The City of Light

Paris, May 1920

The journey to Paris from Salamanca was lengthy but uneventful. Rose had packed a small bag. She did not want to be encumbered with quantities of luggage, a steamer trunk or hat boxes. She wanted to retain the option of movement with minimal fuss, especially when transferring trains.

Rose had decided to make Paris her stop on the way to Berlin and beyond. She would spend a few days here before continuing her travels. A friend, a visual artist, had given Rose a key to a pair of rooms in Montmartre. Her friend would be out of the country and so Rose would have her privacy.

She hired a taxicab from Gare d’Orsay and instructed the driver to drop her on the Rue des Abbesses. It was a short walk from there to her friend’s pied-à-terre.

By the time she arrived, night had fallen. The skies, which had been threatening rain all afternoon, finally opened up and released a deluge. Rose was undeterred. The storm cleared the streets. The heavy rain veiled her passing.
 
Pass unnoticed. Leave no trace.

The door to her friend’s rooms was down a short alley way. She slid the key home and let herself into the apartment.

It was dry and welcoming.

Framed prints decorated the walls. A small piano sat patiently near one end of the room. There was a comfortable chair to one side. A small wood stove stood ready to be lit in one corner.

Rose locked the outer door and made her way to the next room.

It was obvious that the bedchamber belonged to an artist. Sketch books and art supplies were scattered throughout, occupying the shelves, the floor, and most flat surfaces.  A tall easel dominated the center.

The room was disorganized but cozy. Rose nodded to herself. This would make a suitable retreat space.

She set her bag down next to the bed and proceeded to remove her wet clothing.  From her bag, Rose took a loose-fitting garment and dressed for bed.

---

Sleep would not come. Rose was feeling restless.

The storm outside was raging. Through the thin curtains, each flash of lightning lit up the room. Rather than lying on the bed, counting the seconds between flash and thunder, Rose elected to explore her surroundings.

Her friend had left some bread, some cheese and a small carafe of wine. It was a simple refreshment but it meant that Rose was now fully awake.

She regarded the blank canvas her friend had left on the easel. It was as inviting as the unlit fire prepared in the wood stove.

With a deep, calming breath, she took up a small stick of sepia and began to sketch. As her hand darted across the canvas, the image took shape of two young women. There was enough of a similarity between the two faces that one would naturally assume them to be sisters. 

 

Satisfied with the result, Rose set down the sepia and took up the oils.

The Annex

Salamanca, April 1920

The library annex was silent this time of night. There were no sounds of pages turning, no soft footsteps nor gentle coughing from other patrons. Here were books, old and rare, volumes forbidden by the church, hidden away from public viewing. At the busiest of times, access to the annex was restricted. Rose found it an ideal environment to complete her private correspondence.

She settled herself at a small desk against the wall. For illumination, she lit three pillar candles. No lamp for her this evening. Rose was, as she would put it, in a nostalgic mood.

 

She was a tall woman, with classic features. Her hair was dark and curly, thanks to an Italian grandmother. Her eyes were a shade of aquamarine, unsettling when enraged, bewitching in times of passion. She kept them concealed behind a pair of wire frame spectacles.

With long, slender fingers, she took up her pen.

Tonight, she would write a letter to a man. She spent the past few days composing her thoughts, debating how she might reach out to him. Her motivation she fully intended to remain private. However, when necessary, there were  layers of truth she was prepared to reveal - in the fullness of time and certainly not in writing. For now, she decided brevity was the correct course of action. After all, the best kept secrets are those no one knows exist.

She selected a sheet of heavy cream paper and with a bold black ink, she began:

Professor Serendipity, 

Sir - I am currently studying at a university on the Iberian Peninsula researching aspects of Central and Eastern European folklore with particular connection to members of the aristocracy. Would you be willing to meet privately to discuss this topic?  I shall be traveling to Berlin next month should you be in Europe. 

Yours Respectfully,

Rose Arcana