Sakura

He turned the corner onto a deserted street. The raucous laughter and loud music of the Boulevard de Clichy faded as he wandered further into the maze of Pigalle.

A prickle on the back of his neck warned him that he was no longer alone. He glanced over his shoulder and, out of the corner of his eye, spied the silhouette of a man watching him.

Frowning, Credence crossed the street and then doubled back, thinking he could return to the boulevard. The click of shoes on the pavement alerted him that the other man followed. Credence picked up the pace, eyeing the lights up ahead.

A pair of hands shot out from an alley. One seized him by the arm and the other clamped over his mouth. Credence struggled against the arm that bound him, the hand that silenced him as the assailant dragged him into the dark. The hammering of his heart turned his breaths ragged.

The silhouette of the pursuer paused at the mouth of the alley and then approached him. He rasped in French, the words lost on an American, and then rifled through Credence’s pockets in search of money or valuables that definitively weren’t there.

His lack angered the pair, who proceeded to attack him. There was a time when Credence would have cowered before the two men, but living out from under his mother’s thumb and finding that he could survive on his own had done wonders for his confidence. He raged against them with all his might but eventually succumbed to the volley of fists. All the while, the monster inside of him swelled with every painful blow. He shuddered to release it, even now that he’d gained some modicum of control over it, but the glint of a knife sent him over the edge.

His eyes rolled into the back of his head as his body exploded into a fiery black cloud. The walls of the alley shook and crumbled, barely able to contain the Obscurus. It engulfed the two men, tossing and mangling their bodies like ragdolls in its furious vortex until their screams died away. 

In the ensuing silence, the turbulence slowed. Swirling, it drifted away from the two slain bodies, out of the alley back toward the Boulevard de Clichy. It shrank the closer it came to the lights and then receded entirely, leaving only Credence leaning against a wall.

Pain radiated across his ribs with every shuddering breath he took. His vision swam as he limped forward.

Was this all he was, all he'd ever be worth? An outlet for others' violence?

A woman fidgeted on the corner. She’d been there for some time now, waiting for an errant intoxicated passerby, and her fingers had gone numb from the cold. She cupped her hands together and brought them to her mouth, breathing hot air on them. Her eyes raked up and down the street, but it seemed that the inhospitable temperature had driven everyone indoors. With an impatient sigh, she rubbed her frozen arms and wondered if she too should take shelter.

Someone bumped into her from behind and sent her stumbling forward with a startled gasp. So it seemed some lout had found her after all. She collected herself, arranging her features into a genial smile, and laughed coyly. “Had too much to drink, have we?”

She turned and the smile fell from her face. Her eyes widened at the sight of a disheveled man, bruised and bloodied and barely able to stand. Her pulse raced and her thoughts with it so that when she opened her mouth all that came out was “M-monsieur?”

He slumped toward her and she barely caught him, crumpling under his sudden weight. Her knees struck the pavement below, the pain drawing a quiet cry from her. A groan preceded his head dropping onto her shoulder.

“Monsieur!” She held him up by his elbows and looked around desperately, to no avail as they were alone. A furious gust of wind tore through the street, nearly bowling her over. She shuddered at its frigid bite and, close as he was, felt the man do the same. There was nothing for it then.

She hesitated only for a moment and then slung his arm around her shoulders, hoisting them both to their feet.

The altercation and transformation had taken everything out of Credence. Barely aware of himself, he let the stranger lead him where she may.

He came to slumped on a wooden chair beside a crackling fireplace. His gaze lingered on the flames, which swam in and out of focus. He sucked in a deep breath through his nose, though his ribs creaked and ached with the effort. Someone touched his face and he flinched away, his hands shooting up to fend them off.

A feminine voice murmured to him, the words foreign but the tone reassuring. Meekly, his hands fell away of their own accord down into his lap. He turned his attention from the fireplace, blinking hard to focus, and found a pair of clear green eyes peering at him.

He winced when a damp handkerchief pressed against his bottom lip, pain blooming underneath. The fabric came away bloodied. Brow furrowed, he scrutinized the stranger in front of him.

Though apparently tending to his wounded face, she watched him just as closely with a tense set to her shoulders, stooped down so that they were at eye-level. Her spindly fingers swept a tendril of light brown hair behind her ear as she straightened to her full height.

They regarded each other for a hushed span. Prolonged eye contact still set his nerves on edge, so he dropped his gaze. When she broke the silence with a question, he shook his head, unable to understand her. “I’m sorry, I don’t…”

She smirked at him, lifting a delicate eyebrow. “You are American?”

 “Yes." He sighed, relieved that she spoke English. Despite his stint in Paris, the breadth of his French skills began and ended with the basic niceties.

Her fingers pinched a clean corner of the handkerchief and touched it to his eyebrow. “And what bring you to Pigalle, Monsieur…?”

“Credence.” He grit his teeth at the stinging over his eye. That he’d wandered into Pigalle explained the assault. The other circus hands had described the area as seedy and crime-ridden.

She appraised him for a moment then took a flask from the mantle and offered it to him unstoppered. "Here. It help with the pain." She scoffed at the uncertainty in his eyes and took a swig herself, swallowing deliberately before offering again.

He took the flask from her hand but didn’t drink from it right away. A question nagged at him that he hesitated to voice but did so all the same. “Sorry, but–why are you helping me?”

Both their eyes flew to the lone window in the room when a howl of wind shook the shutters. It seemed that the weather had degenerated further since they’d left the street behind.

She met his gaze with both eyebrows raised. “You freeze outside.”

He couldn’t imagine why his fate would concern her but felt grateful nonetheless. He watched her quietly as she moved away from the fireplace toward a small drawer by her bedside. The silence, punctuated by the occasional crack from the hearth or whistle of a draft, grew uncomfortable enough that he asked, “What’s your name?”

She glanced at him from the other side of the room, surprised. After a moment, she replied, “Cecily.”

Remembering the forgotten flask in his hand, Credence brought it to his lips and tilted his head back. The bitterness of alcohol took him off guard as it washed over his tongue and burned down his throat. He coughed, stoking fire in his ribs. With a harsh groan, he doubled over and wrapped an arm around his midsection.

Cecily crossed the room briskly and knelt in front of him. With one hand she took the flask from him and set it aside, placing the other hand on his shoulder. She slipped back into French momentarily but then, shaking her head, switched back to English. “What is it?”

Between harsh breaths he grated out, “My ribs.” The sudden presence of her fingers on his chest, undoing the topmost button of his shirt, flummoxed him. He thought he ought to say something as she migrated down the column of buttons but he remained silent, his cheeks burning. A sharp intake of breath brought his gaze to Cecily’s troubled face, her eyes fixed on his torso.

He spotted a mirror on the opposite wall and, carefully so as not to lose his balance, stood from his seat and wandered toward it. Huge bruises bloomed purple and red across his skin. Frowning, he brushed a finger over the center of the largest one and grimaced in pain.

Cecily’s reflection hurried past behind him; in his peripheral vision he saw her exit the room through a second door. Left alone, Credence let his gaze wander away from the mirror to explore the room.

It was small and modest, not much more than a single bed and some sparse pieces of worn furniture. A lone light bulb set in the middle of the ceiling did little to illuminate the space. The delicates dangling from a makeshift clothesline near the fireplace made him flush. He moved absently, bumping a little table behind him, and froze in place at the unmistakable sound of breaking glass.

His blood ran cold in his veins as a compulsive memory took hold. He was a little boy in the Second Salem church bringing an overfilled cup of tea to his Ma, wanting to surprise her. Hot liquid sloshed in the treasured heirloom as he started up the stairs; a bump sent some spilling over the rim onto his fingers. On instinct alone, he dropped the teacup, heartbroken when it sundered at his feet. That was the first time Mary Lou had ever struck him, and it would be far from the last. The tinkle of shattering glass, the thwack of leather on skin, the piteous cries that went with it echoed inside his skull and started a cold sweat on his brow.

Cecily returned with a cold pack only to find Credence ashen and hyperventilating. Anxiety stirred within her at the blatant fear on his face. “Credence?”

His eyes shot up to meet hers, alarmed. He choked out around the lump in his throat, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Confused, she glanced down toward his feet and saw the only possible source of his dismay: a broken cup. Frowning, she started toward him but stopped short when he staggered back away from her. “That? Cher, is nothing.”

Her lips moved, but the words were lost for the ringing in his ears. Credence trembled as she closed the distance between them in three quick strides, certain she meant to strike him for his carelessness. So when her arms enveloped him in a gentle hug, the gesture was almost too much for him to take. His arms hung slack but his head drooped onto her shoulder, a choked sob wracking his body.

There was something so familiar about him that she hadn't hesitated to embrace him, moved by his anguish. His tears bathed the curve of her neck and his panicked breaths puffed over her chest. Shakily, she placed a hand on the back of his head and reassured him once more, “Is nothing, cher. Is nothing.” Her other hand rubbed gentle circles on his back in the hope it might soothe him.

And it did. The tears abated first and then, little by little, his breathing evened out. For the second time that night he found himself completely spent so that when Cecily guided him to sit on the bed he didn’t resist. The panic had gone, but it left shame in its wake. How pathetic he must have seemed, a grown man undone by nothing more than a little broken glass. He could barely look Cecily in the eyes as he accepted the cold pack she offered for his bruised ribs.

 Her gaze lingered discreetly on him as she swept the shards of glass into a dustpan and dumped them into a small trash bin. He kept his eyes averted as he moved the compress around his torso, nursing the bruises there. She thought he seemed embarrassed, hunched in on himself while the tips of his ears burned pink. Thinking it best to let him be, she kept her distance and remained quiet.

Credence replayed his outburst over and over in his mind, chastising himself each time. He thought he should apologize to Cecily and started to do so but a question floated to his lips instead. “What does it mean?”

She glanced up in surprise. “Pardon?”

“Cher.” She’d called him that twice. “What does it mean?” He kept his head down but regarded her through his lashes.

A faint smile lit her features. “It mean dear.”

“Li-like the animal?” The second the words left his mouth he felt stupid, doubly so when she tittered at him.

“Non, pas l’animal.” She felt bad for laughing, especially upon seeing a blush rise to his cheeks, and brought a hand to her mouth to stifle her laughter. Still, a tiny smile lingered on her lips. She wandered toward him absently, composing herself as she went. “‘Dear’ like, ah, like a friend, a family.”

Dear. The sentiment, even from the mouth of a stranger, warmed him. He let his gaze fall to his lap, a faint smile on his lips.

Cecily realized too late that the endearment may come across as impertinent to an American. “Sorry,” she fiddled with her fingers to stem a sudden rush of embarrassment, “you prefer Credence?”

His head rose as he replied a bit too quickly, “No.” Wide-eyed, he subdued himself before going on, “It’s–it’s nice.” It was nothing short of a miracle, really, that anyone would refer to him as such.

They smiled tentatively at one another, and a comfortable silence settled over the pair.

She surprised him when she clasped his hand in both of hers.

She in turn was surprised by the roughness of his palm against her fingers, like no calluses she’d ever known.

His heart thumped in his chest when she made as if to turn his hand over. He jerked it away, shame washing over him anew at the idea of her seeing his scars. Her kindness stemmed from ignorance of his failings. What would she think with such an ugly part of him laid bare? Surely, the evidence of his endless shortcomings would disgust her. His fingers curled into a tight fist at the thought.

Frowning, she sat beside him and looked directly into his eyes. “Let me see, cher. Please.” The request fell from her lips in a gentle murmur as she held her hands out to him.

He cringed away from her at first. But something in the clear depths of her green eyes coaxed him so that, slowly, he offered his hand and allowed her to turn it palm up, exposing the tableaux of his trespasses.

Cecily’s heart jumped into her throat at the sight of his scars, her mind recoiling at the possibilities of how he got them. Her finger traced gently over the pale ridges that criss crossed his skin, her expression troubled. She breathed out, “Who do this to you?”

He’d had to look away as she scrutinized him, unable to bear the look that came over her face, frightened of what it could mean. His heart skipped a beat at her question but he answered anyway, almost too low for her to hear, “My Ma.”

She glanced up from his scarred hand with quiet horror in her eyes, “Maman…?”

He chanced a look at her, and the glassiness of her eyes took him aback. His fingers curled around hers, his thumb grazing her knuckles. Without consciously deciding it, he found himself offering more, “Only she wasn’t. My maman.”

Back in New York, he'd stuttered over his name when Skender had asked for it on the docks. Credence had almost defaulted to Barebone but then thought better of it and gave his birth mother's surname, Dugard. He’d refused to bear his adoptive mother's name across the sea. It would die with her in Manhattan.

As if it mattered, really. Barebone or not, Credence carried Mary Lou with him everywhere he went. She lived in the flinch from an unexpected touch, in the cold sweat that drenched his body after a nightmare, in the very scars that marred his skin. “My mother–she’s somewhere here in Paris.”

A tiny light came to Cecily’s eyes at his confession. “You look for her?”

He nodded. “But all I have is a name.” And the endeavor felt more and more hopeless with each passing day. 

“And your family in America?”

Modesty had fled in the face of the demon she’d once called her brother. He’d searched for her after his stand down in City Hall station, reduced to a mere wisp of smoke, but had found no trace of his youngest sister. Then he’d made his way back to the destroyed church. He’d known he would find Mary Lou there and, despite the torment she’d inflicted on him, had still ached at seeing her once-proud face pale and still and marked by the beast. What he hadn’t expected was to uncover Chastity, an unintended casualty of his wild bid for freedom, in the rubble. He would never forget the coldness of her cheek against his, the stiffness of her body clutched in his arms, how he’d howled like the animal he was. “They’re gone.”

Cecily brought a sympathetic hand to his cheek, eyeing him sadly.

Sighing, Credence leaned subtly into her touch, comforted by the warm gesture. So few people touched him, and those who did often did so in a bid to control him. Still, he longed for human contact more than he could say. That she gave it freely and with no ulterior motive to speak of felt almost too good to be true. He looked into her eyes, doubt flickering in his mind. He’d been fooled in the past, wasn’t so naive as to believe it could never happen again. When her hand fell away from his face he let it, if not with a tinge of reluctance. A few quiet moments passed before he thought to ask, “What about your family?”

She looked into his eyes but didn’t respond right away. Finally, she shook her head, “No family. I am, ah…” Her mind quested for the English word but came up empty, so she offered in French, “une orpheline.”

That sounded an awful lot like, “An orphan?”

She nodded.

He’d met so many throughout his years at the church, orphans of war and disease and poverty. He wondered at her circumstances but didn’t have the heart to ask, offering instead, “I’m sorry.”

“Is ok.” Her hand reached for his. She smiled faintly when he took it and offered a gentle squeeze. “I never know my parents. I grow up à l'orphelinat.” Though she’d held out hope, no one had ever adopted her and the orphanage had turned her out on her eighteenth birthday. She’d been on her own ever since, resorting to whatever means necessary to survive. Years of scraping had first afforded her a squalid chambre de bonne and then an unpermitted room in the boarding house where she currently lived. She didn’t have the words to convey all of this and so simply said, “I make my life alone.”

For all intents and purposes, he’d made his life alone too. Ma had fed and clothed him, kept a roof over his head, but she’d never loved him. He’d tried so hard for so long to win her approval despite her rebuffing him every time. Eventually he’d accepted that nothing he did would glean a single ounce of affection from Mary Lou–in fact, his efforts seemed to invite the exact opposite–so Credence had resigned himself to avoiding his mother’s wrath. Were it not for his sisters, Modesty especially, all he might have ever known were apathy and censure. “I know it sounds stupid because I grew up with a family, but…I know how you feel.”

She shook her head with a quiet sigh. “Pas stupide. If someone treat me the way your maman treat you, I feel alone too.”

Some of the orphans had confided in him from time to time, horror stories of the orphanages and the foster homes in which they were placed. He hoped that she hadn’t suffered as they did…as he had. Hesitantly, he asked, “Were they kind to you, at least?”

She gazed down at her hands, considering, and then shrugged a little. “Not unkind, but…indifférent.”

“Say it again?” He ducked his head a little to get her to look at him and, when she did, watched her as she slowly enunciated the word: indifferent. He understood that concept all too well. Outside the scope of her teaching and disciplining him, he’d felt nigh invisible in Ma’s presence.

Somewhere above their heads, a clock chimed. Two in the morning.

Cecily stared up at the ceiling, listening, and then stood. It was getting late and, given the storm outside, neither of them were going anywhere. “You tired, cher?”

In the silence, his eyelids had begun to droop. He blinked the sleep out of his eyes, shaking his head a little to rouse himself. “Are you?”

“A little.” Absently, she wandered toward the foot of the bed and shrugged out of her dress, revealing the slip underneath.

Credence almost choked at the sight. He swiveled his entire body away from her, his face burning. He’d heard enough sermons on lust and coveting to know never to look upon a woman with either.  Her shoulders alone had been enough to set his pulse racing.

It was all Cecily could do not to laugh, seeing how deliberately he avoided looking at her. She stepped out of the dress and slip puddled around her feet, musing over Americans’ squeamishness about nudity compared to their French counterparts. She crossed to the wall where her nightgown hung and took it from the hook, pulling it over her head. Still, his embarrassment stoked some of her own. For his comfort and hers, she slipped into a robe to maintain some modesty.

He jumped slightly when he felt her hand alight on his back and, hesitant, peeked over his shoulder. Seeing that she was decent, he turned to face her. His voice cracked when he tried to speak, so he cleared his throat before he tried again. “Are you going to sleep?”

She considered for a moment, gauging how she felt and realizing she was sleepier than she’d realized, then nodded.

He rose to his feet and surrendered the bed without question. The wind had persisted to howl outside; leaving seemed at best unwise, at worst impossible. Regardless, he felt the need to ask, “Is it okay if I stay here with you?”

She blinked in surprise, thinking his staying had been a given. “Yes, of course!”

He offered a faint, grateful smile in reply. Neither the church nor the traveling circus he called home offered much in the way of physical comfort, so he felt certain he could make do with sleeping on a chair or, if hard pressed, the floor.

Her gaze lingered on him as he seemed to deliberate between the two chairs in the room, one at the table and the other in front of the fireplace. A bemused expression settled onto her face as she took a seat on the bed. She called to him and, once she had his attention, patted the space on the mattress beside her. He flushed the deepest shade of scarlet she’d seen yet and she had to cover her mouth to hide an amused smile.

Credence could barely breathe, let alone speak at this point. He made a valiant effort nonetheless and croaked out, “I-I couldn’t.” If looking at a woman was frowned upon, then it felt safe to assume that so too was lying beside one.

She regarded him for a moment and then stood. “You sleep on the bed. I sleep on the floor.”

“What?” His eyes almost popped out of his head at the suggestion that he would put her out so completely. “N-no, this is your home.”

They bickered back and forth for a bit from opposite sides of the bed. It ended in a stalemate and, ultimately, they both sat on the mattress facing away from one another.

His eyes slid toward the hearth and focused on the dying fire there as he murmured an awkward confession, “I’ve never sle–shared a bed with a woman before.”

She turned to him and tilted her head, curious. “What age you have?”

He ducked his chin, feeling judged, and mumbled, “Twenty-six.”

His innocence tickled her. The more devious part of her mind considered how fun it would be to free him of said innocence, but she brushed that thought aside. She patted his hand, “Your virtue safe with me. We sleep, no more.” With that, she moved to lay down. He slid the lone pillow beneath her head as she did, such that only she could use it. Cecily smiled up at him, warmed by the gesture. “You are sweet, cher.”

He simpered at receiving yet another compliment, overwhelmed by so many in a single night. She indicated a light switch beside the door and he went and flicked it off. He turned, but the idea of joining her prone form on the bed rooted him in place.

She watched him as he wavered by the door and offered a reassuring smile. “Only sleep. I promise.”

Credence had fallen so far from grace, strayed so far from forgiveness, committed the most heinous sin against his own family. What would one more matter now? Steeling himself, he finally laid down. He faced away from her, perched as close to the edge of the bed as possible, and curled his arm beneath his head. All the while, his heart hammered against his chest.

She curled up to give him as much space as the small bed allowed and aimed a wry smile at his tense back. “You do not trust me?”

“No, I–I mean I do. I do trust you.” To his surprise, it was true. Though he’d barely known her for an hour and though he’d been a poor judge of character thus far in his life, something in his gut told him that he could trust her. He might have chalked it up to naivety or wishful thinking, but Credence was also learning to trust himself more.

“Then relax. Please.”

He tried. As his thoughts meandered through the night’s conversation, he made a conscious effort to loosen his body, to let it sink into the mattress. “Good night, Cecily.”

“Bonne nuit.”

As quickly as his eyes slid shut they shot back open, stinging with interrupted sleep. Adrenaline prickled through his veins as the remnants of a nightmare slipped away like sand through a sieve. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, panting. His gaze roved around the room, completely dark now save for the few stubborn embers that smoldered in the fireplace.

Cecily made a quiet sound beside him.

Credence turned to her and, before he even knew what was happening, felt himself tugged into her arms. One slipped around his waist, anchoring his body to her own, and the other cradled his head to her shoulder. He laid there tense and wide-eyed while his heart raced and his breathing hitched. “C-Cecily?” he hissed.

She sighed and stroked her fingers through his hair but said nothing.

He warred with himself. Knowing it would be wrong to enjoy her closeness, he denied the pleasure of her touch on his scalp, the warmth of her body pressed against his. But his abrupt awakening left him groggy and, though he tried to fend it off, fatigue soon crept back into his limbs and his mind. Slowly, he settled into her embrace. The quiet, steady beat of her heart beneath his ear lulled him to sleep.

Muffled chiming roused him the next morning. Not quite awake yet not quite asleep, he listened as somewhere a clock tolled once, twice…ten times. The realization of how late it was jolted him to full awareness. As he came back to himself, he realized that his arm lay draped over Cecily. Blushing, he shifted and made as if to withdraw his hold from around her waist.

She stirred and, with a sigh, snuggled closer to him.

His breath caught in his throat as her back pressed flush to his front. He froze at first but then, for just a moment, allowed himself to relish being so close to another person. He shut his eyes and enjoyed how soft and warm she felt in his arms. A few fragrant strands tickled his nose when he breathed in the clean scent of her hair. Everything inside of him ached at the realization that this peaceful moment was finite and rare, so very rare. Bitter tears sprung to his eyes but he blinked them away.

Reluctantly, his thoughts returned to the morning ahead; he had to get back to the circus. Should he go quietly and let her sleep? It felt wrong to leave without saying goodbye, but then so did waking her up.

She rendered the point moot when she stretched and offered a sleepy “bonjour.”

A small wave of relief came over him as he replied, “Bonjour.” Knowing now that he wouldn’t disturb her, he shifted away and sat up. His fingers moved to do up his shirt, still unbuttoned from the previous night. “I’m sorry, I know this is sudden but I have to go.”

She turned toward him, eyes half-open, and mumbled vaguely.

He offered an explanation even though she hadn’t asked for it. “I have to get to work; I’m already late as it is.”

With a mighty sigh, Cecily sat up and rubbed her eyes. “I walk with you,” she declared, swiveling out of bed.

A polite protest died in his throat when she moved to pull off her nightgown and he had to whirl away from her. He crossed to the table and leaned heavily on top of it, his whole face burning. Had she no sense of decency at all?

Still in a stupor, she donned a simple white frock, combed her hair, and splashed her face with cool water. The rinse invigorated her and set a good tone to the start of her day. 

Credence deemed it safe to face her and turned to find that she smiled radiantly at him. His heart stuttered at her loveliness. He averted his gaze as she approached him, surprised that she seized his hand and all but tugged him out the door.

The wind had cleared out while they slept, leaving behind an overcast but otherwise calm day. Sacre Coeur loomed in the distance, a beacon to those seeking Montmartre.

Credence felt awkward when she linked her arm through his and led them toward the neighboring arrondissement, though he didn’t dislike the feeling of her side brushing his own.

Moments later, her stomach snarled with hunger. She stopped short in front of a viennoiserie and peered longingly into the window.

He followed the line of her gaze and eyed an assortment of delicious pastries, his mouth watering when the shop’s door swung open and the decadent scent of sugar and butter wafted out.

Without a second thought, she towed them both inside. A single person stood between them and the display case.

Credence patted his pockets discreetly and remembered that he had no money. He tried to make his way back outside, claiming he wasn’t hungry, and demurred when Cecily offered to order for him. His continued protests fell on deaf ears, and they emerged minutes later with matching pairs of café and pain au chocolat still warm from the oven. He felt grateful, if not embarrassed.

Between sips of coffee and nibbles of pastry, she added a few new phrases to his negligible French repertoire. He committed them to memory, resolved to practice as he went about his duties at the circus. He thought of inviting her to a show but quickly stopped himself, remembering that she wouldn’t be welcome there. The notion saddened him.

They were drawing close to their destination now. He could see the weathered statue perched atop the pillar that granted access to Place Cachee. He turned to face Cecily at the foot of the stairs, his eyes meeting hers, and his heart twinged at the thought of parting ways.

With a gentle smile, she stepped toward him and laid her hands on his shoulders.

He held his breath when she brought her face close, but she merely pressed her right cheek to his left and then her left to his right, smooching quietly on both sides.

She identified the gesture as la bise and teased, “You are French now, cher.” Her eyes twinkled at him, but then she sobered. “I hope you find your maman.”

Mindlessly, he threw his arms around her in a fierce hug, gratified that she clutched him just as hard. “Merci. For everything.”

A small smile played on her lips. “De rien.”

They clung to each other for a little longer and then slowly parted, their hands clasped.

The moment to say goodbye loomed near. He grasped at straws, hoping to stall for even a few more moments with her. In a rare burst of confidence, he blurted out, “Would you like to have dinner sometime?”

Her face lit up with delight. “I love to. When?”

That she accepted so readily surprised him. He fumbled to reply, “Th-Thursday night? I get out of work pretty late but…”

“Ok. Meet me at Place du Tertre at 10.”

He nodded. “Place du Tertre, Thursday at 10.”

“À bientôt.” With one last smile, she spun away from him.