It was morning.
A very beautiful morning.
Like one of those days the world pretends everything is perfect even though inside people are falling apart. The whole of Ravelle was shining, bustling, sparkling like it had swallowed spring and vomited out flowers. Birds chirped too much. The sky was too blue. The air was too sweet. It was disgusting.
Far in the little cottage, things looked peaceful. Too peaceful. Mireille sat calmly in the parlor like a queen on her throne, sipping her coffee with a fresh croissant. She looked like she had all the time in the world, like she wasn't involved in a plan that could get everyone killed if it failed.
Etienne stood stiffly by the door like he had been planted there. He was so still you could mistake him for furniture. A tall, boring piece of furniture with no sense of humor.
