Page 74 of Across Time

God, I wish I'd done things differently. I thought I'd be grateful, overjoyed, to get home. Instead I'm so weighed down by regret I don't even want to open my eyes.

* * *

I spend most of the next three days sleeping in the yellow room, which I’m informed is a private hospital on the outskirts of Paris. I’m too exhausted, for the most part, to give it much thought, but during the time I’m awake I wonder why this is happening. Who Cecelia could be and why she cares enough to rescue me in the first place.

I’m fed at regular intervals, though it turns out that hospital food is still hospital food, even in France and even for the wealthy. I occasionally catch glimpses of Phillipe or a similarly intimidating man in a suit, but they remain outside the room and silent.

As I recover I find I’m missing 1938 more rather than less. I spend my lucid time watching TV, trying to keep my mind off a past that does not belong to me, but it doesn’t work.

On the fourth day, when I’m finally recovered enough to get restless, Louis—the other guard—tells me we are going to the hotel, and hands me a small bag from Gucci. Inside I find black heels and a black sheath, very Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Things I could never afford and would have few places to wear.

I glance at it, and back at Louis. “I’m supposed to put this on?”

“Unless you’d prefer to wear a hospital gown.”

Where the hell are we going that I’d need to wear this stuff? I have sudden visions of some party for the extremely wealthy, where I’m trotted out like a circus freak for viewing and questioning. I set the bag on the bed and fold my arms across my chest.

“I thought we were going to a hotel,” I say. “Why is all this so fancy?”

There’s a glimmer of amusement in his eyes, but his face betrays nothing. “We are going to the hotel, and I believe Madame Boudon would not consider these things fancy. She’s merely chosen for you what she herself might wear.”

I guess it makes sense, as much as any of this makes sense, except the stuff in this bag is easily worth a thousand dollars, and I’m struggling to understand why Madame Boudon would spend a thousand dollars on a broke girl she doesn’t know.

* * *

The limousine that picks me up from the hospital reaches the highway quickly, and just as soon is weaving through the streets of Paris. The city itself doesn’t look so different than it did when I was here with Henri. The traffic is heavier, and moves faster, but the biggest difference is the people. Their clothes, the speed with which they walk down the street. They don’t seem to look at each other quite as much as they did.

We turn just off the Champs Elysees and come to a stop. “We are here,” announces Louis.

Here is the Ritz Carlton.

And, as I discover five short minutes later, here is also a suite. Two bathrooms, a living area and a bedroom. It’s got more square feet than my shared apartment in Philly, along with a plush couch, huge mahogany bed, and a fruit tray on the four-person table. I forget everything else and go straight to it, like a child set free in a chocolate factory, popping a massive piece of pineapple in my mouth. It dissolves on my tongue in an explosion of sweetness. Okay, pineapple I have definitely missed.

"Mademoiselle Durand," says Louis quietly, nodding at the bellman who's watching, stupefied, as I shove another piece in my mouth.

"Oh," I say, attempting to swallow. "Um, c'est tout?" Louis' mouth curves upward. He tips the bellman and then laughs when the door closes behind him. "It is customary to tell the bellman that is all, rather than to ask him."

I smile, a bit sheepish. “I haven’t spent a lot of time dealing with bellmen.”

He grins. “Yes, I gathered as much.”

I bite my lip. The fact that Louis is capable of smiling encourages me. Mostly it encourages me to pry a little, because I’m dying to know exactly who Cecelia is, and why she’s helping me.

"You know Madame Boudon well?" I ask. "You've worked for her a while?"

His smile fades and he folds his arms across his chest. "Yes. And that is the last question about her I will answer. Phillipe or I will be outside at all times. You have appointments tomorrow also, so please be ready to leave by 10.”

My head shoots up. They somehow acquired my passport and credit card from the woods in Saint Antoine, but I’d still rather not spend money I don’t have. And the money in my savings account is for tuition, nothing more.

"Appointments?” I ask. “I don’t need…”

"It is taken care of," he replies.

I squirm. I can just picture my mother's reaction if she knew I was blithely accepting such largesse from an absolute stranger, especially one I’ve come to meet because I time traveled. "I don't feel comfortable—"

"Madame Boudon is the wealthiest woman in France, and among the wealthiest in the world. Do not insult her by refusing her generosity," he says, and with that he walks out, shutting the door behind him.

I spend the rest of the day in the room, shaking off the last of my fatigue. The suite has three TVs. I turn each of them on and back off, wondering if it’s possible ease and happiness don’t have as much overlap as I once believed.