When Marinette woke, the sky still held traces of the night. Stars were still visible in the darkness, even as the sun bleached the sky in dawn. Through the cracked and buckled window nestled in the rafters, she watched frosted pane turn from indigo to grey-blue and counted down the minutes she would be left alone in the blankets of her cot. She could hear the bustle of her mother on the floor below, and even up here, she could sense the ever-present smell of fresh bread, the fruits of her father's labour. There was no doubt that he had been up since before the sun had even set on the opposite side of the world. To him, her early mornings were a luxurious sleep-in.
She could hear her mother's steps on the rickety staircase that led to her room, and still could not force herself to stir. It wasn't until the blankets were ungraciously ripped from her frame that she opened her eyes, emitting a hiss as goose bumps rose along her skin. The peaceful smiling face of her mother smiled down at her, blankets in hand.
"Time to wake, daughter," she said briskly in mandarin, folding the blankets and placing them at the foot of Marinette bed, too far from reach to be grabbed back, "you must help your papa this morning, there is no time for sleeping the day away."
Marinette sighed, but willed herself to rise from her mattress; there was no point in voicing her opinion that the day generally required for the sun to be in the sky. Her mother's opinion was that it began when you woke, and the earlier the better to get more work done. She swung her feet from her bed in a creaking of springs and hissed as they touched the cold, unvarnished floor. Even now in late spring, the air in her attic room was cold enough that Marinette's breath misted as she forced herself over to her washstand. A splash of ice-cold water to the face was all it took to scare away the last vestiges of sleep, and hurry her into her layers of clothing, the faster to be warm.
Still, she reflected, as she struggled with her girdle, as cold as it was, at least she didn't have to crack the ice on her water to wash anymore; summer was on the way. Soon the sun may even have risen by the time she was expected to wake, and she needn't wear so many layers that she felt like a swaddled child. She may even be able to style a nice outfit if she got the time, and cloth. There was little room for fashion when she had to work every day to stay warm. Her old wooden manikin had remained covered in the corner of the attic for most of the winter, unused as her room got too cold to work in and hiding her last experimental piece as she turned to layers to stay warm. But she could see it coming out of hiding and being in pride of place once again, soon. Hurriedly pulling on her boots, Marinette smiled as she headed downstairs to the warm, ready to see what the day held for her.
It was well into to the day, that is to say, ten in the morning, by the time Marinette saw a face she knew. The bell of the bakery chimed as Ayla bounced though the door in a whirlwind of greetings and siblings clinging to her skirts. Her hair pinned to mimic the bob the more daring kind of models wore, Ayla always looked on the verge on bohemian, even in the sombre work clothes she had to wear as a secretary at the local newspaper's office.
"Mari!" she called, over the voices of her sisters begging for iced buns, "I know you're in there somewhere, come out!"
Laden with a tray of freshly baked bread, Marinette appeared from the kitchen, sweat still beading her brow from the heat of the ovens.
"Ayla, I should have known it was you, I hear the children screaming from release from their captor!" she said, setting her heavy tray on the polished counter and smiling at the children now peeking over the edge.
"I wonder if some kind of nourishment is required to stop their cries?" she asked with a coy smile, causing the girls to giggle, eyes glittering as they bounced in excitement. As if by magic, she produced two buns from behind her back, which were immediately pounced upon by her eager audience. Ayla rolled her eyes with a smile.
"You let them play you for sweets, Mari, but- "she leaned over the counter in conspiracy- "that is not why I came here." From her pocket, she pulled a rumpled newspaper clipping, ripped from the days paper. In bold font, plastered above of a black and white blurred image of a thin-faced, stern-looking man in wire-rimmed glasses, a title proclaimed:
AGRESTE AND SON TO MOVE TO PARIS.
"Agreste… the designer?" Mari asked, as if she didn't know. She had poured over his designs in every second-hand magazine Ayla had been able to wrangle from the office. He was the talk of New York, and now he was coming here!
"Yes, THE Agreste, isn't it exciting? To this very city! Perhaps you'll meet him someday, Chica!" Ayla said, grinning excitedly. Marinette laughed, the thought so outrageous she couldn't help but roll her eyes.
"If I ever get to leave this bakery for long enough to make anything worthy of wearing in front of him!" she scoffed, and though Ayla laughed with her, she ended it with a look that let her know she wouldn't let it go.
"Your designs are worthy, my friend, but-" her best friend gave a warning nudge as the steps of Marinette's mother approached. The ritual pantomime of Ayla buying a loaf of bread was preformed, and pleasantries exchanged between Marinette's friends and mother in broken French and mandarin. Despite Ayla's bohemian ways, Marinette's mother approved of her and the sheer amount of bread she seemed to buy each day. It was a wonder she never noticed how many loaves Ayla "forgot" behind her, and how the franc she paid with was handed back to her as change. But as Ayla had said before, the mind does not worry about what the eye cannot see.
After Marinette's mother had once again disappeared up to the higher floors, Ayla leaned on the counter again, and Marinette did the same, settling into the much-used position of gossip to be exchanged.
"But the real reason I called by today is to talk about his son."
"His son?" ask Marinette, a bemused frown crossing her features. Ayla nodded, pushing up her small, round glasses knowingly.
"Adrian. He's moved here early to get a feel for the city before the season, and you'll never guess, but…Nino is his chauffeur!"
"Really! How lucky for him!" said Marinette, she could see why Ayla was excited. As her beau, Niño was a direct link to information about the Agrestes'; a channel she could use to start her journalistic career.
"Lucky for all of us you mean," said Ayla, lips twitching in a wry smile, "I told him to recommend this bakery as the finest in Paris, so you may be seeing him sometime soon!"
"You did what!" yelped Marinette, as her friend laughed, "what if he comes in and I'm all sweaty, or my mother is on the till, or, or it's flour-delivery day, you know how dusty it gets in here…"
Alya chuckled as her friend rambled on, herding her siblings to the door and out into the street. Leaning back through the doorway she waved a carefree hand at Marinette, still mumbling nervously behind the counter.
"Don't worry ma Cherie," she said, with a playful grin, "I'm sure you'll dazzle him with your inner bohemian chic!"
With a wink and a wave, she was gone, the bell heralding her departure as it had her arrival, and leaving Marinette staring after her in a mix of confusion, nerves, and anticipation. For what, exactly, she wasn't sure.
SOo, this is my first foray into the Miraculous fandom: Hi, how ya'll doing?
I've had this AU in mind for a while, so o I'm finally trying to get it out there!
Anyhow, thanks for reading, and feel free to tell me what you think!
~CC
