dreamed that Paris, or indeed any place at all, could be so large. She saw now that she had been a fool to imagine Paris as no more crowded than Montsalvat, where one might readily recognize all who dwelt within its walls. Indeed, she had never known any place larger and had not considered the matter overmuch.
Paris went on forever, each square much like the last, each street as filthy as the one before. Doubt and disappointment flooded Genevieveâs heart as she ambled closer to the heart of the city, for indeed she had little certainty that Alzeuâs killer had come here at all.
Or he could have come and gone in the time it had taken her to travel thus far.
Well it seemed that impulsiveness might have steered her false yet again. Genevieve might have come all this way for naught. Despair welled up within her, the smell of fresh bread doing naught to lift her spirits. Her belly growled, and she spared it a consoling pat, for that was likely all it would get this day.
âA bit of silver for a song!â cried a voice unexpectedly.
Genevieveâs was not the only head to turn, though her eyes widened when the slender man began to sing and the bustling crowd not only made space for him, but paused to listen. People smiled to each other and listened to his chanson as he stood with hands clasped before him and sang. Genevieve endured the press of alien bodies, some washed, some more odorous than she might have thought possible, to indulge her curiosity.
This, too, was new to her, but she intuitively guessed it might have import for her and eyed the man who had cried out with avid curiosity.
The minstrel appeared young at first glimpse, though his face was tanned and his shoulders were broader than those of a boy. His voice was remarkably clear and true. Despite his unkempt state, his features beamed with pride in his abilities as the song unfurled from his lips. Well could Genevieve understand, for she felt much the same satisfaction when she played her lute.
The minstrelâs hair was a most uncommon orange color and hung long. His garb was shabby, but despite the oddity of his appearance, he summoned a most charming smile for the onlookers. Genevieve suspected he had no hearth himself to which he might return this night and she felt a curious kinship with him, for all his unfamiliarity.
Still his voice was beautiful. She could not readily decipher the tale, for his words flowed too swiftly for her. Mayhap he spoke another tongue, though it seemed that Genevieve alone did not understand. The onlookers were enthralled, and many appeared to be struck dumb by his tale.
Genevieve noted but one disturbance, and she glanced up at the interruption to find a tall man, distinguished of carriage and silver of mane, pushing his way through the assembly. His manner was that of a man of import, his concern with naught but his own interest. The red cross of the Temple blazed across the breast of his white tabard. A small retinue awaited him on the periphery of the crowd, and a proud silver destrier was held at the ready for his return. Genevieve knew he must be a high ranking officer in the Order of the Templars.
His gaze was avid as he watched the minstrel, and well it seemed that he hung on every word, as though he would devour the tale. The crowd left a minute space around this older Templar, and she wondered briefly at his station, that he should be of repute among the people.
Then the minstrel raised his voice and she forgot all else. When he sustained the last note with a flourish and took a deep bow that had clearly been practiced, more than one silver denier struck the ground before him. Genevieve gasped, her gaze greedy as she tried to count the coins before he collected them all.
She might have spoken to the minstrel, had she not glimpsed the cold avarice in his eyes as he scrambled for his coins. The change of expression surprised her and she realized, rather late, that his charm had been but a cloak