Innocence is the First to Fall - a Blog Tour and Book Excerpt for "Paoletta"

BOOK EXCERPT

“I doubt Saint-Thomas d’Aquin bears any resemblance to how we remember it,” Papa grumbled, his tone plain. “And Paris is not the safest place to be for anyone these days.”

“There’s talk of war in Paris now,” Florian added, absently chewing on his thumbnail.

His words struck me like a cold gust of wind, leaving a sharp ache in the pit of my belly. I had heard rumours of war before, but they were just rumours; they had no reason to be true. The Bastille had fallen three years prior, and nothing had happened since then.

“That’s absurd!” said Mamma, throwing cold water on Florian’s claims. “Where did you hear that? Was it Uncle Stefano? Do remember he gets his news from drunks and harlots.”

“It’s true,” Florian insisted, my flesh prickling with dread as I listened. “New arrivals at the Café Quiberon – it’s all they talk about.”

Mamma’s face hardened as she scoured his forlorn gaze for the truth.

“Nonsense – we’re far from France,” she remarked, her tone intended to soothe us as if to assert that we were but a trifling speck on the farthest reaches of the world.

“But what if it does reach us?” I asked nonetheless, my arms wrapping anxiously around me.

“It shan’t!” Mamma said firmly and gave my hand a tight squeeze. She swallowed hard and stared at the air and dust swirling in the candle’s glow before her nose. “But if it should, we won’t get involved in anything that doesn’t concern us. We’re not French. This isn’t our revolution. We’re not fighting anybody.”

“Have you forgotten Britain and Spain, chérie?” Papa said, looking at Mamma sternly. “They’ll be on us like wolves in a henhouse if France goes to war with Austria. What do you propose we do when British frigates swarm the bay?”

My heart sank. War? It seemed impossible. Yet, it was as if a dark, ominous cloud had crept up on us, shrouding everything in its path. War could stop us from ever going home again. We’d be stranded in this godforsaken place, far from everything we knew and loved. My skin simmered, and my throat swelled as I pondered such horrible thoughts.

“Paoletta, amore, go and find out where that water has got to,” Mamma said, her voice clipped with impatience.

I found Agnés just beyond the kitchen threshold, her brow adorned with beads of sweat as she wrestled with jugs of water in either hand. The scent of herring sizzling in a skillet mingled with the aroma of a plump chicken turning over a crackling fire in a rich and spicy fog. Yet, a curious stillness gripped Agnés, her attention held by whatever lurked at the bottom of the tiny timber passage to the pantry.

Following her gaze, I saw Uncle Stefano, half-buried in the shadows, slobbering all over another young, dark-skinned girl, his hands racing to capture as much of her skin as possible. The repugnant sight froze my skin. Each wet smack of his chapped lips grated on my senses, turning my head to the hearth’s flames, but the vile image was already seared into my mind’s eye. With a sour mouth, I ushered poor Agnés to the dining room, desperate to shield her from my Uncle’s lechery. She placed the water on the table with an obedient nod to Mamma and made to leave, but something outside had ensnared her attention.

My belly jolted as a black mass, scarcely larger than a fist, shot through the window and landed with a jarring thud upon the table. It rolled between the plates, hissing and sparking with an unnerving vitality. A profound silence engulfed us, the room fading into a ghostly blur. An icy dread gripped my insides as I clung to the door frame. Papa’s eyes widened in unfeigned horror. Mamma drew a sharp breath, poised to scream. Then, with a blinding flash, the world was plunged into darkness.