Sky Chasers by Emma Carroll

Author:Emma Carroll
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Chicken House

Once through the archway, we soon discover another Paris altogether. This one isn’t planned or beautiful but smelly and noisy, full of old timber-framed houses and people shouting in the streets.

There are stalls selling cakes and pastries, cheeses and bread. Some look delicious, some have been out in the heat all day, though I’m too hungry to care about the details. It comes back to me straight away, that twitchy, urgent feeling. In these crowds, thieving’ll be easy.

Alongside a group of people watching a man with a dancing dog, is a stall selling fruit pies. I make a beeline. Pierre, on the other end of the box, gets dragged along with me.

I ask the seller for water. ‘It’s for my poor brother, see,’ and I point to Pierre. The seller glances over my shoulder. That split-second look is all the distraction I need. A flick of my finger sends two pies tumbling off the stall’s edge into my hand. Stepping back, I rejoin the crowds.

‘What did you do that for?’ Pierre cries, once we reach a quieter bit of the street.

I offer him a squashed apple pie, but he won’t take it.

‘You stole it, didn’t you?’

‘’Course I did. I’ve got no coins. Nor have you, so here,’ I offer him the pie again, ‘Eat it.’

He folds his arms. It’s not in Pierre’s nature to refuse food. He’s doing it to make a point, I know. It’s pompous of him. And it annoys me.

‘Don’t be an idiot,’ I tell him. ‘You need to eat.’

‘You should’ve paid for those pies,’ he says stubbornly.

‘You need to stop acting like we’re still in Annonay,’ I snap back.

‘Am not.’

‘You are. Madame Verte isn’t here anymore to make your meals so if you don’t want to starve—’

‘That doesn’t make stealing right, Magpie.’

‘Well, I’m not wasting them.’ I cram his pie into my mouth straight after my own.

‘Right, that’s it,’ he announces, and before I can stop him, he strides off down the street. Voltaire waggles after him.

In seconds, the crowds swallow them and I’m too weary to go after them. Proper fed up, I drag the box off the street, push it against a wall, and perch on top of it. Pierre’ll be back in a minute, I convince myself. He won’t go far without me.

I wait.

An hour or two passes and Pierre doesn’t return. I can’t believe he’s been so pig-headed, stomping off in a grump in a place he doesn’t know. He’s bound to get stupidly lost.

As it grows dark, I stop being angry and start to worry. Something’s happened to Pierre, I’m sure of it. He’s been robbed. Or beaten. Or both.

Up and down the street cafés light their windows and put chairs and benches out on the cobbles. The sounds of the city change. A man and woman argue somewhere. Cats squawk. A violin plays sad music. There’s the spit and hiss of frying meat. Something hangs heavy in the air, something moody and dangerous that makes my shoulders tense and I clutch Coco tighter to me.

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