She had wanted to be alone, and this had seemed as good a place as any. Being alone was easy now, after all. All she'd ever had was her sister, and that was company that had been long denied her now. Without Ginger, she'd had no reason to remain across oceans, and she'd mustered the courage it took her to board a boat one last time; she hadn't cared where she would end up. She had nothing to tie her to any one place, with her parents drowned and her sister gone.
She hadn't spoken a word of French when she'd first arrived in Paris, and she had preferred it. She hadn't had the words to explain to anyone why she was alone, why she had no home. A stranger's pity had kept her alive, taught her the language.
And yet despite the kindnesses she'd been paid, Brigitte could not feel at home without her sister, and so she often wandered at night. She took comfort in darkness at times, for it seemed that when the light was scarce, she could pretend that Ginger was simply hidden from sight, somewhere just beyond her immediate view.
She had come to find that being lost and alone in a strange place was the least lonely she had felt in quite some time. Sometimes she could still hear Ginger's voice, imagine her presence.
❝It's not safe out here, Brigitte. You don't know where you are.❞
The advice was sound enough, but it was born from her own ghosts, and she was simply not ready yet to return to an inn full of chatter and a room lit with the crackle of a hearth.
And then suddenly Ginger's voice was drowned by one that was altogether unfamiliar to her. Music...? She spun, seeking out the source of the sound. She moved closer, her eyes settling quickly on--well she could tell from the voice and from the frame that it was a man, but he didn't seem quite so. She guessed it was the addition of a mask that made him come across as ethereal. Or perhaps that, too, should be credited to his voice.
She didn't speak. It simply didn't seem the thing to do. Of course, she didn't suppose there was an established etiquette for when a stranger begins singing to you, but she did not question it. It was something of a reprieve, really--listening to something lovelier than her own thoughts. Normally she disliked the listening; it was mundane at best, and it took her mind off of nothing at all.
This stranger was certainly not mundane...
romaincrisis
kaledo-art
dededos
origamiaround
janainaart
turnnoffyourmind
dailybridgerton
prguitarman
