In Blood by LovetheScottishAngel
Author's Note: Thanks to liebedero, Summercay, The Duelist's Heiress, and IAmTheMaskYouWear for reviewing!
Now, without further ado…
~ o ~
About a week later, a certain train pulled into Paddington Station in London. When it came to a full stop and its passengers were allowed off, Marielle was one of the first people to step off the train and onto the platform.
Letting out a little sigh of exhilaration because she'd enjoyed the train ride immensely and somewhat regretted having had to get off, she looked around momentarily, trying to determine what her next move ought to be.
She knew nothing about London whatsoever—that is, she didn't know of any places to stay, any restaurants at which to dine, or what might be the best method for getting around the town. And most importantly, she had no idea as to whether or not she'd find her father here.
I suppose I need to find somewhere to stay first, she thought to herself after contemplating how she ought to go about her first day in London. And it's about noontime, so I should also have some lunch. So that's what I'll do—I'll find a hotel at which I can stay and then get myself something to eat.
Once she'd glanced around a bit more, she saw that there was a window at the ticket office which had a sign marked Tourist Services above it. Deciding that she would speak to whoever was working there and get some advice about where she might want to stay during her trip, she picked up her carpetbag and walked over there, taking her place at the back of the line and waiting her turn.
"Good morning, ma'am," the middle-aged man at the booth greeted her as she finally reached the head of the line and stepped up to the window, looking down at a piece of paper as he wrote upon it. "How may I help…"
His voice trailed off as he looked at her and, in spite of the hood covering her head, saw the mask on her face. His eyes then widened a bit as his face paled slightly. "Oh."
Doing her best to ignore his sudden change in demeanor, she smiled at him in as polite a manner as she could, internally feeling glad that the Comtesse had seen fit to teach her English in her otherwise-meager education. "Hello. I was wondering if you could tell me of some hotels around the area—you know, recommend some to me. I need something that's rather on the cheaper side; I don't have a lot of money…"
"Ah, er, yes… yes, of course," the man said nervously, picking up several sheets of paper and looking at them. Marielle tried not to notice the fact that her appearance had made him so nervous that his hands were shaking. "Well, there's Ashley's Hotel, which is just under half a kilometer west of here… it's only about forty pounds a night. Is that suitable for you?"
"Yes, I think that will be good," she replied, giving him another smile and a nod. "Thank you, monsieur."
And then, without waiting for a response, she picked up her carpetbag and left the station, heading west just as the man at the counter had instructed. She tried to remain focused on where she was heading and not think about the way the man had reacted to seeing her mask, but of course failed.
Because she'd never ventured outside the Château deChagny until about a week earlier, she'd never really experienced any backlash toward her appearance. But then again, that was because she'd been around people who had grown accustomed to her mask, as well as what was beneath it. The only person in the Château who had frequently given some strong reaction to the way she looked was Jeanette. In the past week, however, most everyone she'd encountered had initially looked at her with widened eyes—and afterwards, they'd either been rude or frightened.
She sighed a little to herself. She knew the mask she wore was a little disconcerting—she would have felt the same were it not for the fact that she'd spent twenty years wearing it. But she hadn't expected to receive such negative reception upon first entering the world which lay outside the Château deChagny.
I have to take the good with the bad, I suppose, she mused as she caught sight of a rather large, somewhat-attractive white building and saw a sign which indicated that it was Ashley's Hotel. And I suppose I can take comfort in the fact that I won't receive such unwanted attention whenever I meet my father. He's got the same face, after all.
Clearing her throat a bit, she stepped inside the hotel and approached the front desk. She tried not to be anxious as she noticed that the woman working the desk, apparently immediately having seen her mask, had been looking at her in a rather hard fashion from the moment she'd entered—and was still doing so even as she addressed the woman.
"Hello. Do you have any open rooms at the moment?"
"Yes, I suppose we do have a few," the woman replied, frowning a little and thus indicating to Marielle that she wasn't entirely thrilled at the prospect of giving one of her rooms to an unconventional-looking guest such as she. She picked up a nearby notebook and pen and began writing in it. "How long will you be staying?"
"I'm not sure," the masked young woman confessed. "I'm in London looking for someone, you see, and I don't even know if he's here—"
"How long you stay doesn't matter," the woman interrupted rather harshly as she raised a stern eyebrow at her, "as long as you're able to pay."
"Oh." Marielle felt her face grow hot at the woman's implication that she either didn't have much money or would even think of attempting to stay in the hotel when she couldn't afford a room. "Well, don't worry; I'll leave whenever I've found who I'm looking for or I've run out of money."
"Very well." The woman braced herself to write something else in the notebook. "Name?"
"Tourneau," Marielle replied, a brief smile crossing her features as she once again pondered upon her newly-discovered full name. "Marielle Tourneau."
For several moments more, the woman continued writing in her notebook. Upon finishing, she briefly turned to the wall behind her and removed a key from one of the hooks attached to the wall.
"Room 210," she informed Marielle, dropping the key into the younger woman's outstretched hand. "Up the stairs and five doors down on the right."
"Thank you," Marielle replied, giving the woman one final smile before turning and heading toward the nearby staircase. She'd intended to ask the woman if she knew of any inexpensive eating establishments in the area so she could get herself some lunch upon settling into her room, but the woman had made it quite clear that she wasn't interested in speaking with her anymore, so she'd decided against it.
After reaching the upstairs door marked 210 and entering, she found herself in a room which was rather similar to her old bedroom at the Château deChagny. It was relatively small and didn't have much in it except for a bed and a nightstand that had a sink, a small mirror, and several drawers. Upon opening a door which was further inside the bedroom, she discovered that the room also had a bathroom, but it wasn't one which was exclusive to her room—it was shared with the room which lay on the other side of it.
Well, maybe no one is in the other room now, she thought to herself with a slight frown at the fact that her bedroom at the Château had an advantage to the room she was now occupying because she'd had her own private bathroom, but I ought to lock the door leading from the bathroom to my room whenever I'm not using the bathroom. I don't want to risk anyone getting into my room.
Once Marielle had closed the bathroom door and locked it, she set her carpetbag atop her bed, opening it and starting to remove everything she'd put in it. She hung up her other black dress, put her undergarments and stockings in the nightstand drawers, and placed her sewing kit and book atop the nightstand.
For several moments, she then looked anxiously at the items which remained in her carpetbag—the rather large amount of money and folded-up set of papers that she'd taken from Erik's home. It was really the money that made her anxious, not the papers; she still didn't feel comfortable with having so much money.
I'll keep most of it here, of course, and take a small amount with me whenever I go out, she decided after a moment, pulling out a relatively small wad of pound notes she'd acquired upon exchanging about half of her francs for more useful currency during her brief interlude in Southampton several days earlier. Then she used a safety pin from her sewing kit to pin the notes together so they would be easier for her to hold and keep track of.
She then pulled out the papers which she'd taken and closed her carpetbag, setting it underneath her bed. After pinning those papers together as well and then using a third safety pin to link together her wad of pounds and the papers, she took hold of the pinned-together items. Upon letting out a little sigh, she determined that she was ready to depart her room.
Pulling the hood of her cloak over her head further so that her face might be better-concealed, she headed for the door, ensuring that she had her key before exiting the room and allowing the door to close behind her with a click.
Without saying any passing words to the woman at the front desk, she left the hotel entirely, stopping as she reached the sidewalk. She briefly looked around and tried to consider where she might go.
I guess I'll just wander around until I find something of interest, she thought to herself, walking down the part of the sidewalk which was to the left of her. And while I'm doing so, I can explore the city a bit. That sounds good.
For some amount of time, she walked along the sidewalk, taking in the sights of the many boutiques, antique shops, jewelry stores, and eateries by which she passed. It wasn't until a particularly appealing smell captured her nose, however, that she stopped and closely studied a restaurant called Henson's Fish and Chips while standing outside.
Naturally, Marielle knew what fish was, but she'd never heard of chips. She'd also never heard of another thing which was being advertised by a sign which sat in the window—Coca-Cola.
Coca-Cola was clearly a brown-colored drink, as indicated by the sign, which had a picture of a smiling girl holding a glass bottle with the name Coca-Cola marked on it. Marielle wondered what it tasted like.
Well, a voice in her head said, why don't you find out? And in the meantime, you can order some fish and chips and find out what chips are. And even if you don't like the chips, you ought to like the fish. You like fish… and at the moment, it certainly smells appetizing…
The sound and slight rumbling feel of her stomach growling was all she needed. Without any further hesitation, she opened the door and stepped inside the restaurant, a ringing bell announcing her entry.
"Good af'ernoon, mum!" a man who obviously worked at the restaurant greeted Marielle with a wide smile. Marielle was surprised to note how much his accent differed from the accents of the man at the train station and the woman at the hotel—although she couldn't particularly describe how it was different.
He was friendly, however, although Marielle knew that it was probably only because he couldn't see her mask. Regardless, she couldn't help but return his smile and his greeting: "Good afternoon, sir."
"Come in for a bit o' lunch, 'ave ya?"
"Yes."
"Well, take a seat, why don' ya, and I'll be wi' ya in a momen'."
Nodding and giving the man another smile, she seated herself at a booth, sighing with slight ecstasy as she felt how comfortable the seats were. She almost felt comfortable enough with the atmosphere to remove her hood, but felt as if the pleasant air hanging about would be damaged if she did so, and thus the hood remained on her head.
"Now then, mum," the man she'd spoken with earlier addressed her as he stepped up to her table, a small notepad and pen in his hands. He braced himself to write. "I presume you'll be 'avin' fish 'n' chips, yeah?"
"That's what I'd like, yes." Marielle paused, and then she confessed, "I… I've never had fish and chips."
"Ya 'aven' 'ad fish 'n' chips?" the man demanded incredulously. "Where ya been, girl, that y' ain' 'ad fish 'n' chips?"
She initially felt inclined to say that she'd been confined to the Château deChagny all her life, but felt that such wasn't appropriate to share with a complete stranger. Thus she shrugged and rather tentatively responded, "France…"
"Ah, tha'll do i'. Well, good thing ya come 'ere for ye firs' taste! 'Enson's makes the bes' fish 'n' chips tha' e'er were! I tried all kind o' fish 'n' chips in m' life and ne'er had any be'er 'n 'Enson's!"
"Well, I can't wait to try them, then," she replied, finding his enthusiasm contagious and thus being unable to stop herself from smiling. "I'd also like some Coca-Cola."
"Good choices, mum, good choices," the man confirmed with a grin, scribbling something down on his little notepad. He briefly looked up at her before turning and heading for the kitchen. "I'll 'ave all o' i' ou' in a jiff!"
For several minutes, Marielle was left alone, and she sat in her booth, contemplating what would be her next move once she'd finished lunch. She supposed she should begin searching for Erik… though she had no earthly idea as to how she might find him in such a big city. After all, since she'd heard that he was an elusive man, she felt as if the odds of merely running into him on the street were incredibly slim.
Then I suppose I'll just wander around, looking for something that looks like it might help me find him, she finally concluded. What that something will be is rather beyond me… but I guess whenever I see it, I'll just have a feeling that it will lead me to him.
"'Ere ya go, mum," the man announced upon returning with a tray that had a glass bottle of Coca-Cola and a plate which contained a sizable, rather strange-looking chunk of… something, as well as thickly-cut slices of some food that she had yet to identify. He set the bottle and plate before her. "Any'in' else I can ge' ya?"
"No, thank you, I think I'm all right," she replied with a shake of her head, wanting to ask him exactly what he'd given her but feeling that such would be rather stupid—after all, what else would it be but fish and chips, even if none of what she had looked like any fish she'd ever seen?
"Very good, mum. Enjoy!" the man said, and then he turned and walked away once more.
Once he'd gone, Marielle took a moment to study the items before her, trying to decide what she should try eating first. If she was being perfectly honest, none of what she'd been given looked very appetizing to her, though it smelled absolutely heavenly—it was the same smell that had first drawn her into the restaurant.
Her stomach growled, at which point she decided that if the fish and chips before her had smelled this good outside and smelled just as good now, they certainly had to taste good. She thus decided to first try the strange-looking chunk on the plate, which was colored a golden brown.
Picking up the fork the man had given her alongside her plate and bottle, she cut into the chunk to discover that it was white and flaky on the inside. Steam issued from the inside of the chunk as she cut it into edible pieces, causing the smell to waft up to her nose. This unusual-looking food item was the fish!
Frowning a little as she wondered why the fish looked as it did, she speared a piece with her fork and brought it to her mouth, chewing it in a slow, rather thoughtful manner.
She didn't particularly know how the fish had the flavor it did, nor could she really describe the flavor, but nonetheless, it was very pleasing! It seemed as if the fish had some kind of breading atop it, though it wasn't any breading she'd seen during the time in which she'd served the deChagny family; that breading had been flavored bread crumbs, while she didn't know what this breading consisted of.
If this is the fish, she realized as she continued eating the fish, eyeing the strangely-cut slices that also took up space on her plate, then those must be the chips. But what are they, exactly?
Within a few minutes, she'd entirely downed the fish and therefore decided to try the chips. So, picking one up with her fork, she stuck in it her mouth and tasted it. At that point, she discovered that the chips had been made from potatoes, though like the fish, the potatoes had been cooked in a way which was different from any method by which they'd been cooked when she'd lived at the Château. They, too, tasted good, however, so she didn't particularly care how they'd been cooked.
Marielle then entirely cleared her plate of the chips, and she sighed in ecstasy as she set her fork atop the plate. She'd always liked fish and potatoes, but she'd never enjoyed them as much as she had just then! She would have to ask the man who'd served her how, exactly, one made fish and chips, because she wanted to be able to cook it herself and thus have it whenever she wanted.
Oh, I haven't tried my Coca-Cola, she thought several moments later, glancing at the bottle of brown liquid before her. I suppose I ought to do that now. I hope I enjoy it as much as I enjoyed the fish and chips!
Picking up the glass bottle to discover that it was cool, she brought it to her lips and somewhat tentatively tilted it until the Coca-Cola began to pour into her mouth.
The drink felt as if it bubbled inside her mouth and all the way down her throat, and it had a particular kind of sweetness to it which she enjoyed immensely. In no time at all, she entirely drained the bottle, at which point she set it back down on the table with a little sigh. What a wonderful meal she'd just had!
"Well?" the man inquired as he suddenly arrived at her table once more, hands on his hips in a somewhat impatient gesture which made a smile tug at the corners of her lips. "Did ya like i'?"
"Oh, yes," she replied with enthusiasm, nodding fervently and glancing up at him with a smile. In that moment, she silently hoped that he wouldn't take notice of her mask and thus ruin the pleasant exchange they were having and had had since her arrival. "It was incredible!"
"I knew ya'd enjoy i'!" the man replied gleefully, clapping his hands together a couple of times. "I knew i', I jus' knew i'!"
Nodding for a few moments more, she then inquired, "How, exactly, do you make fish and chips? I've never seen fish and potatoes that looked, or tasted, like that before."
"Real simply, mum!" the man informed her with a smile. "Ya jus' cover the fish in ba'er and fry i'! And the same wi' the chips, really. Jus' cut 'em up and put 'em on the fryer!"
"Fry," she murmured, echoing the strange word. She felt inclined to ask him what that word meant, but she didn't want to sound ignorant. She would merely discover it for herself on some other occasion.
She then looked up at him as she unpinned the wad of pound notes she had, separating a few of them from the rest. "How much do I owe you?"
"Three pounds thir'een pence, mum," the man replied, and she nodded and handed him four notes. He took them from her. "Need any change?"
"No, thank you," she said, shaking her head a bit as the man stepped back a few steps and she rose to her feet. "Thank you very much for the meal."
"My pleasure, mum. Come back any time!"
"Perhaps I will," she responded, giving him a final smile and then heading toward the door. "Have a good day."
"You, too, mum… you, too!"
Without another word, Marielle then exited the restaurant, continuing in the direction in which she'd been traveling before coming to Henson's. She let out a contented sigh, the good meal she'd eaten and the friendly interaction she'd had with the man who had served her having put her in a good mood.
Of course, he probably really only was as nice as he was because he didn't see my face, she reflected, frowning a little to herself. At least he didn't question why I had my hood on, though. That would have made things awkward.
For the next while, she continued on in silence, observing the establishments she passed by in silence. All the while she pondered upon whether or not she'd have any luck finding her father in London.
I suppose I'm being rather impatient, she thought with a little sigh. After all, I haven't even been here very long… only a few hours. If he's even in London at all, it'll probably take me a considerable time to find him, especially depending on how well-hidden he is. I just hope I find him before I run out of money… I'd hate to have to leave once I'm starting to feel as if I'm getting close to him, even if I no longer have the financial means to keep looking.
Just a few moments after these musings had run through her mind, she passed by a tavern. The sight made her cringe a little, as anything related to alcohol made her think about what the Comte had done to her such a short time ago. She would have continued walking away from it in a hurry… if not for the fact that, oddly enough, the building looked familiar.
She paused, studying the tavern for a few moments. Yes, it did look like a place she'd seen before… which was unusual, because she hadn't taken note of any taverns while she'd still been in Paris and none of the buildings she'd passed earlier had looked like this tavern…
Marielle stopped short. Then, taking a deep breath, she unpinned the wad of papers she'd brought alongside her pound notes, unfolding them and beginning to examine them, sifting through the first few before stopping.
Upon glancing between the building design in her hands and the tavern standing before her several times within a few brief seconds, her heart began to pound so violently that she could hear the blood thrumming in her ears.
Erik had designed the tavern. He had to have designed it; from what she could see, there was no difference between the building design on the paper in her hands and the building in front of her. And there was absolutely no way that someone different had constructed a building which looked exactly the same as one of her father's building designs. Such a monumental coincidence, if coincidence itself existed at all, was impossible.
Maybe someone inside knows who he is, then, she concluded. Maybe someone has met him—or, at the very least, has heard of him.
The concept of going into a tavern made a sick feeling begin to manifest itself in her stomach, but she knew that she had no choice. The fact that she was seeing one of her father's building designs actually constructed was a clear sign that, at one point or another, he'd been in London. Perhaps he wasn't in the city now, but maybe she'd meet someone who would know of his current whereabouts. She couldn't let such an obvious opportunity to find out more about her father slip away because of her severe and newly-awakened aversion toward any and all things related to alcohol.
After taking a deep breath and straightening herself, she walked into the tavern without another thought.
"May I 'elp you, mum?" a woman standing behind the bar, the only person in the tavern, inquired of her, almost in the same moment in which she entered.
"I hope so," Marielle replied, clearing her throat as she walked over to the bar. Judging by the somewhat-surprised way in which the woman was looking at the hood atop her head, she could tell that it was sufficiently covering her face so her mask was unseen—a fact for which she was glad.
"Do you know a man named Erik Tourneau?" she asked the woman after a moment.
The woman arched a single eyebrow. "Erik Tourneau? 'Fraid not, mum. Never 'eard that name in m' life."
"Well, he's responsible for the construction of this building in one way or another," Marielle informed the woman in a rather insistent fashion, hoping that this fact would help the woman know something about Erik. She placed the building design which had been used for the tavern atop the bar, turning it in such a way that the woman could see it and smoothing it down a bit. "See? It's an exact match to the design of this building; he created this place."
"Oh, would you look a' that!" the woman exclaimed in wonder, peering at the page more closely with interest. "That's jus' fascinatin'."
Marielle nodded. "Maybe you've seen him before and you just didn't know his name. He's French, wears a mask on the right side of his face… and at this point, he probably has gray hair. But it used to be black."
For several moments, the woman was silent as she looked thoughtful, but then she finally shook her head and shrugged a bit. "I've never met anyone by that descrip'ion, mum… and I've never 'eard anyone in this place talk abou' someone wi' that name. Sorry."
"It… it's all right," Marielle replied with a sigh, her obvious disappointment showing in her tone. She'd seemed so close to finding her father!
"As long as you don't mind, I may come back a few more times in the future to ask some of your customers if they know him," she continued to the woman after a few moments. "Would that bother you?"
"Not a' all, mum. Although I don't think anyone 'ere will be much of a 'elp to ya. They're all drunks, after all."
"Yes," Marielle agreed. "But all the same, I'd like to come back anyway. See, it's of the utmost importance to me that I find Monsieur Tourneau."
The woman nodded in an understanding fashion. "All right, mum. Just come on back whenever you feel like. And if I hear anythin' about an Erik Tourneau, I'll let ya know the nex' time you come around."
"That would be wonderful, thank you." Marielle took the building design from atop the bar and put it back with the rest of the papers she'd brought with her, pinning them back together. Then she started walking toward the door. "I'll see you later."
"See ya la'er, mum. 'Ave a good day."
Without another word, Marielle pushed open the door and left the tavern, letting out a sigh as she resumed walking along the sidewalk. She'd seemed so close to finding her father… only to find that the one person she'd been able to speak to hadn't even heard of him!
He obviously designed the tavern, though, she thought to herself, trying to be positive. That means he was here, in London, at one point or another. And if he designed the tavern, he probably designed other buildings around here, too. So I'll just start looking for places that look exactly like the building designs I brought with me… and maybe places that look almost exactly the same. With any luck, doing that will eventually help me meet someone who knows him.
This encouraging thought in her head, she continued on, now focusing more intently on the establishments she passed in case she happened upon one which looked like another one of her father's building designs.
~ o ~
Late in the evening that same day, a man sat alone in the parlor of his executive suite at Claridge's—a hotel which was arguably the most luxurious hotel in all of London. He stared into the fireplace intently, watching the bright flames within as they danced about wildly.
A knock upon his door interrupted his musings about the day he'd had, but he remained exactly as he was in his chair as he spoke.
"Come in."
He stayed perfectly still as the sound of the door opening and re-closing reached his ears. There was a momentary silence as a second man, many years younger than he who sat before the fire, came to stand beside the chair which the first man occupied.
"Message for you, Monsieur Tourneau. It's from Louisa."
Erik finally moved upon hearing this, moving his chin from its resting place atop his hand as he turned his head toward the small white envelope which was being extended to him. He briefly glanced up at his employee, whose expression gave no indication as to whether or not he knew what message the envelope held, before taking the envelope in his hand.
"Bring me my letter-opener, if you would, Cameron."
The young man did as he'd been instructed and walked over to the nearby desk, opening its drawer and pulling out the letter-opener. He then returned to Erik, handing it to him silently and then remaining beside the chair.
Once he'd opened the envelope, Erik pulled out the piece of paper within, unfolding it and reading the message written upon it.
Someone was looking for you. A woman. Young, from the sound of her. Couldn't see her face; she had a hood over her head. French accent. She somehow had a design of the tavern with her—it had your signature at the bottom of it and everything. Of course I told her I'd never heard of you, but she's going to come asking around again. Said it's of the utmost importance that she find you.
"Hmm," Erik murmured, raising his visible eyebrow as he continued studying the note.
"Is something wrong, sir?" Cameron inquired.
"No… not really, I suppose," Erik responded, shaking his head a bit as he briefly glanced toward the younger man. "Although it may be a problem in the future if it continues."
"Was the tavern robbed? Or vandalized?"
"Oh, no; nothing of that sort. Someone came in looking for me."
Cameron frowned a little, knowing that such an occurrence could indeed prove problematic. For many reasons, his employer was a man who wished to remain hidden. "I see. Do you know who it might have been?"
Erik shook his head again, letting out a little sigh as he furrowed his brow. "No. It was a woman from France… she sounded young, apparently. And I'm not acquainted with any young French ladies… any French women I've known in the past aren't young anymore."
"She sounded young?" Cameron echoed. "Louisa didn't think she looked young?"
"Louisa couldn't tell one way or the other. The girl had a hood on." Erik paused thoughtfully. "She apparently said that it was very important that she find me."
"Ah." Cameron scratched his head a bit. "Well, I wonder who it was… and what's so important to her that she find you?"
"I think she may be interested in my architecture," Erik mused, a rare expression of puzzlement crossing his masked features. "She somehow had a copy of my design for the tavern."
Upon hearing this, Cameron's eyebrows shot up. "Well, all questions as to how she even got hold of something like that aside, how could she have known that you're here? And more than that, how would she even realize that your name is Erik? You always sign your designs, compositions, and documents E. Tourneau."
"Yes," Erik murmured. "It's very strange."
"Well, she shouldn't be a problem for too long, really," Cameron then continued. "If she still persists even after being continually told that no one's familiar with you, then the threats will make her go away."
"True." Erik paused, then rose from his seat and tossed the note and envelope into the fire. "If it starts to become too much of a nuisance, we'll do something about it. But until then, we'll let it be."
~ o ~
Author's Note: This may be somewhat obvious, but just to clarify—when Marielle was thinking about how she was glad Christine had taught her English (so she could communicate with anyone in London), it was because in the previous chapters, none of the characters have been speaking English; they've been speaking French. But obviously, if I'd put all the dialogue in French to make that obvious, probably no one would fully understand it (unless any of my readers are fluent French speakers or they're willing to spend a lot of time copy-pasting the dialogue into Google Translate). So… there.