Moonlight Over Paris by Jennifer Robson

Author:Jennifer Robson
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2015-12-14T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 19

On Tuesday afternoon, Helena went straight home after class, packed her satchel with a new sketchpad and box of sharpened pencils, ate an early dinner, wound and set her alarm clock, and put herself to bed. She woke on her own, not far past one o’clock, but rather than get up straightaway and face the cold and dark of her room she lay abed, her mind too busy for sleep.

She didn’t know much about the market, only that Les Halles was a group of buildings where produce, meat, fish, and other fresh foodstuffs were brought into Paris overnight to be sold in the morning. That much of the fresh food to feed a city of millions might be seen, gathered together in one place, was difficult to imagine, and as she’d never been to any of the big markets in London, or indeed to any market at all, she’d no idea of what she would discover that morning.

It wouldn’t do to keep Sam waiting at the door, however, so she forced herself out of bed and into the chill of her room. Before retiring, she’d set out the warmest and sturdiest of her clothes: thick stockings and flannel combinations, a woolen frock with an unfashionably long skirt, lace-up boots, her winter coat, a felt cloche hat, and a scarf that, once wrapped around her neck, was as high and enveloping as a monk’s cowl.

Tiptoeing through the house, so as not to wake her aunt or any of the servants, she crept downstairs at a quarter to three and installed herself in the front foyer. Sam’s knock on the door came a few minutes after the hour.

“Yes?” she called out softly.

“It’s Sam. I’ve a taxi waiting.”

She let herself out, locked the door behind her, and turned to her friend. He was wearing a proper coat for once, and a scarf, but his flat cap didn’t look very warm.

“Won’t you catch cold?” she asked.

“It’s forty degrees out. Where I grew up, that barely warrants an overcoat. Don’t worry about me.”

The taxi took them north to the rue de Rivoli, then steadily westward along rain-slicked pavements. The moon hung low and full, its light a gleaming silver net flung wide over the empty streets and shuttered façades of a still-slumbering city.

As they drew closer to Les Halles, the streets grew busier and brighter, with long lines of heavy-laden carts stretching along the rue St.-Denis and the rue du Pont Neuf. They turned north again, and Sam leaned forward to speak with the driver. A few minutes later, the taxi pulled to a stop in the shadow of an imposing Gothic church.

“We’re just north of the market,” Sam said, helping her out of the car. “But I think we should have something to eat before you get started. Hungry?”

She was about to say she wasn’t, but then she smelled some freshly baked bread and her stomach grumbled loudly in response. She nodded, hoping he hadn’t heard.

“Let’s go. Just up this street.” He slung

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