They made an odd pair, sitting in a small cafe so late at night: the one in a blood-stained gown and jewels, the other in rags. Fortunately, there was no one there to see them except for a drunk or two. The cafe was closed, but they did not need food, so it was just as well. The monuments of Paris rose black against the star-punctured sky as the vengeance demons discussed the plan.
"So, we pretend you are the Grand Duchess Anastasia, somehow having survived the massacre of your family, wandering Europe looking for any remaining relatives. Painful as it is, I have to admit it's genius. There's the fact you speak Russian, German, French, English, and Fyarl fluently, you were there during the Bolshevik Revolution... they don't need to know you caused it... and you learned so much about the Romanovs while you were being their confidante. Once we convince the others that you are Anastasia, all the ladies here in Paris will be falling all over themselves to share their gossip with you. We can have our vengeance!"
"There is no 'we.' I will not let you share in my brilliant idea!" said Anyanka staunchly.
"Ah, but you will look odd among the ladies here without an escort," replied Alexandre, standing and bowing in an imitation of a French dandy. "You need me, because things have changed a little in Paris since the Black Death. Oh, and it is not my fault that the men here thought their wives were lousy."
"Don't brag. The Plague was a group effort," she said as she considered his suggestion. "Oh, all right. In the morning, we'll get started bringing Paris the vengeance it desires."
They did not have to wait very long for morning, because even as Anyanka agreed to Alexandre's help, the sun was beginning to rise.
"First of all, you need a different dress," commented Alexandre. "It suits a suicidal beauty, but not a lady about to be presented to society. Blood stains are boring to wash, let's go buy a new one."
Anyanka chose the deep red dress with an eye to practicality. She wore it out of the tailor's shop, rinsing her jewels in a fountain and using the water's reflection to adjust her hair. Tugging on the gloves, she asked Alexandre who they were to meet first.
"Why, your..." he put his fingers into quote marks, "...grandmother, of course."
"Fine. The Grand Duchess Olga. Dowager Empress. Old. But, Alexandre, no one said anything about men in her life, not recently."
"Well, no. But you need her if you're to be convincing. If she believes in you, all her cronies will, too. But she's not the one that needs vengeance."
"Everybody needs veng... I see your point. Well, let's go."
As she began marching off across the square, Alexandre sat on the edge of the fountain, smirking, arms folded, waiting for her to realize that she had no idea where she was going.
