A/N: After a couple months of hiatus followed by madcap planning, Mira’s story returns with a new title and a workable plot! Once again, let me know if the French is too confusing or overbearing (as in the first few paragraphs; I could probably cut it down there). Enjoy!

A MEETING

At the southeast end of the Champs-Elysées lay a famous square called the Place de la Concorde. During the late twentieth century, with tourism at its peak, la Concorde had always been filled with taxis, tour buses, bicyclists, and pedestrians. The architecture of the square’s centerpieces—eight statues, two fountains, and an Egyptian obelisk—attracted visitors from around the world. By far the most eye-catching, the Obélisque de Louxor seemed to tower above the surrounding buildings. People would come just to stare at the hieroglyphs etched into red granite; they would just stand and wonder about a civilization now long lost, a fate most were sure would never befall their own.

Two fountains stood on either side of the obelisk, both famous for the intricate figures of sculpted mermaids and fish. They once bubbled on through the day and night, throwing arches of clear water into the air under the admiring watch of tourists. Now, the same lights lit the lonely fountains as they sprayed streams of water high into the air of the empty square. The lights glowed on until an hour past midnight, when the water finally froze, suspended in delicate arches in the cold.

Etienne always wondered why the machinery didn’t break when the water turned to ice, and how whoever ran the fountains knew when to turn the pumps and lights off. He’d made a ritual of watching the city’s fountains late into the night, since most never even shut off so that the lights sparkled through the ice as the pump hummed futilely in the background. He liked just standing in the cold with his hat pulled down low and his trench coat rippling around his ankles in the light breeze. It never snowed in Paris, even now with the strange weather patterns—there was just fog, endless fog that swallowed him up in the night.

At the moment, it was still too early for fog, and the lights on the two fountains shone brightly in eerie shades of sapphire and amethyst, jewels in the surrounding night. Although it was risky to meet at the fountains, Etienne wanted to satisfy at least this simple pleasure while he waited for the mysterious girl from the Crillon. Eyes glazed by the light, he paced back and forth before the fountain while his mind wandered. If she doesn’t come by 12h05, I have to leave, he decided when he turned for the sixth time.

In the distance, clocks chimed midnight, their chimes off by split seconds and filling the night with the tolling of bells. As the last peal faded, Etienne turned in his pacing—and promptly ran into someone.

“Oh! Pardonnez-moi, monsieur!” a female voice exclaimed.

She took a step back, and he saw her face clearly in the light. Here she was, right on time: Mira Rousseau, the girl—well, young woman—whose solid determination had caught his attention as he stood listening to Dubois’s thoughts in the Crillon’s courtyard. Her eyes glittered azure and her hair shimmered in the wavering glow of the fountain. He saw the triumph in her expression as he grasped the irony of her words—a mirror to his own earlier that evening.

“Mais non, mademoiselle,” he said, so quietly that she could barely hear. “C’est ma faute.”

“Pas du tout!” she retorted. Her French was perfect, her accent Parisian.

“Alors, mademoiselle, il n’y a pas de mal.”

“Vraiment, monsieur?”

He ignored her question and asked instead, “Est-ce que vous voudriez bien de me permettre de vous accompagner au Jardin des Tuileries?”

With a critical eye, she sized him up for a moment, surprised by his overly formal tone in the way he worded his invitation. “Oui, j’en voudrais bien,” she assented.

They made their way through the empty square to the gardens, shoulder to shoulder and heads leaned in close, their hands just close enough to touch. When the streetlights were nothing more than faint glows on the pavement, Etienne stopped and faced her. They stared at one another in silence for a minute, guarding their thoughts against intrusion the way they’d been taught. Mira finally spoke.

“Monsieur Laroche, j’ai besoin de—”

Quickly, he cut her off. “I can speak English as fluently as you can French, Mademoiselle Rousseau. I’d prefer it if we used your native tongue, since most Parisians cannot.”

She recognized a hint of British accent in the way he shaped his words, the way they rolled off his tongue. Interesting…the League sought to undermine the vestiges of its former government using the language of the nations that brought France to her Fall. She almost mocked him for it, but thought the better of it.

His eyes never wavering, he watched her patiently, waiting for her to begin talking business. She wouldn’t have been looking for him without good reason, and she wouldn’t have met him unless she was ready. She had something important to say, and he was prepared to listen, but only if she was willing to talk.

Mira composed her words carefully. Now was the time to throw caution to the winds, for it would be far too easy to get in too deep. All the same, she couldn’t suppress her rebellious streak, even though she knew it might get her into trouble. She’d caught herself now, though, before her chance could slip away. She had to play her cards just right.

Ready now, she met his gaze confidently. “Monsieur Laroche, I understand you have highly classified intelligence on the bosses of Paris.”

“That I do,” he replied with a nod.

She hesitated. “This is selfish of me to ask… but have you heard anything about another American mage in Paris?”

His eyes held her gaze, and for a moment, he said nothing to break the silence of the night. At last, he murmured, “Why do you ask?”

“I’m… I’m looking for a friend of mine,” she answered quietly, watching him carefully.

“Then I am sorry. I know nothing.”

She eyed him, her face catching a beam of moonlight amid the darkness. He saw disbelief and confusion mixed in her hazel eyes.

“The truth?” she whispered.

“I know nothing.”

“Merde,” she swore, closing her eyes and turning her head away from him.

“Mademoiselle,” he began, offering his arm to her, “if you would be so kind as to accompany me, perhaps we can reason through the possibilities.”

She threw him an inscrutable glance and linked her arm through his. “Possibilities?” she asked.

“It is entirely possible that I have heard of… him?”

“Yes,” she clarified. “His name is Lucas, a friend of mine from school.”

“Ah.” He pulled her a little to the right, so their steps took them along a side path. “It is entirely possible that I have met your friend Lucas, but he might have been under a different name, marauding as a non-mage or a visitor from another country entirely.”

Understanding now, she nodded and laughed. “I suppose I should tell you more about him,” she said. He nodded encouragingly as he led her out of the gardens and down the deserted streets.

“Lucas Devereaux,” she began, “is American-born French, like me. We are both fluent in French, but he visited Paris often as a child, so his accent is more pure than mine.”

“You accent is perfect,” he interrupted as he took her down a side street.

“Au contraire,” she corrected him, “you’ll understand if you meet him.” He nodded, and she continued. “Even though he grew up in America, he looks the full-blooded Frenchman he is—dirty blond hair, strong jaw, deep-set eyes—and he’s got a silly streak that makes him seem six years old sometimes. But he’s a brilliant mage… one of the best in our home state, but I suppose that doesn’t mean much in Europe.”

Etienne smiled as he listened. “Sounds like a very likable person,” he remarked.

“Likable? People don’t just like Luke, they love him. He’s friendly to everyone. He never has a bad day.”

“How is it that you are seeking him in Paris?” Now they left the dim streetlights behind, and the only light came from the moon.

She paused, composing her thoughts. “Like I said, we’re friends from school, a boarding school in Philadelphia. After the Fall, we split up to check on our homes first, but we agreed to meet in Paris to join the parrain resistance movement.”

“You knew about the parrains?”

“Of course. We were following world news, but…truth be told, the early signs of the Jade League were the most promising.”

Etienne scoffed at her praise. “You must be joking.” He began walking a little faster.

“Don’t be so modest,” she admonished him, easily keeping up with the pace he set. “The Jade League has accomplished a great deal.”

“Not nearly enough,” he said darkly. “Speak no more of it now; the parrains have spies everywhere.”

They were making their way down a narrow alleyway now, the brick walls on either side dank with clinging fog. The moisture clung to their faces as they dodged through the maze of stacked crates and cardboard boxes. Mira felt Etienne’s hand grip hers tightly as he pulled her along, past mildewing back porches of old cafes and stores—faster now past feebly climbing vines and patches of weeds—and still faster up a flight of concrete stairs and through rows of forgotten laundry hanging on their lines on the rooftop. Faster and faster they went—down a flight of wooden stairs now and along another alley, until Mira gasped for breath, all the while fearing her fate should she stumble.

Suddenly they stopped, facing the back door of a run-down warehouse. Etienne knocked twice on the door, so quietly that if Mira hadn’t seen him raise his hand to the door, she would have mistaken the sound for the footsteps of a wandering cat. The door clicked open, and Etienne pulled Mira inside after him as the door swung shut.

They were in a pitch black room—even darker than the night outside. Mira couldn’t see a thing, not even the door they had just come through. Etienne knew his way though, and he reached forward and knocked again, apparently on a new door. A peephole opened, spilling light into the small entrance room.

“Quoi?” said the man on the other side.

“C’est moi, Laroche,” Etienne whispered.

The guard scoffed. “That’s what they all say.”

“But only the real Laroche would know that you, my friend, ought to cut back on those gluttonous eating habits.”

“Me?”

“Oh yes, lest you find that our members cannot come through this door because of your expansive rear.”

“Tu plaisantes! Diet shouldn’t matter if I get plenty of exercise, n’est-ce pas, mon ami?”

Mira listened carefully, trying to find the password exchange. Apparently Etienne had spoken some sort of key, for the guard chuckled and shifted his attention to her.

“And who is this?”

“Mira Rousseau, a personal guest of mine.”

“All right, but only because it’s you,” he said, unlatching and opening the door. Etienne and Mira slipped inside, and the guard locked it once more. “Skipping entrance procedure then?” he asked.

“For now,” replied Etienne, taking Mira by the hand to continue down the lighted hall.

“Expansive rear indeed…” muttered the guard behind them as he settled back into his chair.

Mira remained silent as Etienne led her through the halls. The décor was bare and metallic, mostly steel scaffolding everywhere and copper pipes along the walls. Even the lights consisted of nothing more than a glassy diffusing shield over one of those coiled energy-saving light bulbs. The hour was late, and the only people they passed were guards at their posts in the side halls, many of the men sipping mugs of steaming coffee, as much to keep warm as to get some caffeine into their bodies. As Etienne and Mira passed through quietly, Mira’s senses picked up the tingle of magic: conspicuous touches of unfamiliar energy—some feeling like the fuzzy touch of electricity, others tasted like metal, and still others smelling like mist. Though curious, she kept quiet until Etienne chose to speak.

Soon, they left the hall and crossed an open floor the size of Mira’s high school auditorium. At the far end, Etienne pushed open a heavy concrete door, and they went through, the door laboring shut behind them. Finally, Etienne began to explain. “We just passed through the barracks and training areas. Most of the mages and other soldiers are asleep at this hour, but it was the quickest way in.”

Mira nodded in reply. She had gone into a state of observation as she often did, choosing to reserve judgment until she knew more about her new surroundings. It was a habit she’d picked up over the past year of almost constant disappointments; she couldn’t stand having high expectations of a place based on her first impressions, not when she knew somewhere deep down that everything for which she hoped would be taken away in a stroke of… what, bad luck? Maybe it was fate.

“Come this way,” said Etienne, placing a hand at the small of her back and guiding her up a flight of carpeted stairs. “There’s an open room on the second floor where you can stay while you’re with us.”

Now it dawned on her: they were in an old, run-down hotel. Apparently the rooms were serving as quarters for members who didn’t sleep in the barracks of the adjoining warehouse. The arrangement made sense, especially now that Mira recognized stronger, more defined hints of magic in the air. The powerful members stayed here, where meetings could be held in private, and common recruits wouldn’t overhear discussions of League business and strategy.

“Here,” said Etienne, opening the third door on the right. “The electronic lock no longer works, so keep the top latch shut when you’re inside.”

“I will,” she promised.

“I plan to hold an executive meeting at six-thirty, about five hours from now. If you are willing, I would like you to attend.”

“Any service I can provide to the League, I am more than happy to provide.”

He smiled. “Good. I’ll be back at six o’clock to escort you to the meeting.” He turned to go.

“Etienne,” she called after him. Leaving the doorway, she came up to him and murmured in his ear, “Tell me something about Devereaux.” She kissed him on both cheeks, the way her parents used to greet her, called faire la bise.

Recognizing the password she had assigned him, he smiled again. “Welcome to the Jade League, Mademoiselle Rousseau.”