Some Enchanted Dream: A Time Travel Adventure (Seasons of Enchantment Book 2) by Lily Silver
Authors: Lily Silver
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Without needing to rise, he reached behind him to find the items and placed them on the table. His privileged status as a wealthy lord was never more obvious at this moment. No one, including Tara, was going to wait on him. Not unless he gained access to his hoarded funds at the bank and could pay for the honor of being 'served'. He pried open the cork and poured the cheap wine into their tin cups and handed her one.
"To freedom," Tara lifted her cup to him. "And to life. May it be a long life, my lord."
He touched her cup with his own and drank to her toast, humbled by the reality before him as he scanned their rude surroundings.
The price of this freedom, nay, the price of escaping the hangman, was indeed steep.
Chapter Five
This was Le Heure Verte .
Dan was enchanted by the phrase. The Parisians actually had a name for the time of day when everyone indulged in a glass of green liquor. L'heure Verte . The Green Hour.
He was sitting at an outdoor table on the terrace of the Cafe Veron on Blvd Montmartre, sipping absinthe with two men he had met in the tobacco shop that afternoon.
Never one for art, Dan couldn't name the famous fellow who had painted an outdoor cafe' scene at night, he only remembered the guy had flaming red hair and was supposed to have cut off his ear and gifted it to some poor lady he admired. Mad fellow, that, but his paintings from this time were worth millions in the future.
I'll ask Tara about the fellow, surely she'll know his name . Wouldn't it be a hoot if they could meet that famous painter?
He was mimicking his companions, taking small sips of the bittersweet drink of vibrant green that had an hour of the day named after it. Some drank it with water to soften its bite, but these fellows preferred it straight up. Dan tasted licorice, lemon balm and some other delicate flavoring that tickled his senses.
"Where are you from, good fellow?" Dan's companion asked politely. Arthur Bellows was the man who had directed them to their present lodgings the other day. Bellows hailed from England. He was spending a year in Paris, trying to establish himself as an artist.
"America," Dan answered, rolling his lips and letting his tongue dart about them to garner another taste of the unusual drink. "I was visiting my daughter and her husband in Dublin. They decided to come to Paris on a whim. It seemed a pleasant diversion."
"I salute their effort at spontaneity," Mr. Paul Gouffe' said with bold authority. "Didn't they realize every room in Paris would be let for the Exposition?" The man had a nose that seemed more broken than hooked. His face was grave, his hair black and his beard bushy and full. His comrade, Mr. Bellows, had a countenance that was smooth shaven and his manner was quiet and cultured. "The world has come to bow at our feet. We are the city of light."
An odd pair, these two, but friendly toward a stranger, Dan conceded.
"Paul, don't be so hard on the fellow," Arthur argued. "Here's to you and your daughter, Sir. May your dreams become manifest in our fair city of light." Arthur raised his small glass toward the tower glowing in the distance, the Eiffel Tower, and they drank to his toast.
"It is the time for dreams, no?" Paul, the burly fellow, gestured about. "Take me? I've left my stuffy life as a bank clerk to become a painter. We must all embrace our dreams, oui ?"
"Yes. And if only you could find patrons for your primitive nudes," Arthur laughed, and slapped the brute fellow on the shoulder. "Then you'd stop complaining about not having two sous to rub together in this glorious city of light."
Paul's face, coarse and unpleasant as it was, grew red, signaling trouble. He stood up, and tossed his empty glass to the curb. The noise of it shattering made the men at the tables around them turn to look. "M'sieur Bellows, you insult me with your jest in front of our guest!"
"Paul, sit. I meant no insult to you and you know it. You tell everyone here night after night
"To freedom," Tara lifted her cup to him. "And to life. May it be a long life, my lord."
He touched her cup with his own and drank to her toast, humbled by the reality before him as he scanned their rude surroundings.
The price of this freedom, nay, the price of escaping the hangman, was indeed steep.
Chapter Five
This was Le Heure Verte .
Dan was enchanted by the phrase. The Parisians actually had a name for the time of day when everyone indulged in a glass of green liquor. L'heure Verte . The Green Hour.
He was sitting at an outdoor table on the terrace of the Cafe Veron on Blvd Montmartre, sipping absinthe with two men he had met in the tobacco shop that afternoon.
Never one for art, Dan couldn't name the famous fellow who had painted an outdoor cafe' scene at night, he only remembered the guy had flaming red hair and was supposed to have cut off his ear and gifted it to some poor lady he admired. Mad fellow, that, but his paintings from this time were worth millions in the future.
I'll ask Tara about the fellow, surely she'll know his name . Wouldn't it be a hoot if they could meet that famous painter?
He was mimicking his companions, taking small sips of the bittersweet drink of vibrant green that had an hour of the day named after it. Some drank it with water to soften its bite, but these fellows preferred it straight up. Dan tasted licorice, lemon balm and some other delicate flavoring that tickled his senses.
"Where are you from, good fellow?" Dan's companion asked politely. Arthur Bellows was the man who had directed them to their present lodgings the other day. Bellows hailed from England. He was spending a year in Paris, trying to establish himself as an artist.
"America," Dan answered, rolling his lips and letting his tongue dart about them to garner another taste of the unusual drink. "I was visiting my daughter and her husband in Dublin. They decided to come to Paris on a whim. It seemed a pleasant diversion."
"I salute their effort at spontaneity," Mr. Paul Gouffe' said with bold authority. "Didn't they realize every room in Paris would be let for the Exposition?" The man had a nose that seemed more broken than hooked. His face was grave, his hair black and his beard bushy and full. His comrade, Mr. Bellows, had a countenance that was smooth shaven and his manner was quiet and cultured. "The world has come to bow at our feet. We are the city of light."
An odd pair, these two, but friendly toward a stranger, Dan conceded.
"Paul, don't be so hard on the fellow," Arthur argued. "Here's to you and your daughter, Sir. May your dreams become manifest in our fair city of light." Arthur raised his small glass toward the tower glowing in the distance, the Eiffel Tower, and they drank to his toast.
"It is the time for dreams, no?" Paul, the burly fellow, gestured about. "Take me? I've left my stuffy life as a bank clerk to become a painter. We must all embrace our dreams, oui ?"
"Yes. And if only you could find patrons for your primitive nudes," Arthur laughed, and slapped the brute fellow on the shoulder. "Then you'd stop complaining about not having two sous to rub together in this glorious city of light."
Paul's face, coarse and unpleasant as it was, grew red, signaling trouble. He stood up, and tossed his empty glass to the curb. The noise of it shattering made the men at the tables around them turn to look. "M'sieur Bellows, you insult me with your jest in front of our guest!"
"Paul, sit. I meant no insult to you and you know it. You tell everyone here night after night
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