army of bats and they flew towards the entrance in flocks, whistling at a startled Rupert as they passed. Regaining his footing he glanced back at the page with a confident smirk. He would have to build his second pulling device of the month.
Emile tapped her finger over the chapter’s final sentence. What did Rupert Montjoy do every time he faced an obstacle? He made a plan. And that’s exactly what she was going to do. Right after she knew what she was up against.
Since the Germans had begun to occupy Paris Emile’s playful schemes had become somewhat limited. Her Father had forbidden any of the children from venturing out of sight and he allowed no exceptions. If the Beaujolais dragon himself would have risen from over the hills, spewing fire as it flew, Emile would have been instructed to hide under her bed rather than head deep into the woods where it’s snapping jaws could not reach. She understood. The Germans brought trouble and a certain tension that she had not before witnessed. Her family didn’t talk about them, there were only warnings. She couldn’t be seen leaving the cottage. If she was, a question would arise, the type of question she didn’t want to answer.
‘And where are you off to?’
Even an honest answer would have probably attracted a watchful suspicion from her parents given her long stretch of previous escapades. A dash of sunlight stretched warmly over her face as she slinked through the living room. She peered into the kitchen, quickly ducking against the wall as she caught sight of her Mother. A rattle of juddering beats emerged within Emile’s chest, a clear indicator that her testing quest had begun. She stooped low, brushing the wooden floor with her fingertips. Her Mother seemed engaged, hands sweeping a damp cloth over an already gleaming stove and her lips were pursed, humming along to a song that had arisen from the archives of her past. Emile took shelter behind an armchair a few feet away from the front door and peeked over its large, flowery rests and towards the kitchen. The entire room bathed in a warm blaze. Any sudden movement would ruin her chances of escape and see her banished to her bedroom for the rest of the day. Her timing would have to be perfect. She stretched a foot forward, carefully pulling herself towards the edge of the chair. With wide, attentive eyes she searched the room. Her glares were quick and soon enough they fell over a wicker basket full to the brim with dirty clothes. Eventually her Mother would throw the contents of the basket into the sink where she would then scrub at each garment until they were clean. After that she would pile them back into the basket and carry them out onto the green at the back of the house which was host to a long stretch of washing line where the attire would then be pinned up to dry. A door stood to the side of the pantry, close to the wash basin. That would be where her Mother took the mound of soaked laundry. That was her only chance. Emile ducked down even further, almost sitting against the floor. The humming stopped. Footsteps clapped at the stone kitchen flooring. Emile’s heart raced, her eyes shut, her hands scrunched. The silence was torturous. Through the blackness of her eyelids she envisaged her Mother standing over the armchair, scowling and pointing towards the gloom of the hallway. The suspense got the better of her and one eye twitched open, slowly followed by the other. The worn fabric of the chair slid beneath her palms. Her glare met an empty kitchen. The pantry door swung gently in the breeze. A smile charmed her face.
This is the part in the story where Rupert Montjoy would land upon the unsound stones of a cliff top, snapping his whip back and sniggering at a gang of ravenous trolls who sat beyond a large fall, arguing amongst themselves and blaming each other for his escape. Of course,
Emile tapped her finger over the chapter’s final sentence. What did Rupert Montjoy do every time he faced an obstacle? He made a plan. And that’s exactly what she was going to do. Right after she knew what she was up against.
Since the Germans had begun to occupy Paris Emile’s playful schemes had become somewhat limited. Her Father had forbidden any of the children from venturing out of sight and he allowed no exceptions. If the Beaujolais dragon himself would have risen from over the hills, spewing fire as it flew, Emile would have been instructed to hide under her bed rather than head deep into the woods where it’s snapping jaws could not reach. She understood. The Germans brought trouble and a certain tension that she had not before witnessed. Her family didn’t talk about them, there were only warnings. She couldn’t be seen leaving the cottage. If she was, a question would arise, the type of question she didn’t want to answer.
‘And where are you off to?’
Even an honest answer would have probably attracted a watchful suspicion from her parents given her long stretch of previous escapades. A dash of sunlight stretched warmly over her face as she slinked through the living room. She peered into the kitchen, quickly ducking against the wall as she caught sight of her Mother. A rattle of juddering beats emerged within Emile’s chest, a clear indicator that her testing quest had begun. She stooped low, brushing the wooden floor with her fingertips. Her Mother seemed engaged, hands sweeping a damp cloth over an already gleaming stove and her lips were pursed, humming along to a song that had arisen from the archives of her past. Emile took shelter behind an armchair a few feet away from the front door and peeked over its large, flowery rests and towards the kitchen. The entire room bathed in a warm blaze. Any sudden movement would ruin her chances of escape and see her banished to her bedroom for the rest of the day. Her timing would have to be perfect. She stretched a foot forward, carefully pulling herself towards the edge of the chair. With wide, attentive eyes she searched the room. Her glares were quick and soon enough they fell over a wicker basket full to the brim with dirty clothes. Eventually her Mother would throw the contents of the basket into the sink where she would then scrub at each garment until they were clean. After that she would pile them back into the basket and carry them out onto the green at the back of the house which was host to a long stretch of washing line where the attire would then be pinned up to dry. A door stood to the side of the pantry, close to the wash basin. That would be where her Mother took the mound of soaked laundry. That was her only chance. Emile ducked down even further, almost sitting against the floor. The humming stopped. Footsteps clapped at the stone kitchen flooring. Emile’s heart raced, her eyes shut, her hands scrunched. The silence was torturous. Through the blackness of her eyelids she envisaged her Mother standing over the armchair, scowling and pointing towards the gloom of the hallway. The suspense got the better of her and one eye twitched open, slowly followed by the other. The worn fabric of the chair slid beneath her palms. Her glare met an empty kitchen. The pantry door swung gently in the breeze. A smile charmed her face.
This is the part in the story where Rupert Montjoy would land upon the unsound stones of a cliff top, snapping his whip back and sniggering at a gang of ravenous trolls who sat beyond a large fall, arguing amongst themselves and blaming each other for his escape. Of course,
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