I shake my head and toss my chin up, my hair falling heavily against my back. I lift my face and focus on the fading sunlight, the happy voices of people on the street, the fact that I’m okay and not hurt.
The vicious tug of my hair, the way that man yanked me to him…
I shudder.
But when I try to change my thought pattern, I find myself instead thinking of… Monsieur. What the girls said about him.
You’ve just become his latest obsession.
Now that he’s seen her, she couldn’t hide if she tried. He’ll find her.
I move briskly down the street, remembering how my mother always told me that getting my body moving would help my mental health.
It’s a warm spring evening in Sartène. This is absolutely one of my favorite times of year. Full of tourists on spring break or looking for warmer climates. Street vendors showcasing their wares and food carts tempting me with the tantalizing scents of crepes, quiche, and bastilles—savory cakes stuffed with onion, spinach, and goat cheese. Far more affordable than restaurant fare, I occasionally allow myself to indulge. Tonight, though, I have no appetite.
I want quiet and a distraction, but few places are open this time of night. It seems both moments and days ago that the assault took place. It’s hard to believe it’s already late evening. I’m not sure where the time went today. I have some vague notion that I’ve been wandering aimlessly. The thoughts I fight start to war with each other.
The feel of his breath on my neck, in sharp contrast to the chill of terror…
The warm feel of Monsieur’s thumb across my skin
My throat tightens as if I’m going to cry, but I’m not a crier, and I’m not going to start now. To be successful in a job like mine, you have to learn to stifle your emotions, or you’ll never survive.
I won’t lose sight of why I’m here.
I can’t.
“There are rumors,” a woman says in French, her voice teasing. Most people here speak French, though with so many tourists, it’s not unusual to hear other languages as well.
I glance over to see her arm entwined in a man’s, his hand resting comfortably on her elbow. Good. I’ll eavesdrop on a happy couple and get lost in the lilting cadence of French.
“About what?”
“That this city used to house pirates,” she says. “They were notorious, actually, since Corsica is easily accessed by seaports.”
“Mmm. I see,” replies her companion.
“And organized crime,” she says in a hushed voice just as they pass me.
My heart beats faster.
Organized crime.
“Like, the mafia?”
“Yes, but that’s ancient history. They’re gone now.”
“They’re never really gone…”
Huh. How curious.
I give them a quick look, but they’re already nearly out of my sight. I’ve heard only cursory Corsican history. I’ve heard the mountainous island’s famous for many things. Various streets in the oldest parts of town are connected by old alleyways, hidden staircases, and cold, dark, shadowed passageways as if the city itself is a labyrinth.
The shop next to me is closing its doors, and another to the right shuts off its lights. Up ahead, the only two places left with bright lights, still beckoning tourists and locals to enter, are the tavern and the bookstore. After today’s adventure, I wouldn’t set foot in a bar. The last thing I need isanyone’sattention, much less anyone who’s been hitting the drink. No. Tonight, I need anonymity.
The bookstore it is, then, where introverts gravitate, happy to be in their own separate worlds. I may not indulge in food tonight but bringing home a book might be the next best thing.
One of the things I love best about the island of Corsica is that it’s deeply rooted in ancient tradition. The streets feel as if they’re as old as the mountains themselves. Even the small stores bear the stamp of time with their age-worn brick walls and small, quaint interiors. This bookstore feels as if Belle herself could’ve frequented it before she was kidnapped by the Beast.
