Paris, At Last
He is here to fulfill a promise, to pay a debt, if you will. This time, he will do it right. As he joins the crowd queuing below, his eyes drift upward to the top of the Eiffel Tower. Bring us the girl, and wipe away the debt, whispers a voice from the past. He has tried so hard. That night, aboard the airship, fighting off the Vox zeppelins . . . none of this would have happened if he had just charted a course for Paris in the first place. If he hadn't lied . . . but no. In this world, he keeps his promise. This time, the girl will see Paris.
"Papa, too fast!" whines a small voice below. Shaken from his reverie, he looks down at his daughter, almost four by now, and tightens his grip on her hand. Sometimes he can't quite believe she is really his. Chasing after her for so long, there were times he thought he'd never hold little Anna in his arms again.
Four years. Four years of her life he's missed. She's taller now, a miniature person with long, brown hair just starting to curl, and so curious. She wants to know everything: why birds fly, where the sun goes at night, how the vast network of skylines above their home city of New York works. Whenever he catches her staring at some new wonder, fascinated, he feels a pang knowing that before too long, her independence and curiosity will outstrip him, and she will be gone, off on adventures of her own. Until then, he wants nothing more than to keep her close forever.
Sometimes it's hard for him not to think of Anna as Elizabeth's little sister, a piece of the woman Elizabeth might have been. Will be, he thinks to himself, or is it was? He's never quite sure; all Elizabeth's talk of constants and variables mean only so much to a man of action.
The girl falls silent as the elevator slowly cranks to the top. Once it shudders to a halt, she takes a few tentative steps, as if testing the solidity of the ground beneath her. Gaining confidence, she picks up speed and trots to the railing. Once there, she gasps, her mouth hanging open with wonder.
"Look, Papa, songbirds!" she says, stretching her arms out as if to catch the airplanes tracing cursive tails of exhaust across the sky. "What are they flying to?"
Why do you ask what, when the delicious question is, when? The familiar words wash over him like a wave, regular and unrelenting. Those damn Lutece twins were right about one thing, he thinks as he boosts Anna up so she can see the city skyline, ablaze with electric lights. Whatever happens, has happened, will happen in this city, none of it is important. What matters is his daughter-here, now. "Look, Anna," he says, nodding his head towards the horizon. "Can you see it? Paris, at last."