With a gentle drip drip drip, the water falls down from the musty rafters and down my cloak, making me jump. I curse myself then, for breaking position. If someone sees me...
I don't think about it. I can't think about it. Father Guillarme needs me, Paris needs me, in fact the whole world might very well need me. If I falter, if I even flinch, it could mean the downfall of The Circle, just when I was brought into their good graces as well. If I fail it means no Change, no purpose to the world anymore. The thing I have waited for, thrived on the promise of, and slaved for over three years for will vanish just as it is in my grasp. One petty mission, one guardsman's post and it will be mine. The Change of a lifetime, as it has been promised to me.
Just then, the moon emerges from where it has been waiting in shadow. The moon, normally dulled with Paris smog, shines as if washed anew. I give great reverence to the moon, for which I owe my life according to my parents. "Calypso," My mother used to say, "You are a daughter of the Moon first, French second."
"Amelie, don't speak such falsehoods, you know what will happen if you're caught." My father always chided. According to them, the moon gives life, the push and pull of the oceans is thanks to the moon, and without tides my father would have never been able to catch fish to support our wretched existence in Benet. Without those fish I would not have ended up here, 58 miles from the destitute fishing village I once called home. A sharp feeling rises in my gut and I feel I am going to vomit, but I push it down. Ghosts are ghosts and they deserve to remain as such.
Notre Dame is silent, her gargoyles remain but mute guardians of the night, quietly fading into the abyss of Parisian darkness. I change my footing, hopping down one row of statues and ease myself into a crack between St. Louis of Toulouse and St. Vincent de Paul. I take a deep a breath to steady myself and take a running start at a row of gargoyles, using their cracked and crumbling head as stepping stones, all the while daring myself not to look down. One wrong step and I'm silenced, a quick and final farewell to the Prideux dynasty's last living heir, no one but stillness and saints to mourn my loss.
Finally, after a gut twisting jump I catch a grip of my final destination. One of the church's flying buttresses, where I can see and not be seen by any midnight visitors. I lean against the stone and catch my breath, watching it come out in short puffs. The cool ancient limestone behind me chills me to the core, and I arch away, balancing like a walker on a tightrope as I make my way back toward the roof to sit.
I don't think about it. I can't think about it. Father Guillarme needs me, Paris needs me, in fact the whole world might very well need me. If I falter, if I even flinch, it could mean the downfall of The Circle, just when I was brought into their good graces as well. If I fail it means no Change, no purpose to the world anymore. The thing I have waited for, thrived on the promise of, and slaved for over three years for will vanish just as it is in my grasp. One petty mission, one guardsman's post and it will be mine. The Change of a lifetime, as it has been promised to me.
Just then, the moon emerges from where it has been waiting in shadow. The moon, normally dulled with Paris smog, shines as if washed anew. I give great reverence to the moon, for which I owe my life according to my parents. "Calypso," My mother used to say, "You are a daughter of the Moon first, French second."
"Amelie, don't speak such falsehoods, you know what will happen if you're caught." My father always chided. According to them, the moon gives life, the push and pull of the oceans is thanks to the moon, and without tides my father would have never been able to catch fish to support our wretched existence in Benet. Without those fish I would not have ended up here, 58 miles from the destitute fishing village I once called home. A sharp feeling rises in my gut and I feel I am going to vomit, but I push it down. Ghosts are ghosts and they deserve to remain as such.
Notre Dame is silent, her gargoyles remain but mute guardians of the night, quietly fading into the abyss of Parisian darkness. I change my footing, hopping down one row of statues and ease myself into a crack between St. Louis of Toulouse and St. Vincent de Paul. I take a deep a breath to steady myself and take a running start at a row of gargoyles, using their cracked and crumbling head as stepping stones, all the while daring myself not to look down. One wrong step and I'm silenced, a quick and final farewell to the Prideux dynasty's last living heir, no one but stillness and saints to mourn my loss.
Finally, after a gut twisting jump I catch a grip of my final destination. One of the church's flying buttresses, where I can see and not be seen by any midnight visitors. I lean against the stone and catch my breath, watching it come out in short puffs. The cool ancient limestone behind me chills me to the core, and I arch away, balancing like a walker on a tightrope as I make my way back toward the roof to sit.
