It wasn’t until she had slipped between her satin sheets that she had noticed. It had been a busy day, unpacking her sparse (for her, at least) belongings and then making introductions with the others, including her “enemies”. She was still strung tight with excitement (and not a little fear) at the thought of fighting for real the next morning. Despite the late hour, she still had to concentrate on trying to sleep.

After a few minutes of staring at the ceiling, she rolled over and pressed her face into her pillow, thinking the darkness there would be less stimulating than that in the rest of the room.

Her pillow had a scent! A familiar one at that. It was surely her predecessor’s cologne, but she’d known someone who wore it too.
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Marceau was in the middle of a ‘business’ dinner with a pair of his more lovely clients. When the maître d’ arrived with the phone, he took the call nonetheless. He knew what it was about before he spoke.

“Félicitations, Reynard! Qu’avez-vous son nom?”

“Elle a mon nez,” Reynard replied.

Marceau pulled back and stared at the phone for a moment. What did one say to that? He decided on honesty.

“Quel malheur,” he said, amused.
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Despite outward appearances and all their disagreement, there was an underlying current of good humor in Spy’s relationship with her mother. They were, after all, very alike. Both of them were self-ware enough to know this, so they could sometimes afford to acknowledge it. Their Christmas gifts to each other were a prime example of this.
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They were getting tailored. That was a relief, at least.

Victoire had been dismayed when she had received her uniform. She found it was fitted only loosely and, in fact, was not even in women’s sizes. Even with tailoring, though, it was a whole new frontier in conservative dressing for her. Her new uniform was easily the most covered up she had ever been. Continue Reading