"Col chiques dans les prés fleurissent.

Col chiques dans les prés, c'est la fin de l'ét.



La feuille d'automne, emportée par le vent.

En ronde monotone tombe en tourbillonnant



Châtaignes dans le bois se fendent, se fendent,

Châtaignes dans les bois se fendent sous les pas

Nuages dans le ciel s'étirent, s'étirent,

Nuages dans le ciel s'étirent, comme une aile



Et ce chant dans mon coeur, murmure.

Et ce chant dans mon coeur appelle bonheur"



Emily slowly opened her eyes and glanced around the light drenched cottage. The woman's voice helped her rise from the depression that had claimed her in the night, and even brought a small smile to her lips. Her dad used to sing that song to help her sleep, and it had also been the first song she'd learned to play on the guitar. The woman was obviously close to her dad, and by the way she reacted to Emily's name, she was probably her grandmother.

There were reasons they had never met; her dad had been scared he would be in danger. He also reasoned that she had accepted his death, and it would be hard for her to let that go.

"Awake at last? I thought you'd sleep the day away," the woman sang out, causing Emily to jump slightly. She never understood how older people got up so early. Even with all her training, she could never set her internal clock. She always needed an outside intrusion to rouse her.

Emily curled up tighter into the quilt she was wrapped in as the woman sat down on the far end of the couch. The stared at each other for a few moments before she spoke.

"It's time for us to talk."

Emily nodded slowly, and then asked her, "First, I need to know who you are."

"My dear, why did you come to my home if you did not know who I was?" the woman asked with gentle curiosity.

"I was in trouble, and someone I trust told me to come here. They said I would be safe, and that was all," Emily answered truthfully.

"My name is Brigitte Delorme Vaughn."

Emily smiled sadly. "I thought that's who you were. I don't know of any other relatives of mine that live in France."

"You said your name was Emily Vaughn, so you are from William's side. But I don't know his family, and my only son is dead. So tell me child, who are you?"

She couldn't think of words that would not break Brigitte's heart, so she just came out and said it.

"Michael Vaughn is not dead. He is my father."

Brigitte put her hand to her mouth and stared above Emily's head. She suddenly became angry, shaking a finger at Emily. "Don't tell me this. I know my son is dead. Do not fill my head with lies. Michel has been dead for nearly 20 years."

Emily tried to calm the old woman. "There were reasons that you were told that. He was trying to protect you. and me," she added as an afterthought. "My mother's life was in danger and she was pregnant, so he went with her into the witness protection program. They made up the car accident. Papa wanted to protect you in case anyone tried to find out he was alive. And he wanted to protect us so that if someone did come asking, you couldn't reveal where we were. I was told you were dead until I was 16 and learned the truth about everything."

Brigitte's eyes were filled with tears, and her finger had slowly lowered into her lap. She spoke quietly, almost a whisper, "Your mother was CIA?"

"Yes. She was an undercover agent for the CIA. Papa was the person that gave her counter missions to the ones the bad agency would send her on. They fell in love, and Mama was discovered when she was two months pregnant with me. They went into hiding and we became a family."

"That's why he would not settle," Brigitte whispered to herself.

"My parents are still very much in love. They are soul mates, and they went through a lot to get where they are." Emily spoke with pride about their strength.

"I've no doubt they did, considering their profession. I cried for weeks when I learned Michel was joining that death trap agency they call CIA. William was killed for his country, and I was convinced my baby boy had been murdered as well. You know, they never even found your grandfather's murderer? He is still running wild and it makes me sick." Brigitte's voice came out an angry hiss.

Emily bowed her head, unable to hide the guilt she felt deep in her stomach. She whispered softly, hoping that Brigitte would not hear her, but at the same time wanting her to know. "They found her." She could not bring herself to look into her grandmother's eyes.

Brigitte could sense the guilt emanating from her granddaughter. She firmly grabbed her chin and thrust it up. "What do you know?"

Tears pricked Emily's eyes as she tried to explain. "In the seventies the KGB sent an agent into the United States. Her mission was to marry a CIA agent and give information to Russia. She also performed other tasks, and murdered 12 CIA agents, including William Vaughn. While on her mission, she had a child, and when she was extracted from the mission, she left her child behind. The father withdrew from the six-year-old girl, and she grew up without a father. When the girl turned nineteen, an agency claiming to be a part of the United States government offered her a job. She accepted and became a field agent that executed missions. She thought she was being patriotic until she told her fiancée the truth about what she did, and the agency had him killed. She learned the truth about that agency; they were not a part of the government, they were an enemy. The girl went to the real CIA and became a double agent. She was assigned a handler to give her counter missions. The agent's name was Michael Vaughn. They ended up taking down the agency, and thought they were safe. Two months later they found out they were not, and they went into hiding. They had a daughter, Emily Vaughn, who thought she had normal parents until two months after her sixteenth birthday. Her parents took her to Los Angeles and told her the truth. That her grandmother had killed her grandfather. And Emily realized how much forgiveness her parents had in them selves, because they forgave the sins of their parents, and forged a love stronger than any I've ever known." The tears had coursed their way down her cheeks and were slowly dripping from her chin. Brigitte's hand had moved from Emily's chin to her cheek, where she stroked it lovingly.

"My dear, our families have intertwined in many different ways. I am proud of my son, that he can love so much that it overcomes this kind of catastrophe. And I am proud of you, that you are the product, the proof, that love can overcome anything. Never forget that," Brigitte murmured, her hand moving to Emily's disheveled hair. "But I have to know, what happened to that woman?"

Emily sniffed and looked sadly at her grandmother. "She is in a high security prison, and is going to live out her days in a cell. She actually walked into the CIA by herself, without being threatened. She wanted to reconcile with her daughter, but Sydney Bristow wouldn't let her."

"Your mother is a strong woman. I'm glad my Michel has found happiness with her."

"She is strong, the strongest person I know besides my father. She has even worked through the problems with her father, so I know my grandfather. He lives near us and he and Mama are very close."

Brigitte smiled, and then the night before came to her memory. She tugged at the quilt around Emily's shoulders to reveal the ridiculously tight dress that was still hiding the Rambaldi document. "And may I ask why you wear such an inappropriate dress on such a cold night?"

"Lets just say I'm in the family business," Emily answered, hoping she wouldn't have to relive the night before. Brigitte caught the note of sadness in her vibrantly green eyes, and reached to take Emily's hand. When it was firmly in her grasp, she felt her fingers vibrating against her palm.

"My dear, are you having a spasm in your hand?"

Emily blushed and pulled her fingers away. "No, it's just something it does naturally. It's the only thing that gives me away when I'm undercover."

Brigitte scowled, "And I ask you, why have you subjected yourself to that life? You must have known the sacrifices."

Emily shrugged, not wanting to tell the real reason. "It runs in my veins. It called to me. And yes, I realized the sacrifices. I had to give up something I loved for the CIA."

"Will you tell me what that was?"

"A boy."

Brigitte noted the darker eyeshade when Emily started to feel sad. "Why did you have to give up this boy?"

The tears slipped down again, and Emily wiped them away with a trembling hand. "He didn't understand that I couldn't tell him everything about myself. He didn't understand that I had to keep some secrets. He wanted more than I could give him, so I let him go."

"How special was this boy?"

"Jonathon was my first love. He has been my only love, and I think I'll love him forever. Love just wasn't enough. I'll never forget the look on his face when I told him that I was leaving. It was sadness and hurt, mixed in with questions and longing."

"You must love your country more than anything, to make a sacrifice like that."

"I had to be fair to him. There was no other life for me. I was meant to be in the world of espionage, and I was going to be, whether he was beside me or not. And I couldn't ask him to expect less of me. So I left."

She broke off for a moment, and then continued. "My mother didn't ask me why, she knew. She was disappointed that I couldn't make it work, but she understood."

They stared at each other for a while before Brigitte wiped her cheeks, and then Emily's. "Enough tears. You will stay here for some time. I want to get to know my granddaughter. I have some clothes that will fit you, because there is no way you are walking around this village dressed like that. You can take a shower; it is in the back room. I will lay the clothes out for you." With that Brigitte patted Emily's cheeks. They both stood, and Emily unwrapped herself from the quilt, exposing her skin to the crisp morning air. It felt shocking and refreshing, just what she needed.

***

Brigitte was waiting for Emily to finish when she heard a gentle tapping on the backdoor. She opened it to reveal a young man in his twenties carrying a paper bag.

"Brigitte, I have your groceries. I also noticed some gousse d'ail poking up in your garden. I'll go pick some today."

"Ah, Andre! It is good to see you looking so healthy. Have you recovered enough to be picking garlic in my garden?"

"Yes, yes, of course. How could I not with that wonderful throat medicine you made for me?"

Brigitte blushed. "It is an old family recipe. I'm glad it still works."

Andre grinned. "With your magic hands, how could it-" He was cut off by the sight of Emily Vaughn striding into the kitchen wearing some very complementing clothing. His grin faded into a look of admiration, quickly replaced by one of courtesy. "And may I ask who you might be?"

"Emily Vaughn. I'm a great niece of Brigitte. I'll be staying here a few days." Emily quickly lied. No one else needed to know her father was still alive. As quick as the lie had come out, she was breathless. The man was clearly impressed by her, and that was flattering. Besides, the man was very hot. He smiled at her, and it almost made her weak in the knees. No one had this kind of impression on her. No one since Jonathon.

"My name is Alexandre Dante, but I go by Andre." He slowly raised his hand to Emily, recognizing her as an American. Emily shook it firmly, and was shocked by the electricity she felt. Had they both thought aloud, their words would be exactly the same.

This isn't happening. This can't happen.

And, had they known each other's secrets, they would be thinking those thoughts for the same reasons.

Neither of them was as they appeared.



AN: How do you like? I've got some surprises in store for you all. And to tell you the truth, I really didn't like Jonathon as a character. He was just so. I don't know.not Emily's type. Feedback is greatly appreciated!

*Duck