A Moon, A City, A Beginning....

 

A Moon, A City, A Beginning

Good evening, my lovely dark academic, gothic friends,
Please, take a seat. Would you care for wine? Absinthe? Or… something darker, veinous perhaps?

The evening is chilly, but not even the cold can pierce my giddiness. All will soon be revealed!
First, though, let me bribe Lady Cora with a treat so we can settle in for a proper chat.

I’ve just returned from Crete: an island as mysterious as it is sun-drenched. It was just a small escape before October unfurled her spectral cloak, with the leaves shifting into fiery hues as if nature herself were showing off, as she is allowed to. This is my favourite time of the year.

There’s something rather magical about an autumn or winter escape, don’t you think? A different kind of beauty, maybe just a little less sparkle, but with more soul. I adore cities in autumn, when the air bites softly at your cheeks and everything feels on the cusp of a story.

 

The Moon Rises Over Paris

Who doesn’t love Paris? The city of lights, the city of love, of gothic architecture, couture, and wine. And yet…confession here…I once felt none of it. Paris had no effect on me whatsoever. I just didn’t get the allure. Crazy, isn’t it?

One evening, while writing my fantasy novel and in need of a change of scenery, a friend said, out of the blue, “Go to Paris.”
I replied something along the lines of, “I’ll hate it. I’m not fashionable enough.” The excuses came quickly, a little too quickly. I was digging my heels in.

But for once, thankfully, I didn’t listen to my own protests. I booked a week in Paris for early December.

When my plane landed in Beauvais, the rain had just stopped. It was bitter cold as I made my way to the bus. As I neared the city, I found myself sitting straighter, and reluctantly, the pout began to slip from my face.

A smile began to curl on my lips after I climbed the steps to book into my hotel. By the time I stood in the lobby of my hotel, an elegant 1920s Art Deco dream on Rue François, it had won me over immediately.

After checking in, I set off along the Champs-Élysées, coat collar turned up against the cold. I was in Paris.

When Rémy First Turned His Head

My first morning in the city, I armed myself with a notebook, my MP3 player, and my trusty camera. I needed coffee. A true French roast, and a warm croissant was just what the author ordered. So I ducked into a bistro on Boulevard Haussmann just as the rain began to fall in earnest.

Being Irish, I’m used to rain. Lots of rain. But there’s something remarkable about rain in a European city, isn’t there?

I pushed open the café door and took a seat by the large window. A waiter smiled as he took my order; I smiled back, feeling very content as I glanced around. The café wasn’t very full. Two older women chatted quietly, a young couple whispered their secrets, as they gazed into each other’s eyes and a few men played cards in the corner. A very ordinary scene.

Outside, the rain thickened into sleet. Ten minutes later, it turned to snow. My heart leapt: Paris in snow!

Then, suddenly the air changed.
From the corner of my eye, a tall man appeared, wearing a long leather trench coat, leather trousers, and impossibly long blond hair. He gave a faint smile. Was that a nod of recognition?

I caught my breath, turned…
But the moment had already gone.

The waiter returned with my coffee, noticed my open notebook, and asked with a knowing grin,
“Are you a writer, Madame?”

“Oui, Monsieur,” I replied. (My French was not great, a few words learned in secondary school).

“I will look forward to reading your book.”

He retreated, and I looked once more through the window, and just in time to see the tail of that trench coat disappear down the street.

I didn’t know it then, but I had just glimpsed Rémy.

Until next week…

What is the mystery of this fleeting figure? Who is he, and what mark will he leave upon the city.....and my story?

Stay close, my dark academic friends. Paris is only beginning to reveal her secrets.

Luv yas

Anna xoxo