Sorry this took so long and sorry if it's a bit short. Have mercy on me, I just started two new jobs!

Everything was a whirlwind of color, sound and smell, drowning Ange as she moved among the crowd and feeling more and more lost with every step she took.

She was jostled and bumped in every direction and overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of what was going on around her. Strange faces, strange noises, strange everything! It was like being thrust into a dream world where men breathed smoke and flame, women walked in the clouds, and children bent and twisted into the most fantastic contortions. She unconsciously tightened her hold on her things and persevered onward, not knowing quite what it was she was looking for but pressing forth just the same.

She leaped in surprise as a nearby fire-eater spat a mouthful of spirits at a torch clutched in his hand, sending a flare out over the heads of the crowd. She stepped back on the toes of the man behind her, and he barked at her, "Watch where you're going, will you?"

"Pardon, me, monsieur," she apologized, but he'd already moved away, and two children ran past her, bumping her aside and knocking her into a woman carrying a baby. "I'm sorry!" she said, holding onto her cello tighter to keep from dropping it. "I'm so sorry!"

"You look lost, love."

Another young woman approached, turning handsprings and cartwheels as she came. Her skirts flashed her bare legs, and Ange's eyes widened in amazement. The woman's bright, showy clothing singled her as a carnival girl, but Ange was still shocked at her brazen behavior. There was so much she'd missed in Paris, so much she'd never been exposed to!

The woman straightened up, her skirt still awry and showing off the petticoat beneath. She was taller than Ange, but her expression was friendly. "How about it?" she asked. "Are you lost?"

"I'm—I'm not sure," Ange replied. "That is, I followed someone here, but—but I can't—"

"Can't find him?"

Ange shook her head.

"Come on." The woman looped her arm around her waist and led her off. "Let's see if we can't spot him in this crowd."

"I don't think that will be too hard," Ange told her. "I think he might be part of the fair. He was dressed very unusually, and he wore a mask."

The woman turned a curious glance to her. "Tall fellow in a white mask? Thin? Bit moody?"

"Yes. Why?"

She grinned. "Why didn't you say so sooner? I know exactly where to find him." She changed her pace to a more purposeful stride, weaving through the masses and leading Ange along with ease. "I'm Adrienne," she said, glancing back over her shoulder. "How did you find Erik in the first place?"

"I didn't know his name was Erik," Ange replied, twisting to get past a cart selling candied apples. "I was just in the cathedral and saw him there—"

It was Adrienne's turn to be amazed. "He actually went out in public? I thought that hermit was a permanent exile!"

Ange could only shrug in bewilderment.

"Well, follow me," Adrienne told her. "We'll track him down." She led Ange through the fair to a tent at the edge of the activity, a plain, unassuming canvas dome with a flap drawn aside as an entrance. Ange hesitated to go inside, but Adrienne beckoned her so insistently she had no choice but to follow.

The light was dimmer in here and the air still and close, but not stifling. After her eyes adjusted to the gloom, Ange looked around and saw the trappings of a carnival fortune teller: a crystal ball sat on a table in the corner, surrounded by scattered cards and rune stones, crystals and feathers dangled from the ceiling, hung from string, and the aroma of incense filled the air and made Ange's eyes water.

Adrienne gestured her to a canvas chair and called, "Genevieve! Have you seen Erik?"

"Don't be funny, young lady," an old, hoarse voice responded. "I haven't seen anything in years." Ange peered into the shadowed corner the voice had originated from and saw a silver-haired old woman seated in another chair, her hand wrapped around the handle of a long cane and her eyes staring indifferently into space.

"Well, then, do you know where he is?" Adrienne persisted.

"Indeed I do."

"Then where is he?"

"He's right here."

"No, I'm not." Ange gave a start of surprise and gazed next to the woman and saw the young man from the cathedral, his long legs stretched out in front of his chair as he slouched moodily with his arms folded. She wondered how she could have missed him; the white of his mask stood out brilliantly in the shadows.

Adrienne rolled her eyes playfully and said, "Nice try, you pretender. I have someone here who was looking for you."

"No one ever looks for me, Adrienne. Apart from you, that is."

"She did. She says she saw you in the cathedral—"

He heaved a sigh. "Mademoiselle, I really do wish I could help you with whatever it is that's troubling you, but you really must stop hounding me like a fox trailing a rabbit."

"I'm sorry," Ange told him, "but—"

"Now, Erik," the old woman interrupted. "Don't tell me you were rude to this poor child!"

"Rude is relative," he replied, "and it depends on what you'd consider rude. Personally, I'd think that stalking someone after they've already taken their leave is pretty rude in itself."

"Oh, hush." She turned slightly in the direction Ange's voice had come and said, "What's your name, dear?"

"Yes, what is it?" Adrienne chimed in. "I forgot to ask you."

Ange nervously shifted her cello case next to her chair and twisted the handles of her bag in her hands. "Evangéline Melodie Marie," she said.

The old woman raised an eyebrow. "Do you have a nickname?"

"My—my mother called me Ange."

The old woman smiled. "Let that be a lesson to you, Erik. Treat guests with courtesy and generosity, because you never know when you're entertaining angels."

Erik said nothing.

"I'm Genevieve," the woman introduced herself. "What sent you hounding after my cranky friend in the first place?"

"You see, I'm...not from Rouen," Ange began. "And I'm not altogether sure I can afford to stay at the inn—"

"The Lamb and Lion? It's rather cheap, as I recall, and not very disreputable. Unless it's changed in the years since I've been there..."

"Yes," Ange said uncertainly. "But—" She paused.

Genevieve adjusted herself in her chair, sitting up straighter and more alert. "I smell a long story in the air."

Ange nodded, then hastily replied, "Yes, Madame."

"Go on, Ange. Tell me."

She took a deep breath and said, "I was recently widowed."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

Ange recalled the cold, savage light in Séraphin's eyes when he hit her and said, "Don't be. There was a fire and our house burned, and I lost everything. Clothes, shelter, money, everything. I—had to sell my ring to pay for the train ticket here and I have some money left, but it's not enough to last very long. I don't have any family anywhere, and I just don't know what to do."

Genevieve nodded along and said, "Erik, you heartless thing, turning away a helpless woman like that."

"What would you have me do?" he asked. "I'm as new to this city as she is!"

"You could have brought her to me and let me sort it out." She lifted her hands and said, "Come here, Ange. Let me look at you."

Ange hesitated again, then got to her feet and crossed to the old woman's chair. She knelt in front of her and let her put her withered hands on her face, her fingers delicately exploring her features. She touched the cut on her forehead and said, "I hope that's not too painful."

"Not at all," Ange assured her. "I just fell down the stairs trying to get out of the house."

Genevieve nodded again and touched the newly-shorn hair. "Goodness, you are a novelty, aren't you?" she asked. "What color is this?"

"Brown."

"And your eyes?"

"Also brown."

"You have a lovely voice, Ange. I could listen to you speak for hours."

Ange smiled slightly.

"You might have noticed Erik here has an extraordinary voice himself. I may have to make the two of you sit down and talk to me some afternoon when I have nothing to do."

"I already have to talk to you when you have nothing to do," Erik reminded her.

"And now you'll have some company when you do."

He rolled his eyes, stood, and left the tent.

"Don't mind him," Adrienne told her, plopping down into the chair he'd left. "He's shy. He just pretends to be gruff and unfeeling."

Ange nodded in acknowledgment.

"So where did you spring from, Ange?"

"Paris."

Adrienne's smile grew. "I have some fond memories of Paris," she said. "I think I left a good deal of my lovers there."

Ange's eyes widened again, and Genevieve spoke up, "Hold your tongue, you brazen harlot, before you frighten the poor girl away." She patted Ange's hand. "They're odd company, my dear, but they're harmless. Would you care to join me for my evening pipe?"

Ange hung on indecision before the old woman added, "I'm only kidding, Ange. Feel free to help yourself to the tobacco or leave it for me." She drew a clay pipe out of her pocket and said, "Can I interest you, Adrienne?"

"Not tonight, Genevieve."

"Suit yourself." She took a pouch of cut leaf, tamped a pinch into the bowl of the pipe, then lit it with a match she'd dug from the depths of the pocket she'd taken the pipe from. She took a long pull, then exhaled with a sigh. "One in the morning and one at night," she said to no one in particular, "and I haven't been ill in thirty years. Let that be another lesson to you."

"What lesson?" Adrienne asked. "To lace opiates in ordinary pipeweed?"

"Please, child, I haven't touched opium in years."

Ange listened as Genevieve began a lecture on the virtues of smoking, thinking to herself that maybe life on her own wasn't going as she'd planned.