the angels wept tonight_

“You shouldn’t deny him, Meg Giry.”

“Deny who?” Christine pressed, holding the ice pack once again to her pounding head.

“He speaks to no one. Like a shadow – he vanishes as soon as he is seen!” Her voice hushed at the end of the sentence.

Meg slammed her hand down on the desk, “Hannah!”

“His eyes are so deep. So black…” Hannah gasped again, “I cannot go on!” She cried, melodramatic, throwing her head back, eyes closed, hand to her chest. She stayed in that pose a moment then cracked an eye to see lack of amusement on Meg’s face. Christine’s startled. Hannah began to laugh, “Stupide Américaine!”

“Excuse me?!” Christine yelled. "My great-great grandma was Swedish or something!"

Hannah continued to laugh, rolling her eyes.

“Mademoiselle Buquet!” Bontecue’s voice echoed down the hall to the room.

Hannah was immediately to her feet, out the door, attendant. “Oui, monsieur?”

Meg shook her head and looked back at Christine, “How’s the bump?”

“Ok.” She shrugged, “So, she does this to all the new people?”

“Hannah Belle Buquet is a bitch, that’s all.” Meg smiled.

“So, you don’t believe me?” Christine asked. "About the horse?"

“I think Hannah offered suggestion and your mind ran with it,” Meg’s smile was fading. She took the ice pack and held it for Christine. “I mean - it’s just a story!” She shrugged, “All made up…”

“Sounds like you are trying to convince yourself,” Christine humored her.

“The building was built over the foundations, basement, vaults – all of it.” She shrugged, “I mean…people are bound to make up stories..."

“Foundations of what though? What was above it before?”

Meg sighed, picking at the edges of the icepack, her eyes raised to meet Christine's.

“L'Opera Populaire.”