Chapter Text
The music in Paris had died long ago. The opera and the symphonies had all been suspended when the plague had first begun sweeping through the city years ago and had never reopened. Instead, the cries of human suffering sporadically interrupted the otherwise quiet Paris night.
No one knew where the plague had come from, only that within a period of several years it had engulfed the entirety of Europe and then jumped over to the Americas. However, hardly a person existed who hadn’t been affected by it. Entire bloodlines lay decimated by it.
Christine moved quietly through the streets, one of the only people about at this hour. She clung to her bread basket. From the next house down, she heard faint cries of pain, and instinctively, she tightened the cloth wrapped around her nose and mouth.
As she approached the house, she saw the large, white X over the door in chalk, the mark of a household affected by the plague. She cracked open a window. “Is anyone alive?” she called out.
From inside the dark house, she heard a weak groan. “Death is here,” a gravelly-sounding voice called out.
Christine reached into her basket and pulled out a loaf of bread. She sat it on the table just under the window. “I’m leaving some bread for you. I will pray for you soul.”
Then she closed the window and walked on. A lump grew in her throat, and tears burned at the corners of her eyes. With her free hand, she crossed herself, whispering under her breath, “Requiem aeternum dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis. Recquiescant in pace.”
Ahead of her, she saw movement. She froze, convinced for a moment that a night guard was about to catch her out after curfew. Then, she saw two men carrying a shrouded body between them. Undertakers. Guiltily, she let out a sigh of relief and dodged into the nearby alley.
She leaned against the brick wall, and the dampness sent a chill through her body. Christine thought of Mamma Valerius, homebound in her wheelchair. Before arthritis had left Mamma crippled, they would go out together at night, leaving food for the dying.
The road grew quiet, and Christine stepped back out into the road. As she walked, she tucked a stray strand of golden hair back into her updo. Exhaustion seeped into her bones—the day had already been long, and she longed for her warm bed.
She paused as she felt the hair raise on the back of her neck. The distinct feeling that someone was following her rang in her head. She kept a knife tucked in her boot for when that happened.
Christine quickened her pace again and brushed her hand over her rosary. Discreetly, she dropped it on the ground, and then bent over to pick it up, planning to grab the knife then.
On her way down, though, she felt strong arms grab her. Her heart sunk. As she opened her mouth to scream for help, a hand pulled down her mask and a cloth pressed into her face. A sickly-sweet smell filled her nostrils, and her vision blacked out.