Showtime! There’s only so much harmony a hidden hostel can take… In the cellar of the warehouse where he had now been hitting his spacecraft with hammers for nigh on forty years, Chlurp welcomed the excitement of a really good slanging match igniting in the alley.
Anyway, nearly time for lunch. Might as well check it out?
He wasn’t the only resident in need of a distraction. A thirty-strong throng was amassing in front of the building known as ‘Chez Adelphine’, the one adjoining ‘Jos le Rêveur’ in the impasse. The commotion appeared to have erupted on the ground floor, where the people of the impasse shared or fetched their meals.
More specifically, it seemed to involve the jeering mob of lutins on the wooden counter that ran the length of the room on the right, and the fuming vampire who was trying to catch at least one of them.
“I know it was you!” In pursuit of her prey, Azélie had leaned so far over the counter that she now lay practically prone, her vintage saddle shoes barely touching the floor.
And still she was only grabbing handfuls of empty space. This is when you regret wearing a tweed pencil skirt.
“How dare you,” she shouted as loudly as her exertions would allow. “How dare you come into my room? How dare you go through my things?”
“What makes you think it was us?” Frouch’s mock outrage was a joy to behold.
“Who else would it be,” she growled, with a pointed look at his cap. It was no coincidence that this garment, with its instantly recognisable fabric, had appeared soon after her best gloves had gone missing last autumn. “Believe me, you’ll pay.”
“Oh, I’m so scared,” the lutins jibed as they swerved her swipes.
“What would you even want with my favourite lipstick?”
“I swear we don’t have it,” a tiny rascal replied, appearing in front of her face just long enough to plant a ruby red kiss right on her nose.
“And I swear I’ll break your nasty little necks! Just you wait!”
In response, a wiggly chorus line formed along the far edge of the counter, just out of her reach. On some secret signal, every other lutin blew her a raspberry while the rest mooned.
It was quite the choreography.
***
In a soggy corner of a nearby park, an argument was unfolding.
Jade had woken late, shaky and weak after a feverish night. The bottle of water she kept by her side seemed impossibly heavy, as did her backpack when she finally mustered the strength to sit up. There was an emergency pack of biscuits in there, if she could only find it…
The cardboard floor of her makeshift shelter was soaked; the bin-liner roof had partly collapsed. The twigs of the clump of viburnum that hid her from view were poking through and dripping with dew.
Zina sensed trouble, the way that dogs do. Ignoring the offer of a share of the meagre breakfast, she waited patiently until Jade seemed ready to rise, then tugged her sleeve. ‘Let’s go,’ she yelped as they crawled out of the shrubbery.
“What’s the matter with you?” Sadly, Jade didn’t understand Dog, much as she had come to respect her furry companion’s instincts.
Zina was running along the path, heading for an exit.
“Come back,” Jade shouted. “Come back here, now!” Beyond the park gates, a tram was whooshing past between two rows of cars. What was wrong with the mutt – would it remember to steer clear of people and wheels?
She tried to run, but there was just no chance. A mere five metres had her gasping for breath and dripping with sweat.
Zina took pity and returned, stopping just out of her young charge’s reach. When Jade had nearly caught up, Zina raced back to the gate, waiting for Jade to tag along.
Jade followed, cursing and swearing. It didn’t take her long to work out that Zina was leading her towards Jos Le Rêveur.
***
Try as she might, Cara had never managed to hold a grudge for long. And now that she had time for a thorough search, she went through the dressing room with a fine-toothed comb. After all, the missing eyelashes might just have… what… Fallen into some fold of faux fur? Stuck to a stole? Wafted away in the wake of a sashay?
Unfair accusations weren’t her style. Before having it out with Zelda, she wanted to be sure that the usual culprit was really to blame.
Twenty minutes later, Cara concluded that there could be no other explanation. When Zelda arrived, still in the guise of a slender young man in trendy jeans, she was ready to give her main suspect a piece of her mind.
But Zelda took the wind right out of her sails.
“Je l’ai enfin retrouvé,” Zelda proclaimed, handing over a flat box with a sparkly pink ribbon.
The silk scarf it contained was simply exquisite, with its vibrant colours and elegant flower motif. The fabric was easily thick enough to serve as a sling, should she ever injure her arm.
“Je ne peux pas l’accepter,” Cara objected, attempting to hand the box back. “C’est un collector, il vaut une petite fortune.”
“Non, sérieux, prends-le,” said Zelda. “Ma grand-mère aurait adoré qu’il aille à un proche, et moi, c’est pas mon truc. Tu me ferais plaisir, sincèrement.”
An unexpected sign of affection, from a very unexpected source. Cara blinked away a few tears before nodding acceptance. “Merci beaucoup, vraiment. J’en prendrai grand soin.”
“Je sais,” Zelda replied. “Et au fait, tes faux cils, tu les as retrouvés?”
“Quoi, parce que c’était vraiment pas toi?”
“Mais non, enfin! Je te les aurais rendus à temps, quand même!”
They were staring at each other, lost for words, when suddenly a flash of fuchsia appeared near the ceiling. A split second later, the missing accessories fluttered down right between them, spinning in graceful arcs, sequins glittering in the room’s stage-bright lights.