne-ridden teen behind the counter glanced up at them disinterestedly, before turning his attention back to his phone. He had more important things to worry about than the pair of idiot tourists. Dominik selected the cheapest phones hanging off the back wall of the shop; they'd be reliable enough for the time being. Fifty euros would get them both prepaid phones with no questions asked.

The teen hardly glanced up from his phone as Fujiwara slid the boxes across the counter, along with a few bills. The phones were plastic, one step above disposable, and certainly not what either of them were used to. They could make calls, and barely surf the internet. That suited Fujiwara just fine for the moment. He handed one to Milicent, tearing the plastic off the other and discarding the packaging in a bin as they stepped out of the shop.

"Where are we meeting the train?" He didn't glance down to her as he spoke, looking instead for any sign that things were amiss. With the hood and sunglasses hiding his face from the world, Fujiwara felt a little less exposed. They could blend into the crowd a little more easily. It might just be enough.

Milicent

Dominik obstructed Milicent's view -- why on earth was he so tall? The candent heat of her rage had dampened, but the smoldering dregs still possessed an incinerating quality which predisposed her to find fault with even the mildest affronts in her sight -- including her companion's height. No amount of mollifying logic could hope to instantaneously soothe her temperament and set it back on its proper course, but Dominik augmented his counsel with a decidedly unexpected garnish: his lips met hers with the assured ease of a long-established lover.

The brittle framework of her anger immediately splintered. His lips had a glacial potency; they arrested the heat that had been brewing inside of her. The glass cannon of her temperament, having been exposed to a flush of warmth and a surge of chill in quick succession, cracked under the influence of thermal fracturing. Milicent was surprised -- alarmed, even -- by her response to this tactic. Was it the shock of the surprising gesture that had relaxed her, or was she falling prey to some stupefying elixir latent in his lips?

Trust me, he said. If only he knew how easy it was. That was the trouble; she didn't trust herself when she was around him. The unexpected regard that had bubbled up between them forced her to include his prosperity in her personal vision for happiness -- a selflessness that was wholly alien to her nature.

Though odd, the partnership was beneficial. She could see the wisdom in his admonition. She had reached the same conclusion on her own, though she often overlooked the strictures of her own conscience. Knowing better isn't quite the same as acting better; she was grateful Dominik was here to police her conduct.

To the cashier, the interaction between the two customers resembled the conclusion of a lovers' quarrel, and it was probably amusing to see the stiff expression on the blonde's face persevere even after her partner balanced the hat on her head, as though she were an ill-tempered toddler enduring the ministrations of her caregiver. Milicent ripped off the tags from her trinkets, pulled on the cardigan, and filtered her vision with the new sunglasses while she accompanied Dominik to the next store.

The presence of the new cell phone filled her with regret. It was another reminder of everything she'd lost. So much of her life was stored on her own devices. She was supposed to commemorate a friend's birthday today, and tomorrow would have been her weekly call with her parents. The old social pattern of her life -- the predictable rhythms which provided stability and order -- had now vanished into thin air. In the absence of all those ties, only Dominik -- who was hardly more than an acquaintance -- remained. It was an odd consequence of catastrophic change: the strangers with whom you endured a disaster became more vital than the friends who stayed on the periphery when disaster struck. Dominik and Milicent's alliance was an accident of happenstance, an unfortunate mingling of accursed fates, but they were making the most of it -- and they'd managed to transform their losses into victories against all odds. Milicent tore her new cell phone out of the packaging. This was her life now: a tabula rasa, an empty directory -- bare apart from the man by her side.

"I'm going to list you as 'devil emoji' in my contacts." She kept the phone aloft in both hands, using it as a prop while her sunglassed gaze swept around the signs and markers of the station. "I think we're looking for a lounge somewhere...there." She pointed at an electronic display featuring the golden infinity symbol of the Lemniscate beneath the Beaufort crown; a bouncing arrow guided travelers to an escalator leading up to a glass-railed mezzanine.

The prospect of finally being able to relax gave Milicent a pronounced bounce in her step. She guided them forward to the base of the escalator. Along the way, her eyes fell upon the distinctive shape of a security kiosk in the middle of the foyer. A mosaic of creased and yellowing pages, some bare and some laminated, speckled the exterior of the hut, but one poster -- prominently white in its newly printed glory -- stood out among the rest. Milicent recognised her own face peering back at her.

"They work fast."

She didn't dawdle. She continued her march to the escalator and climbed the steps without stopping for the machinery to raise them. They were close, so close, and there was no use delaying their entry to paradise. Not if the train was ready to receive them.

Across the landing of the mezzanine, a pair of wide, frosted-glass doors beckoned to them. A crystalline lectern stood beside the doors, and standing sentry behind it was a tall, thin man garbed in a navy three-piece. His silver hair gleamed beneath the fluorescent lights of the station, matching the silvery sparkle of his eyes when they glanced up to meet the gaze of the approaching strangers. The creases of age that lined his features intensified as he smiled -- in a decidedly non-Parisian manner -- and addressed them.

"Bonjour, Monsieur. Madame." His eyes made a quick study of their outfits and their phones. He code-switched: "Welcome to the Beaufort Salon. Might I ask for your--?"

"--Isabelle Moreau assured us that you would be able to accommodate us on the Lemniscate today."

The man's eyes widened; the curve of his smile widened from polite regard to obsequious interest. "Oh, of course. I received the call from Mme. Moreau myself this morning. I'm delighted to welcome you both--"

"--We've had such a long day already. Is the train here now? Do you suppose we could board immediately?" Milicent kept her tone disciplined and unwavering, as though she were accustomed to asking for the world on a platter. She noticed the slight flare of alarm that crossed the man's expression and added: "Isabelle seemed to think it'd be no trouble for you. But if it's too much of a bother..."

"Not at all! The Lemniscate is in the station. I only have to check whether they've finished connecting the Moreau cars. It won't take but a minute." He lifted the receiver of his telephone and began dialing a number. "In the meantime, please make yourselves at home." He gestured to the double doors, which immediately parted to reveal a chic lounge. Midcentury armchairs and sofas populated the centre, a bar dominated the opposite wall, and a set of stools lined a glass counter affixed to a window that overlooked the ground floor of the station below. Glossy prints of the Lemniscate's sumptuous interiors decorated the tables and walls, showcasing exquisite dining cars, cosy lounge cars, and private cars outfitted with beds and sofas and en-suite baths.

Milicent walked inside with a welcome feeling of serenity. The finish line was within sight. She glanced around the lounge and spotted only two other figures in the chamber: a solitary businessman who appeared to be taking a nap on a leather loveseat, and a young woman tending the bar across the room. Milicent placed her phone on the glass counter and jumped on the stool.