People arrived, flowing around her. The spell quickly broke in the face of their intrusion. So many languages. So many colors. She wanted to be alone again. She walked to the western edge of the courtyard. There she saw two flics, and it seemed like they were guarding something. She walked closer, but one held up a hand and barked, “Arrête.” Stop.

She froze. She could see now there were many people beyond the perimeter. He approached, speaking rapid French. “What are you doing here? You need to leave, right away. This area is closed.”

She smiled and nodded. “I’m so sorry. Is it construction?”

“No. Move along, now.”

He went back to his partner and took up his station again, hands on hips, legs spread, frowning at her. With a last glance at the knot of people down the hill, she walked back the way she’d come, through the leafy green canopy to a small square. There was no way to be alone now, which was a shame. She’d felt something deep connecting her to the city atop the hill. Something strong and good. A beginning, maybe. Or an end.

Winding down the hill, past the artists who’d been painting the sunrise over the city, she took a seat at the first café she saw, asked for coffee and a croissant, opened her laptop. As she was putting in her earbuds, two women took the table next to her. She couldn’t help but tune in when she heard the tone of their voices, so unlike the usual happy babble of the Parisian café. This was filled with dread and wonder and excitement.

“Did you hear? About the murder? A young American couple. Pierre said their bodies are still up there.”

“I heard they were gutted.”

“I heard she was beheaded.”

“These terrorists are ruining our city.”

“Pierre spoke to the flics. It was not terror. They were targeted. It was cold-blooded murder. In our backyard, no less.”

Sutton felt a small frisson. It was rude, frowned upon, to eavesdrop, but Sutton couldn’t help herself. She needed to know more.

“Excusez-moi. Le meurtre des Américains, c’était où?” Where?

The women turned. They were so classically French, at once painfully plain and yet ethereally beautiful, one brunette, one blonde, both perfect, elegant, lines on their foreheads, no makeup outside of a swipe of red lipstick, their hair in identical styles, shoulder-length, straight, flipped up on the ends.

In English, the brunette replied, gesturing over Sutton’s shoulder, “Sacré-Coeur. You’re American?”

“I am.”

“You should go home, and you need to be careful. If there are murderers about, Paris is dangerous for a young woman such as yourself.”

Their breakfast interrupted, the two women stood and left.