The Lost Girl Of Avignon

A bit too late for Halloween, but better late than never. I've wanted to do a story like this for a while. I enjoyed creating the mythos and adding the little bits of wrongness. Hopefully it pleases you as much to read it.

I'd also like to say a special thank-you to

Jackie.Hikaru

for her proof-reading and suggestions for plot enhancements. If you haven't read her stories yet... what on earth is wrong with you?

☽●☾

I set aside my glasses and then raised my hands to my neck. A few moments of hard pressure, a change of posture... and the spasm eased.

I groaned and slid off of my chair, padding on stockinged soles towards the periodicals shelves so that I could return the hard-copy journals I'd gathered during my earlier sweep.

The pain was an ever-present reminder of the naivete of my youth; I needed to make an appointment for a massage.

Maybe I'd try the new place I'd noticed near my flat - the new-age-style shopfront with a vector-art-vinyl cherry-tree and Kanji characters on the glass...

Another journal.

I glared at it, sighed, picked it up and inserted it carefully and instinctively into the correct location within the stack I already carried, glancing in passing at the cover. New Phytology... Botany then; not a popular or particularly page-turning topic. I wondered, just for a moment, about who'd been daft enough to choose it as a major over Pharmacology or Economics...

Someone studying on Papa's money.

Oh well, not my problem.

I padded onward and replaced each journal in its place, moving Widdershins on my circuit of the room as I always did - the manner that I'd learned through trial and error was most efficient and least disorderly.

Then back to my desk and the glowing rectangle of the laptop computer.

I listened with one ear to the voices from the second floor above - some students were still in the stacks and the Mahogany room. Some muffled, girlish laughter; I'd leave them be unless they got louder. There weren't many of them left, even though the Library was officially going to be open for a couple of hours longer. And they weren't disturbing anyone.

I opened a browser tab and spent a minute or two scanning the news, before closing it again.

The same old tired stuff.

Murders, cheating, movie releases, more cheating...

Mon dieu

, people were so predictable.

I felt the first pangs of hunger; I reached down into my battered leather bag and pulled out the metal flask. A few sips only; I licked my lips to avoid spilling a drop, then screwed the lid tightly back on.

I'd be good for a couple more hours now.

I stood, slipped my feet into my black leatherette pumps and straightened the creases in my ochre-brown pencil skirt down over my thighs. I checked my bun; still tight, nothing out of place.

I liked being neat and precise.

I stalked over to the steel staircase and climbed up to the second floor. I embarked on a highly-visible circuit of the upper level of the Library, muting or stilling conversations as I ghosted by like a bird of bad omen.

I smiled a pleased little smile to myself as I restored order to my fiefdom.

Then I laughed at myself - at Annemarie-Jean Devereux, the unlikely French outsider elevated by the whim of the Chancellor of the University of Ulcaster to be the tenured Tyrant of the University Library...

How amazed the humble folk of Avignon would be were they to see my strange fate.

But... it was a fate that suited me well enough for now.

The Library was mine and mine alone.

Mine to order, mine to cherish, mine to maintain... for a while at least.

Nothing lasts forever, after all.

I made my way downstairs and paused.

A young man was standing by my table, arms crossed over his slim chest, shifting left to right in his slim-cut black tee shirt, tight burgundy trousers and his bright and sparkly sneakers...

I smiled to myself. He was brave and had a slender figure. Perhaps a dancer?

I approved.

And then he turned as he heard my soft footfalls...

Reality shifted, and I realised with a shock that the young man was a girl. No, I corrected myself, a young woman. A tall, willowy, tomboyish young woman with a delightful pixie cut and the most remarkable amber-gold eyes...

A little shiver down my shoulders; she was a vision.

"Yes?" I said, remembering my professionalism. "How can I help?"

"Sorry, Mrs Devereux..."

Her voice was honey-smooth...

"Miss," I corrected, gently but precisely, trying not to forget my role.

She flushed, shifted. "Sorry, Miss Devereux... um... sorry, my friend... said I should..."

She took a breath and squared her shoulders.

"Sorry. I'll start again. I'm trying to find reference books on... on matriarchal nomad structures in the Balkans and South Eastern Europe during the Dark and early Middle Ages," she said, in a rush.

I blinked.

"That is possibly the most... esoteric... request any has ever asked for my help with," I admitted.

She managed a shy little grin.

"It was a long shot."

"Is this coursework? I didn't know that Humanities were covering Wallachia and surrounds this year. I would have loved to have sat in on the lectures."

"No... it... well, it's all because of something I encountered, but... call this extramural. Or something."

She shrugged.

"Hmm. Well. It sounds like the perfect diversion. Come with me."

"Um... where?" she asked.

"The Stacks. History is all up above us. It will be a bit of a search, but I'm certain we will find something."

I spun and took several deliberate steps back towards the stairs.

Then I realised that she hadn't followed.

"Well?" I said, amused. "Do you need your hand held?"

She flushed pink, muttered something, and slunk after me.

We ascended; she held station a step or two behind me.

"This is Humanities," I told her as we turned right at the top of the stairs. "Psychology, Art, Religious studies, Demonology..."

"What!"

"Oh, yes. It is not a large section but we still sometimes get a student who needs to reference something within the

Malleus

or the

Codex Gigas

... so we keep them here. But it's not common."

"I would hope not!" she exclaimed; I glanced at her, noted the wide eyes.

"Old books can be strange treasures," I said. "Sometimes it can be useful to see what our ancestors believed, no? Think of the Dead Sea scrolls."

"Oh... right. I suppose that makes sense..."

"Anyway. Greek Drama, Babylonian creation myths... ah.

Bien

. Here we go. This section covers Byzantium. The Eastern Roman Empire was the dominant power structure of the region over your period of interest..."

"This sign says Folklore..." she began to protest.

"All a part of history," I said, flapping my hand dismissively. "Folklore is... unreliable, but still a valid source - it is oral tradition, if you like. You might find some avenues of enquiry here. For Wallachia and its surroundings I'd recommend Angelović's treatise on fantastic beasts and Tarsinian's

Geographica Mundi

. I don't suppose you speak either Greek or Latin."

"No..."

"Here is the translation of the first... and here is the second. The Library is open for another two hours and I can keep them for you until tomorrow as well."

"Um... thanks... that would be..."

"It is my pleasure. Here. There's an empty reading table over there; it's one of the nice ones. There is less of a draft. I'll be at the desk if you need anything."

"Thank you..." she breathed, burdened by the weight of the two tomes.

I gave her a smile and turned to make my way back downstairs.

I briefly dwelled on whatever her project could be.

Matriarchal nomad structures...

She was almost certainly researching the Romani.

A momentary vision - tall, grim-faced men, glittering steel weapons, torches, the dark of the Carpathian mountains under the Blood Moon...

I shivered, rubbed my hands down my thighs.

I hated the way my imagination could run away into visions...

I squared the papers on my desk, straightened the stand for my pedestal monitor, prowled to the noticeboards and undid and then recreated the geometrical perfection of my numerous day-glo drawing pins.

Conversation built, then died away again.

I heard footsteps on the steel stairs.

It was her.

I moved back to my desk and waited, thoroughly enjoying the way she challenged the world.

"Thank you, Miss Devereux... um... would you keep the Tarsinian for me until tomorrow? I think it might hold a little bit of what I need. I've put the Angelović back in its place. It's fascinating, but it's not what I need right now..."

"Oh. Thank you. What are you looking for, specifically?" I asked, fishing.

"Oh. It's just a pet project. My Nana is coming to visit and she was always really big into her family. So I'm seeing if I can find how far back we go."

"You're Romanian?"

"Yeah," she said, shyly. "Some of me at least. It's the eyes that give me away, isn't it?"

"They are lovely. And most striking."

She blushed; she was very pretty for such a brief, young thing.

"Well," I said. "I know one or two places you might want to look. I have time tomorrow... if you would like a research partner, perhaps?"

"Oh, would you?"

"I would love to."

Her hand brushed against mine as she handed the hard-cover tome back to me; I was distracted for a moment by the warmth of her skin.

"So," I said. "Tomorrow then."

"Yes. Thank you!"

She spun and sauntered off; I watched her go, amused.

She was so impossibly

cute

.

Then I rapped my knuckles gently against my forehead.

"Be still, thoughts," I muttered.

Pretty young girls were for... other people.

I had long-since made peace with that truth.

I ran my finger gently along the spine of the book, pondering her and her strange quest. The fall of Byzantium and the darkness that fell over the Eastern Empire had always been a pet interest of mine. I looked at the various scruffy paper slips she'd left to mark spots of interest in the book... then gave in to curiosity and slipped it into my bag. It was highly irregular; it was massively against the rules - I should sign for it, if nothing else.

But sometimes it's good to be Queen.

I idled away the remaining hour-and-remainder before I ushered the last of the night owls out and shuttered the doors of my demesne.

A quick sweep to ensure that all was neat and orderly for the morning, and I locked the back door behind me.

Kindly Luna lit the paving of the pathway that swept past the vaulted roof of the Mathematics building and downwards to the river - my habitual route home.

The darkness held no fear for me; I'd walked unafraid in far worse places than Ulcaster, after all.

I slung my satchel over my shoulder and stepped off into the night.

Above me, the stars glittered cold...

And alone.

☽●☾

I unclenched my jaw as I turned off my Mesolithic-era blender. Yet again I promised myself that I'd buy a quieter one, or a cold press or... or anything... once this one died its final death. The machine was stubborn and unkillable as a donkey, rattling away, groaning, doing everything with an enormous amount of drama and very little panache.

I loathed it.

I poured the liquefied beetroot through a strainer to remove any clumps, and stood it over a large saucepan so that it would drain. Making my "smoothies" was a pain in the derrière and every drop was... necessary.

And, anyway, they were so much better than the... alternative.

I opened my fridge (small but hospital-grade) and pulled out the final remaining tub of blood that it cradled. I was running low, it would be time to stock up soon.

I moved to the counter and retrieved a ladle, then carefully decanted the appropriate amount of the rust-coloured contents into the pot with my waiting beetroot.

Not a starvation diet, not quite. It was enough.

Barely.

I replaced the lid firmly onto the tub, trying to ignore the maddening and intoxicating scent of iron, and carefully put it away again.

I stirred my pot to diffuse the blood through the beetroot juice, then decanted the resultant soup into a waiting sterile glass bottle and put the bottle into the fridge.

Contamination was always a risk; I could not afford a mistake.

A fox screamed somewhere in the distance.

"Shut up,

putain

," I whispered.

I do not like canines - not in the slightest. And they generally don't like me right back.

I finished the remains of my earlier flask, then forced myself to prepare and gag down a meal of cheese and black pudding. My body required the calories, as unpalatable as they might be.

Finally, my reward; a glass of wine - dark red, almost mourning red; a rich, complex Grenache blend from the banks of the Rhône and one of my few remaining links to my land of birth. Mr Smith of Smith and Crookshanks got it in specially for me - one of many favours he'd do off the back of the hours of research assistance I'd given his niece during her belated alchemical studies.

I eyed the Tarsinian as I sipped my wine. The girl's little slips of paper beckoned me towards pages that she had found worth a second glance. At last I ran out of the energy to resist the urge to peek. I rose, stepped to my reading desk and turned on the warm sun-like LED glow of one of my many smart lamps before I opened the book to her first marker.

The translation was dry - so unlike Tarsinian's original Latin with his careful choice of phrasing and wordplay that appeared so beautifully reproduced on the facing page.

I reached for my glasses.

The Latin returned swiftly as it always did; my childhood education yielding dividends long years after any reasonable person could have expected it to.

Sic factum est in terra Carpathii...

I rubbed my eyes, concentrated.

A story about nomad caravans that Tarsinian (or his interlocutors) had encountered. People who travelled in wagons, brightly painted, worshipping in accordance with the Byzantine rites of the time. Christians but weirdly so by modern standards.

I moved to the next bookmark.

Tales of rivalry with other peoples. Wars, pogroms, bitter blood feuds...

And the next contained hints of a plague. Probably the Plague of Justinian, I thought. It was close to the time of Tarsinian, after all. Small wonder it made it into folklore; it must have been an unrivalled horror for our ancestors - akin to a divine curse striking down all and sundry.

I closed the book and stared up at my stucco ceiling. Whatever she was chasing, it seemed benign enough. It would be fun to help her.

Then I shrugged and slid the book back into my bag. I made the rounds and checked my curtains were all still closed against the morning sunlight.

I dimmed all my lights but left them glimmering.

I'm not at all afraid of the dark.

I... just need a little light to sleep by.

☽●☾

I cut a dashing figure in my crimson-black jeans and my long-sleeved white linen shirt with its ridiculous frilly collar and hems - a swashbuckler was how an admiring intern had once referred to my often-ecclectic style.

I glanced upwards at the hateful disc of the Sun through the fabric of my crimson dragon silk parasol. Protection like it offered was sadly necessary on all but the most overcast of days. My skin often reacted badly to sunlight, and I didn't feel like a week of cortisone patches and the dry, maddening itching they brought.

I stepped through the doors of the library and smiled a warm good morning to Miss Feverfew - Sarah was the morning Librarian and my right-hand woman.

I dumped my bag on my table with a groan. Then I made a quick circuit and gathered up some periodicals.

"Sarah,

chérie

- would you be an angel and put these back in their places for me while I get the tea on?"

"Yes, Annemarie," she said, practically scampering off to do my bidding.

Sarah, my little everyday breath of spring. I loved her fiercely and fretted myself to distraction when I knew she was out with her entourage of young men.

"That's a lovely bite mark, Sarah," I called after her. Someone laughed in the open area upstairs.

"Thanks. I'm proud of it too," she retorted.

Our relationship was completely unprofessional and one of the very best things about working at the Library. I'd hired her more than a year ago and never regretted it, not even in the depths of some of our worst hangovers.

She brought laughter to my otherwise ordinary existence.

I turned on the kettle on and dug into our hoard of teabags. I found her some PG Tips and put a Tetleys in a mug for myself. I listened with half-an-ear to the gentle murmur of conversations, the footsteps, the idolatrous sound of pages being gently turned.

I took Sarah her cup and smirked at her as she squirmed under my amused gaze, and adjusted the cute little silk scarf she'd knotted around her neck as camouflage.

"So... a good night, then?" I said, innocently.

"Oh... you know. Can't complain."

"I hope it's just that one bite."

"There's another somewhere else," she said, grinning wickedly. "I broke him though. Poor boy. I don't think he could walk straight after. Legs like spaghetti."

"Oh, oh. They never learn, do they?"

She smiled. "Uh huh. So... there're some new periodicals in; I wanted to check with you before I slotted them and culled the others. Also, a woman was here looking for Tarsinian but I noticed he's not in his place..."

"Ah.

Pardon

. That is my fault. I stole it last night and forgot to sign it out. I said I would keep it for her. Did she say when she'd be back?"

"Oh, she's still here - up in the Mahogany room. She's digging into the references for the Penguin Abridged History of Europe, focussing on..."

"... nomadic tribes of the thirteenth century AD in Romania," I said.

"It's insufferable how much you love doing that."

"Yes," I said, with a smirk.

"Every fucking time," she muttered. "Anyway... she's in the sunny corner. Sorry, I know it's not your favourite."

I made a face. "I'll take it to her. Could you change the periodicals and do me a favour - watch that group by Media studies. I know one of them; he has an overdue textbook on Descartes and he is always brutish with the books."

"Right, the sod. I'll fix him," she said.

I turned and made my way to the stairs; I ascended slowly, watching as Sarah bee-lined in on the hapless target of my ire.

She was even walking like me these days.

I grinned.

Imitation was the sincerest form of flattery, after all.

I made my way through the open reading area, noting in passing a couple of students and the books they were busy with. One, a well-dressed man, was busy with a work I recognised as being a fragile old commentary on Isaac Newton's "

Hermes

"; but he was wearing gloves and handling the pages with extreme care, so I doubted he would damage the book. He seemed to feel me watching him and gave me a brief, direct stare before turning back to the pages and his copious notes.

Something about him tickled my subconscious for a breath or two, then I placed him; he was some visiting professor, that was all.

I put him out of my mind and stalked onwards to the Mahogany room (well... more a Mahogany-veneer room, if I were honest), then paused as I let my eyes adjust to the sharp daylight that poured in through the beautiful vaulted windows.

And there she was; abbreviated hair flaming copper in the sunbeams, hunched forward as she scribbled in pencil on an old-style yellow legal pad. A small laptop computer was pushed to one side and she had printed pieces of paper strewn over the work surface in front of her.

She looked up as I approached.