Chapter Eight: Something Wicked

   ‘Daring, darling, darling, what are you doing?’

    Francesca turned the mirror to see her reflection, and shushed it. ‘Shhh! I am looking at these boots in the window, I think they’d go really well with my blue dress, the one with the silk bow ...’ She turned the mirror toward the boots. ‘What do you think?’ The Specchio was silent for a minute, and then tutted, with a click of her tongue.

   ‘Yes,’ She answered. ‘They are nice dear, that I can’t deny, but no, they would most definitely not go with your blue dress.’ The Specchio paused a moment, uncharacteristically thinking, before she burst out laughing. ‘I see I’ll have to teach you a thing or two about co-ordinating your wardrobe!’ Francesca’s cheeks turned quite pink, and she spluttered.

   ‘Teach me a thing about co-ordinating my wardrobe?! I beg your pardon, but when was the last time you had a wardrobe?!’ Her reflection smiled infuriatingly back at her her.

    ‘Me?! I have a wardrobe bigger, and more elegant than yours, now stop being a brat and start thinking about why we’re out here in the middle of the night!’ 

                                    Francesca was turning purple.

  ‘More elegant,’ she choked. ‘Than MINE?! Oooh!’ She stomped. ‘I have half a mind to smash you -’

  ‘Can’t be done, go ahead and try.’ The mirror paused, hoping she wouldn’t actually try, as she was fibbing of course. It could be done. She decided she was safe and smiled her most infuriating smile back at Francesca. ‘I dare you.’ 

   Francesca stood at the side of the shop window, her knuckles turning white as she squeezed the handle of the mirror harder and harder before she finally screeched and thrust it back into her bag with an oath and stalked off toward St Etienne du Mont. 

   Her reflection in the shop window did not, however, follow her along the imperfect surface of the shop window. It stayed fixed to the glass, watching, as if waiting for something to happen, and then, as Francesca rounded the corner, her reflection turned away and slowly disappeared from the window. It rippled away like a rock had been dropped into a small silvery pool, and slowly, the light all around the shop - the candles behind shutters, the lamps at the street corners and even the glow of the moon seemed to fade, and extinguish for a moment, before an incandescent line grew out of the darkness in the air. 

                                                   It sparked.

  Little filaments sizzled in the darkness, and then they spiralled round and round until it became an invisible outline that resembled nothing less than a small girl, a young girl, a girl with long, curly, dark hair. 

   An unmistakable transparent facsimile of Francesca appeared on the pavement in front of the shop and smiled. The apparition spun, arms out, fingers slicing through the warm night air, pirouetting where it stood, electrifying the evening. The sudden smell of cordite permeated the breeze and it laughed, a soundless laugh that could be seen in the open mouth, in the soft creases around its eyes, and in the delight of its step as it suddenly ran from the window, spinning and dancing beneath a great oak that hung over the glistening cobblestones. It stretched out its long transparent fingers and caught some fireflies that had been resting among the branches and watched them as they pulsed softly over her palms.

   The flies illuminated the veins, the muscle, and the tiny bones in her hands. She stared, transfixed, as the little creatures navigated over her flesh, crawling over the tiny newly formed hairs on her arm, tasting the perspiration that rose to the surface. 

   An abrupt, distant sound echoing off the damp street caught the apparition’s attention. Forgetting the fireflies, she smiled absent-mindedly, crushing the insects against her skin and turned to gaze across the square in the direction Francesca had taken. 

   ‘Francesca!’ It shrieked. ‘Where are you little girl? Let us play!’ 

   It skipped along the small, dark street, and then started to run, soundlessly, over the stones, giggling. Francesca darling, I will find you.

                                                          ***

   Limone, or melone? On nights like this I can never decide which is best. Francesca was lost. Oh, she fully intended to arrive at St. Etienne du Mont, but she distracts easily where clothes are concerned, and you’d be surprised just how many shops sell dresses, blouses, broaches, buttons, hats, bonnets, gloves, slippers, sandals, boots and shoes to the unsuspecting who are terrified of falling out of fashion within the great metropolis of Paris. 

   Now, to be sure, the shops weren’t open at that late hour, but that didn’t mean that they didn’t lure the poor girl with large windows filled with sumptuous displays cleverly, and underhandedly, designed to snatch the attention of the least of the fashion followers with the promise of artistic lines, and the newest couture ... and as I said, Francesca distracts easily. 

   Perhaps the cleansing tang of the limone is best, and certainly the sourness is in keeping with the sad fate of the poor fireflies. 

   So, if you browse your current topography of Paris you’ll see that St. Etienne du Mont is located on a hill in the 5th arrondissement, and Francesca had decidedly strayed way off the hill, as she had wandered right down across the 6th, past the Jardin du Luxembourg, and into the 7th, right onto the rue de Varenne. 

   The rue de Varenne is a narrow, surprisingly quiet street, given it is replete with Hôtels particuliers. Most of the elegant homes that line the street were built in the 18th century, peeking out behind grey stone walls that gave them a modern, cold air. 

   Unfortunately for our dear Francesca, however, the street is also dangerously close to the famous Ecole Militaire. The Ecole was built under Louis XV to educate and train 500 cadets that came from ... humble origins. This particular Ecole des Cadets Gentilhommes was also where young Napoleon Bonaparte was a cadet in 1784, but do you think that concerned Francesca just now? No. Not one bit. You would think wandering the darkened streets after curfew would be enough to keep one’s mind on the plan at hand, but not her, she was still mentally trying on a lovely pair of blue-sequinned ballerina slippers that were reflecting brightly from behind the window of one of the better shoe shops.

   ‘The strap, is just so, no? I think, if I were to go to the Opera I would wear those, but when, when, do I ever get taken to the Opera?!’ Francesca pressed her face up against the cool glass and pouted. ‘Anyway, who would ask me? I’m never going to meet anyone, not while I spend my summer living with my uncles!’ 

   She studied the reflection of the moon in the shop window and sighed. ‘Some summer this is turning out to be! I should have stayed in Italy. I bet you all of my friends are dancing beneath this very same moon tonight! What am I doing here Specchio?!? Specchio?’ 

   Francesca turned the mirror over and looked into the glass. It was empty. Her reflection was absent, only a grey liquid mist that slid across the surface of the glass was present as she turned the mirror in her hand. ‘Dio, what now?!’ She whispered, pressing her hand against the glass. It felt ... tacky, like warm, soft honey, but not as sticky. She pulled her hand away, and the mirror briefly sparked, showing the outline of her palm before it faded back to nothingness. ‘Well, now I’ve done it. If I broke it, Uncle Leo is going to kill me! I’m going to have to ask Monsieur Épée du Bois ... damn! What time is it?!’ She looked around and saw a clock above a small fountain, and gasped ‘Late! He is going to murder me too!’

   Rummaging in her bag she pulled out a compass and found a rough estimate of east, the direction she ought to be travelling in, and pulling on her hood, she started running down the street, and, unfortunately for her, right into the middle of the military Night Watch.

                                                        ***

                     Francesca stood very still as they surrounded her. 

   There were five, no, six of them on horseback. Peeking quickly from under her hood, she guessed the horses were probably colts, as they were still small, and seemed a little skittish, like they weren’t accustomed to being out together yet. This might work to her advantage if she could get out from under their hooves. ‘You there!’ What was obviously the officer, smacked her on the shoulder with his riding crop. ‘Don’t you know there is a curfew? What are you doing out at this hour?’ Francesca stared at her feet, perspiring a little. The soldier turned to his comrades smirking. ‘He doesn’t speak! A little thief dressed in black, or an idiot from the gutter, either way, this is a good opportunity for you to practice using your muskets.’ 

    He ran his fingers through his oiled beard and brought his horse to canter around Francesca, aiming his pistol at her for the amusement of the others. ‘Do you know what we do to idiots in this arrondissement?’ He asked her, running the crop over her shoulders. She didn’t answer. He narrowed his eyes, and feeling the eyes of his men on him he knew he had to do something. Holding the crop over her hood, he tapped her upon her head, and cleared his throat to emphasise each word. ‘We - shoot - them.’ 

   Francesca was freaking. Well, this was just too much! She thought. When faced with being shot, or worse, it was time to defend oneself, and after a mental tally of the objects she had at hand, she realised she had ... absolutely nothing. 

   Francesca let out a big sigh, lifted off her hood, and, shaking her head of curls with a flourish, she gave the soldiers her best big-eyed, little girl smile, and then?  She started to cry.

                                                          ***

   When Francesca gracefully popped into this world from her mother’s womb she gave the mid-wife a look that stilled her hand and saved her young bottom from the customary slap. The young babe knew right then she had something special. So, as she grew, she learnt she could use it to her advantage, as when she disliked something upon her dinner plate, she had merely to lower an eyelid, and “voila” it was removed. So when young Francesca was confronted by these rogues, these soldiers, well, they didn’t really have a chance.

   Half a dozen plain, grey, military-grade cotton handkerchiefs were hurriedly rummaged after, found, unfolded, and thrust out to Francesca, who sniffled and daubed her pink, blotchy, and still extraordinarily beautiful eyes. 

   Gathering the kerchiefs into the semblance of a rose, she gazed up over it and into the individual eyes of the men. ‘Merci Messieurs, you are all very kind to help me, for I am quite lost, and am in search of my poor cats which have run away.’ She sniffled again. Satisfied she had their attention, she held the kerchiefs to her bosom, and looked up into the night sky. ‘I’ve been searching all through the night, oh please, please God, don’t let them come to harm.’ She let a tear trickle down her cheek. ‘If it means I am to be arrested by these gentlemen then you must watch over them!’ She then spun on her heel, and feinted a faint, giving the three nearest soldiers enough time to scramble to her side and catch her up in their arms.

   ‘Mademoiselle, mademoiselle, please!’ The officer in charge held Francesca as the men scrabbled to lay a rough blanket upon the ground underneath her. Francesca, content that her ruse had worked, resisted the urge to smile, and slowly opened first one eye and then the other. The officer audibly sighed in relief. He knelt at her side and took her hand.

   ‘Mademoiselle, you must accept our apologies.’ He looked up at his men. ‘We have no intention of arresting you!’ The men all looked suitably sheepish and apologetic, all the while jostling one another to be better suited (and seen) should she require their further, and most sincere assistance. ‘You must understand our bewilderment in seeing you out at this hour, and in this ...’ He paused, examining her pant-suit in undisguised confusion '- outfit. ‘What were we to think? He said, his voice raised an octave. ‘It is past curfew, you are here in this quarter …’ He trailed off, not sure what else to say to the girl.

   Then, realising he hadn’t even told the young lady his name, he abruptly stiffened. ‘Pardon me, Mademoiselle! Allow me to introduce myself, I am Sergent Condé, Sergent Michel Condé, and these men, including myself are in the Eighth Division serving under the Emperor, Napoléon, par la grâce de Dieu et les Constitutions de la République, Empéreur des Français.’ The men held their rapiers over their hearts and saluted her on bent knee.

    Smiling her perfect smile, she handed back the handkerchiefs, rose, with the Sergent’s assistance, and brushed herself off. ‘Apology accepted Messieurs. You have been most kind in your treatment towards me. The Emperor must surely be grateful to have men such as you defending this great city …’ She batted her eyelashes. ‘Now, I really must be on my way –’ Sergent Condé held up his arm, barring her. ‘I’m sorry Mademoiselle, but there is still the matter of the curfew …’ He glanced at her, and then quickly looked away again. ‘Where exactly are you going?’ 

   This was unexpected. Francesca suppressed the urge to run, and smiled sweetly instead. ‘Why, I am going home Monsieur Sergent.’ ‘Ah.’ He said, lowering his arm. She waved at the soldiers and turned hurriedly up the street, but before she got five paces the Sergent called after her. ‘Mademoiselle?’  She stopped, spinning on her heel to face him. ‘Oui Monsieur?’ Condé didn’t immediately speak. He stepped up into the stirrup of his horse and turned it round to face her. ‘Mademoiselle, if you are indeed lost, as you say, and believe me I have nothing but the most sincere reason for asking, but if you are lost … then how can you be sure of where your home is?’ 

   She blinked. He had a point. 

  Francesca pretended to adjust her hood and pull a few loose strands of hair off her forehead. ‘Ah, Monsieur Sergent, you are right, of course … perhaps you would like to point me in the correct direction? That is,’ she smiled at the other soldiers. ‘That is, if you can trust your capable comrades to be on their own?’ The soldiers laughed at this comment, and Sergent Condé walked his horse over to her. ‘Mademoiselle, I do not see any reason to leave my men alone, nor do I see any reason why we cannot all accompany you.’ 

   Before she could protest, he reached down and, grabbing her under her arm, lifted her up into the saddle. ‘Now, before we get started, I think we would be most honoured if you told us a little about yourself, we can be trusted, of course.’ The men all smiled at their Sergent’s comment, and egged her on with a chorus of hoots and whistles. This is turning into quite the adventure. She thought. Adjusting herself in the saddle she turned toward him. ‘Monsieur Sergent, I do not know you so well, but if you can direct this horse to the fifth arrondissement and St. Etienne Du Mont, I would be most grateful.’ 

   Laughing, he clicked his tongue, and his horse begun to trot. The group started along the street, and Francesca relished the early morning breeze and the prospect of having her very own escort around her. Paris on horseback was something she had not yet experienced, and her trousers gave her the freedom to ride with relative ease. Passing the glimmering shop windows and shuttered apartments, she wondered if her new found acquaintances could be trusted. They looked trustworthy. This Sergent Condé was not a bad looking man, his skin was less than ideal, being marked with the pox in his youth, and he did have that beard ... that would have to come off. But he did have charisma and a lovely shock of chestnut hair. She giggled, in spite of herself. He would not tolerate the flippant attitude of Gaspard lightly, that was for sure! She had half a mind to march into the church with her escort in tow and teach that so-called monk a lesson in manners!

  Francesca lost herself in a contented reverie as they trotted through the deserted alleys and boulevards, until they found themselves in the elegant sixth arrondissement. Her nose twitched, alerting her that here was the atmosphere of nobility. 

   The nearby Orangerie was open and it perfumed the path with orange blossom. There too, was the sweet smell of lilac mingling with the greenery. They rode on in silence beneath the large plain trees and their colourfully mottled trunks. Between them she could just make out the reflected lights of the Palais du Luxembourg, this was, of course, the magnificent Jardin du Luxembourg. The Palais, constructed in 1615 for Marie de Médicis, was receiving a new Florentine façade and the occasional tapping of a stonemason at work could be heard through the trees. Francesca sighed. Oh, she was tired now, the steady pace of the horses only accentuated the ache in her body. Shifting in her saddle a little, she stretched her shoulders and tried to yawn (discreetly) into the back of her hand. A small breeze blew, raising her curls off her shoulders. Was it getting colder? There was an unusual dampness, a chill to the air.

   ‘So mademoiselle, tell me, do you not fret over the whereabouts of your cats? To chase them this far from your home demonstrates you have a great devotion for them, I think.’ Condé’s comment caught her off guard - again. She turned to reply, when he held a gloved finger to his lips. The look in his eyes startled her. He was quick to make her understand he was not really interested in the welfare of the cats, but that he was concerned about something else entirely. Signalling his men with a gesture, they spread out along the moonlit trail. Suddenly moving as a military unit, they slowed their horses, peering through the branches with their weapons in hand. 

                                   Someone was watching them. 

   The chorus of insects had become still, and all of the life in the garden slowly lost its colour. The flowers and leaves were hushed as a million little lines of condensation grew over their surfaces, bleeding out into fantastic shapes, giving everything the appearance of a frosted pane of glass. 

   A slowly, swirling white fog rose up from the ground, suddenly obscuring the horses and riders. Condé, gathering the reins on his horse, whistled twice for his men to tighten up their formation. Reaching into his saddlebag, he offered Francesca a small pistol. He gazed from left to right and whispered over her head. ‘Have you ever fired a pistol Mademoiselle?’ Not waiting for an answer, he put his hand over hers. ‘Keep the powder dry,’ he said, his voice oddly hushed in the fog, ‘and beware the flash, as it will momentarily blind you if you are not careful.’ Nodding, Francesca felt her teeth begin to chatter. ‘Monsieur? What is happening monsieur?’ A cloud of vapour chased each word as it exited her mouth in the growing cold. Condé shook his head. ‘I’m, not exactly sure, there is something …’ A sudden movement in the trees caught his attention.

   The two nearest soldiers exclaimed in shocked surprise as tiny hands appeared through the bushes. The hands snatched out at them, and leaves and debris fell away, shattering like crystal as they hit the ground. One of the horses panicked, reared, and violently slammed its rider into an overhead tangle of branches. The Sergent spun round and yelled at his men to capture the spooked horse. The soldier closest to the commotion frantically whacked at the bushes with his sabre, but found himself suddenly immobilised as the tiny hand grabbed the leg of his horse. The animal’s eyes bulged, and it screamed in terror. The horse drew back its lips in pain and then it stiffened and began to crumble away beneath him. The soldier quickly jumped off, stunned, and stared in disbelief as his steed broke apart into tiny, glittering pieces. Condé jumped down from his own horse, and yelled at the man. ‘Davide, move!’

                                             It was too late. 

    The tiny hands shot out once more from between two branches and grabbed at the blade of Davide’s sabre. He opened his mouth to cry out, but only the start of a shriek passed his lips before he too began to crumble away, his limbs falling, and shattering upon the ground. The remaining men stood back in the fog with their pistols at the ready as Condé circled the scene. Francesca, atop the horse, stared in wide-eyed horror at what had just happened.

    ‘Francesca?’ A tiny, musical voice floated through the fog. ‘Francesca, come over here.’ A brief flash in the trees to her right revealed the pale apparition. ‘Oh!’ She exclaimed, a hand raised to her mouth in surprise. 

     Apart from the clothes, they looked exactly alike. 

   ‘Francesca, darling, let us play.’ She smiled, skipped, and began to walk toward Francesca, but Sergent Condé intervened, stepping between them. ‘Francesca, do you know this … girl?’ He slowly pulled his pistol from his belt. Francesca, stared, too frightened to speak, shook her head. The apparition took another step. ‘Francesca? But you and I are friends.’ It smiled. ‘Come, come Francesca.’ Condé raised his pistol. ‘I am sorry Mademoiselle.’ He said to this copy of Francesca, ‘but you are under arrest in the name of Bonaparte, Emperor of France.’ 

   The apparition turned her glistening eyes upon him. ‘I do not recognise you.’ She grimaced, quietly snarling. ‘You have no authority over me.’ Her eyes narrowed, and then she suddenly skipped forward and pounced at him.’ Condé fired his pistol. He caught her full in the chest. Shrieking, she fell backwards, her dress blackened from the impact. Francesca’s horse, startled at the noise, jumped, and knocked Condé to the ground unconscious. The apparition pulled herself up, frowning at the bloodless wound in her chest and turned her gaze upon Francesca. ‘Look at my dress Francesca,’ she pouted. ‘It’s ruined.’ 

  The apparition began to cry. ‘My dress is ruined!’ Her eyes flashed, darkly. ‘This is your fault Francesca.’ She stamped her foot against the earth, lowering her voice, and then she snarled again, spitting like an angry kitten. ‘Come here darling.’ She pointed at the ground beneath her feet; ‘Come here now.’ The remaining soldiers fired their pistols in unison, one of them hit the apparition a second time, sending her spinning back into the ice covered shrubbery with a howl. Francesca’s horse had finally had enough. It spooked. 

   The horse bolted, jumping high over a hedge, and raced out into the street, hooves throwing up sparks as it scrabbled for footing. Francesca wrapped her hands in its mane and buried her face, sobbing as it galloped away from the horror behind her.