December 2019

One cold, hopeless night in Paris, a homeless orphan girl meets a mysterious woman The only noise that night in Paris was the soft tapping of my flats against the cobblestones. It got louder at some parts of the road and softer at others. Sometimes it was fast: a short, discreet sound; other times, slow, like a grandfather clock ticking away the hours. My hair flew out behind me like a blonde sail, as did my frayed white dress. It wasn’t quite white, though. Years of living on the streets of Paris had turned it a light, caramel-colored brown. My hands, smeared with soot and sweat, clutched a handful of stolen coins. I ran my fingers over the words and pictures, reading them without seeing them. Faster and faster I ran, with no real destination in mind. I was feral, desperate, untamable. I looked up at the sky as I scampered through the dark alleyways. The bright stars stared back at me, their beautiful luminescence stunning my eyes. They were the only light in my life, the only light to guide me. Suddenly, a wave of sorrow passed over me, so strong I cried out. Images of my mother, draped in red robes and minkfur scarves, filled my mind, as sharp and clear as the cinema. I didn’t care how deplorable she was, how deplorable my past might have been. I remembered looking up to her; she was the only thing I’d had. She had been my life. Until she died. I felt a glut of tears well up in my eyes and didn’t stop them from pouring out onto my flushed cheeks. Rubbing them away with dirty hands, I crumbled to the cobblestone street. I felt the cold hardness of it through my dress. As I curled in a tiny ball on the street, a hollow clunk thudded down the road, sounding like a rusty cowbell. Without looking up, I envisioned a man with a large bushy mustache, graying on the edges, his stomach bulging from a black suit. Right now, he would be reaching up and checking the time on a gold pocket watch engraved with his name, Henri. The soft light of the lamp above him shone down, turning him into a ghostly figure. “Mademoiselle.” I looked up, startled by the high, nasal voice. When I saw the woman standing above me with a smirk plastered on her face, I jumped up. She wore a tattered gown that must have once been beautiful, but now the jagged hem was stained red. Here, my imagination got the better of me; I pictured the woman smearing her dress in a child’s blood. I shivered, though the humid air made my sweat trickle down my back in rivulets. The woman’s eyes stared at me, willing my mouth to say something. I could not utter a word. I just took in this lady from head to toe. Her face was wrinkled and old like the pages of a well-loved book, her eyes shone, and her silvery hair coruscated in the moonlight. “Can ya talk?” she asked with a glint of confusion in her eyes. She had an aura of faded beauty around her. I could tell she had once been a figure of stature, of honor. But now she was an unsightly old lady. Her silvery hair was ugly and full of split-ends, her boxy hands stretching out the fabric of her silky white gloves. She had hideous black boots that were muddy and slick with rainwater, boots that must have been three sizes too big. Nevertheless, I was a naïve child, and I loved her almost immediately. “Yes, Madame, I can talk,” I told her. Brushing my blonde hair from my face, I tried to smooth my dress and seem as formal as possible. I doubt I did, though, for my shoeless feet were dirtier than her boots, and my skin had a layer of grime that made it darker. “Good,” the woman announced firmly. “I was beginning to think ya couldn’t.” She extended a hand to me, and I was surprised to see it only had four fingers. There was a small stump where the ring finger should have been. Alarmed, I shot my hand back, staring into her deep eyes. She laughed heartily. “Lost in a scrimmage with some pirates. Long story. Anyway, I’m Clementine. Call me Clem.” Clem smiled, rotten teeth stuck in her mouth like tombstones. I smiled too, my flushed cheeks lifting. I nodded my head, my mind slowly processing what I had heard. Before I could ask anything, Clem inquired, “What are you doin’ out here on a night like this? And what’s yer name?” I frowned. “I’m Alice,” I told her sharply. My life was like that cactus in William & Son’s Apothecary. It had seemed so beautiful and sublime that I had stumbled into the store to touch this unique specimen—but when I did, one of the hidden, protruding spikes stabbed my finger, drawing a small drop of blood. When my few and short-lived friends got to know me, they got to know my spikes, my sharp, prickly spikes that I tried so hard to keep hidden. Clem raised one perfect eyebrow but didn’t ask anything else. Inside, I thanked her for not being like the gendarmes who always had a million questions at their disposal. “Well, Miss Alice,” Clem pondered aloud. “I am wonderin’ if you’d like to come with me just down the street to Café de Minuit. They have great coffee if yer old enough.” My stomach flooded with joy, always enticed by the thought of free food. “Yes, Madame Clementine, I mean, Madame Clem. Yes. Please. Merci.” I spoke that last word louder, for my stomach growled, and I could not let this kindly old woman hear it. How kind, I thought to myself, admiring the one golden ring on her thumb. It was perfectly smooth and surprisingly dull. It wasn’t the solid gold I noticed, though,