Time had not been kind, and Anastasia Darlene Beauregard leaned against the door post to rest.  She yet had a mile to walk, and her feet were throbbing in rhythm with her head.  Whose idea had it been anyway, that she take to the streets instead of hailing a carriage?  The weather was cold, though the snow had not yet fallen over the cobbles.  Her nose stung, and she could barely feel the tips of her fingers. 

 

“Good holiday Ma’am”, a round-faced gentleman hailed as he brushed by.  She nodded politely, and tugged her thin coat tighter.  What sort of fool took on this kind of task at her age?  She heard her grand’marma’s voice in her head as clearly as if she had been standing a foot away,

 

“Anagirl, if you wish to make something of yourself, you must open

your heart to the world, and sometimes doing so makes it bleed.” 

 

How many times had those words seeped into her thoughts?  Sometimes comfortingly, sometimes like a sharp blade causing the bleed themselves.  Anastasia didn’t know, but she drew on them as a drought of 100% proof.  Steeling herself for the next step, she continued along the tight Paris street, turning the corner sharply. 

 

“Oof!”  A tall ebony-clad man exclaimed as she collided directly into his barrel chest.  Down went the precious package with a sickening crunch.  . . .