Early hours, 21st January, 1894 — 8th Arrondissement, Paris
He couldn’t help but think of her when he thought of Paris, or think of her without thinking of Paris. All those romantic delusions she had had about travelling and seeing the city for herself – hopes she had spilled out to him before they even knew each other at all – and here he was, dealing with her miserable letters instead.
Anger had fuelled him here, he thought, that burning resentment at her leaving: he had studied her map, enchanted the portkey, waited until it was late, after midnight one night, and thudded down along the Champs-Élysées before he could talk himself out of it. (Somewhere deep down, Kris knew this was – embarrassing? deranged? – and the only mercy was that of anyone in the world, Poppy Dashwood was possibly the only person who wouldn’t think so.)
This was stupid. He had tried last night, with no luck. Tonight he thought he had found the right house – he had a view of it where he was loitering on the street, waiting to see if any shadows crept out from its shuttered rooms – and he ran through her words again, as if to convince himself this wasn’t stupid. I’ve taken to stealing out in the earliest hours of morning, before anyone is awake, to stroll along the cobbled streets. No. If anyone was stupid here, it was her – what kind of trouble was she going to get herself into being reckless like that?
He tried to ignore the leap in his chest when he spotted the figure, five foot nothing and light as air stepping onto the cobblestones; he let her go for a few paces, half-interested to see where she would go this time, before he quickened his strides and grasped her by the arm.
Anger had fuelled him here, he thought, that burning resentment at her leaving: he had studied her map, enchanted the portkey, waited until it was late, after midnight one night, and thudded down along the Champs-Élysées before he could talk himself out of it. (Somewhere deep down, Kris knew this was – embarrassing? deranged? – and the only mercy was that of anyone in the world, Poppy Dashwood was possibly the only person who wouldn’t think so.)
This was stupid. He had tried last night, with no luck. Tonight he thought he had found the right house – he had a view of it where he was loitering on the street, waiting to see if any shadows crept out from its shuttered rooms – and he ran through her words again, as if to convince himself this wasn’t stupid. I’ve taken to stealing out in the earliest hours of morning, before anyone is awake, to stroll along the cobbled streets. No. If anyone was stupid here, it was her – what kind of trouble was she going to get herself into being reckless like that?
He tried to ignore the leap in his chest when he spotted the figure, five foot nothing and light as air stepping onto the cobblestones; he let her go for a few paces, half-interested to see where she would go this time, before he quickened his strides and grasped her by the arm.
