Un...deux...trois...
She bites her tongue in excitement. There is a gentle mink caressing her cheek and a scratchy wool one on her left. Crouched down hugging at her knees she can hear the bustle of the brothel. The gentle whisps of the skirts of the house. The murmurs of sweet lies. A clinking of fine china teacups.
quatre...cinq...six...
Slipping off her shoes at the tops of the stairs Sparrow begins her decent. The spiral from the attic is first. She doesn't count here. Just a bit of a head start.
The second floor. Wide french doors open to a grand balcony, her favourite spot during the day hours. She continues south. Weaving her way past a courtly dressed gentleman; a colourful Marie draped on his arm, Sparrow rolls her eyes. She's never been fond of the house and it's ways. She tugs her pashmina about her shoulders a little tighter as she enters into one of the colourful lounges. A fair-haired stranger looks longinly her way. Colette distracts him with a kiss.
sept...huit...neuf...
She's fiddling with her shoe straps now.
Where is she?The mink is making her nose itchy. Not a sneeze, not now. She crawls closer to the wool. A brightness finds her in the closet and she snuggles in deeper; quieter. The shadow of a hand pulls at the mink. The noise fills the closet.
She should be here by now.Anxious to find her friend, Monet leaves the secret of her closet to go on a hunt of her own.
She glides her hands along the western wall. There are no tables here. Sparrow made Maman take them away. She stops quietly at the first batch of stairs. She sniffs at the faint glimer of grapefruit and chamomile.
"Bonjour Colette!"
"Bon Matin Petite Pappillion!" Colette chimes back in her musical voice.
"What're you doing about here without Sparrow? Is she lost?"Monet ignores Colette and trumples up the stairs. Twisting about the top she flies down the corridor and stops short of the large bright space where the french doors are. The brightness of the mid-morning warms against her face. Distracted, she walks up and reaches; on teepy-toes, for the handle. A faint whisper of skirt startles her, but too late.
Monet is wisked up off of her feet and into a soft, nuzzling embrace from Sparrow. The softness of her hair veils her face and she can smell the vanilla and saffron. She tangles her chubby little hands about Sparrow's neck and stares at her with loving, blank blue eyes.
...Dix!
Those ever curious, always sightless, loving eyes.
Sparrow gives her lil' mademoiselle a peck on the forehead and opens the balcony doors. The smells of roses and violets travel the air. They stop and sit nearest to the fountain.
"Sparrow??"
"Oui, Petite?" She fixes the ribbon about Monet's hair.
Monet fixes sad, imploring eyes on her and whispers,
"Were you lost?"Sparrow traces the bangs away from her eyes and fixes both her hands on Chloé's cheeks.
"I will never be lost from you Ma Petite! All you ever have to do is whistle and I will fly as fast as I can."Monet rests her head on her breast and sighed. Now all she had to learn was how to whistle.
