Page 11 of Avalon Tower

Outside, I hurry back to Aelina and hand her the bag. “Put all this on.”

She peers into the paper bag, and her lip curls. “But…why?”

“A demi-Fey would never dress in fairy wings because it’s stupid.” They look cheap and ridiculous, and they’re the perfect disguise. “I’ve seen a bunch of tour guides wearing wings like those. Some tourists here expect props, you know? They want the whole Fey experience. And if you put it on, you won’t look Fey. No one will think you’re Fey if you have those wings on. There’s a flower crown, too.”

“Okay. Fine.” She snatches the bag from me and pulls on the glittery pink wings with two straps over her shoulders. When she crowns herself with flowers, I breathe a sigh of relief. The costume completely shifts the perspective. Her strange clothing and pointy ears look like part of it now.

“Okay,” I say. “Let’s wait for the right opportunity. For now, start doing your tour guide act. I’m going to create a diversion. Go through once I start.”

She takes over for me as a guide, speaking in broken English. “Ladies and gentlefolk, this here is the house of a French general. He used deadly iron weapons. He blew up the wicked Fey, leaving them in bloody pieces on the road.”

Worst tour guide ever, but it would do. Her voice fades as I hurry down the hill toward the docks, where sailboats and yachts bob in their moorings. I wait for a few minutes until a policeman starts arguing with an old woman who has forgotten her paperwork. That just leaves one cop.

“Excuse me!” I shout at him. “Ex-koose-moi! Mon-seer? Common ça va?”

I’m abusing the French language, and the cop visibly winces.

“I speak English.”

My first instinct is flattery. “And you speak it so well! Mais je voudrais, uh…pratice mon français maintenant. Vous êtes très fashionable,” I say in mangled Franglais.

His eyes grow hard, and I can tell this tactic isn’t working on him. In fact, it’s only raising his suspicions. Europeans expect Americans to be loud and obnoxious, and maybe I’d need to turn up the dial on that.

“I’m looking for, like…do you know where…je voudrais, like, a McDonald’s or something?”

“No, move along please.” He waves me out of the way.

This is too important for me to shrink away, and I need his attention on me. And what better focuses a person’s attention than loathing?

“Is there any decent chocolate in this country?” I ask. “The food in France isn’t what it’s cracked up to be. No offense, but I thought you were supposed to have good chocolate. Have you tried Hershey’s Kisses? Because those are delicious.”

His face goes red, and he gestures to his left for me to go. “If you please,” he says in a clipped accent.

From the corner of my eye, I see Aleina walk past, leading the group and talking about the French navy like a tour guide. The cop’s attention flickers to them for just a moment, and I wave my hand in his face.

“Ex-koose-moi, garçon? Do you know McDonald’s? Do you have any in this country? McDONALD’S,” I shout up at him. “I can’t stomach more of your French crap.”

He shoots me a withering look. Whoops. Overdid it.

“Not here.” He purses his lips and points west. “There are plenty of better restaurants in Marseille. And American chocolate is not even real chocolate, legally.”

I fold my arms. “You must be joking. Have you even tried real pancakes? Not like the weird, thin kind you have here, but like a big, fluffy pile of real pancakes? Because in America, you can buy frozen ones that have a sausage in them and maple flavor already in it. You just heat them up, and boom—there’s your breakfast. And that kind of innovation is why America is the greatest nation in the world. It frees up extra time for more work hours. Amazing, right?”

By the time he shoots a pleading expression at the second cop, Aleina’s group is already gone.

“Anyway, thanks.” I turn away from him, relieved I can drop the act.

“Mademoiselle, can I just see your passport?” he asks from behind me. He sounds pissed.

I turn back to him and clear my throat. “Sure, officer, is there a problem?”

“No. Just a routine check.”

Thankfully, I have my passport with me. I reach into my bag and pull it out. He stares at it so long that my heart pounds.

“Nia Melisende?” he asks.

“I’m American,” I say hopefully.

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