A Time Thief
I started this piece at a writing workshop in 2022 and it's been kicking around the cloud ever since. Enjoy this story about alien refugees in 18th century Paris!
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Water on old stone. A hint of icy air. The scuffling of rats. Gunpowder.
Paris, 1795. Specifically, the sewers under the Hôtel des Invalides on a frigid January night. Upon opening her eyes Isabelle swayed, dizzied by sensory overload. She righted herself, leaning against one of the sewer’s brick and mortar walls and immediately stepped in something grey and sludgy in the not-quite-frozen water underfoot.
But a soaked foot smelling of rotten meat was not enough to shift her mood. She’d made it back to Paris. Her childhood home, residence to the oldest enclave of Time Thieves—the first community to form after the Great Rift.
It was no accident they chose the city of lights. Paris was a true explosion of smells, sounds, tastes and textures, never more so than during one of France’s many revolutions. When the Time Thieves had arrived the sheer amount of sensory discharge almost killed them. Decades of skinsuit-modding and crunchy time-sped evolution had led to some pretty marvelous adaptations in Isabelle’s opinion.
She took a deep breath. Oh yes. She sensed an edge of woodsmoke and the tittering of sewer orphans in addition to what she’d mixed in her sense marker.
Isabelle stroked her wrist, and a section of skin slid away. Inside a small cavity lay a black vial where there should have been tendons and veins. She took it out, popped the stopper out with her teeth and stood still, letting the new sensory expression fill the vial. It would all be used to make the next sense marker that much more precise. After a moment, she put the stopper back and replaced the vial in her wrist.
Of course, she wasn’t exactly home yet. Home was across the Seine, in one of the nicer quarters, where perfumers, watchmakers and higher-end fortune tellers plied their trades. She smiled again. A place she loved and people she hadn’t seen in three years awaited.
Half an hour later, the unrelenting sewer stench had Isabelle trying to remember the nicer smells of Paris. Her feet were beginning to ache. Had sewers somehow gotten longer since she’d last come home?
Simultaneously crouching, wading and trying to keep her skirts dry, Isabelle also had to admit she had forgotten how awful the clothing was here. So many under petticoats, so little wind resistance. The white and blue striped jacket bodice she’d kept for her return was entirely inadequate against the north wind that blew all the stronger the closer she got to her destination. She had not considered a scarf or a hat. Her gloves of thin white silk had already been tossed into the dirty water.
At least the smell of offal, shit and urine was being blown away by the wind. It might hurt to breathe, but when she came up to the opening that poured the city’s refuse into the Seine, at least she could do it through her nose.
The air glittered. Pinpricks of light shone from the north side of the river. The sky was clear, the moon a slice of white amidst an unaccountable sea of stars. Isabelle stepped down gingerly onto the ice, mercifully coarse and bumpy, wind and waves captured by frigid winter air.
Don’t think about the whole-body shivering, Isabelle. Don’t think about your fingers turning blue. She pulled her collar up tightly and began to walk-glide across the surface.
She concentrated on what awaited her on the other side. The Time Thieves were a close-knit bunch who always celebrated the return of their own. Isabelle had been gone for the equivalent of three years. There would be a party and lots of noise and drinking, the only merriment likely going on at the tail end of The Terror; food was scarce, but the Time Thieves had their own way of getting what they needed.
Along with the few hundred or so community members, her parents would be there, as would her brother Daniel, no doubt with a report from his efforts sabotaging the Canfri—the ones who forced the Time Thieves’ exile, the ones who were dedicated to preserving a religious cult around the creation of sense markers. Last she heard he was conferring with the Sao city-states 1123 crowd about the sighting of a Canfri ship at the edge of the Milky Way. Isabelle was eager to hear what Daniel had learned.
Élodie should also be there. But that reunion was too hard to think about. Élo might have accepted a lucrative sommelier gig, decided she’d had enough of Paris and the revolution. Originally from Ekonakwasi Sipi 2157, she often commented on the relative chaos of 18th century Europe.
If only Élo were more adventurous. She was instead a devoted sense-mixer. One of the best in the business. Thieves would come from across time-space to provide her with tastes, smells, textures, sounds. She was the one who layered them, who asked: “Where were the suns shining? What side of your face felt warm or cold?” “Did the touch of this long silver grass put your teeth on edge or did it send a shiver up your spine?”
Details were key to her work. Finding harmony, stabilizers, identifying unclear stimuli, bringing it all together so the Thief in question could go back again and again. When Isabelle thought of how misguided the Canfri were, she thought of Élo, who could never reach the rank of high priestess thanks to an obscure quirk of her ancestry but could easily out-mix any of the dames from the oldest Canfri families.
In their frequent arguments, Élo described herself as an ethical Time Thief, one who never actually stole, only mixed the sensory expressions that were given to her. And she made a point to never go out on expeditions to steal already made markers.
“Like an ethical jeweler, who doesn’t ask where his diamonds come from, but reaps the benefits of their mining nevertheless,” Isabelle would retort.
Ethical maybe, but Élo was more accurately a homebody, as much as was possible for a being designed to dance along the continuum. Isabelle, on the other hand, was a pirate sailing the high seas of time-space. True to the name the Canfri bestowed upon their fallen siblings, she was a Time Thief; she stole sense markers already built and felt no shame in it. She felt ashamed of her last conversation with Élo. There had been crying on both sides, accusations neither of them really meant, and fear. The job Isabelle had taken--a reconnaissance mission--was dangerous. There were plenty of reasons to be afraid, which was probably why she had been so flippant and why Élo had been so mad.
The first thing Isabelle noticed when she hoisted herself onto the Quay de la Conférence was the silence. Her whole route had been premised on there being various revolutionary factions in the streets, the outpouring of violence after the clubs and cafés had closed for the night. She brightened. If there were no riots tonight, there would be no long looping pass through the suburbs to avoid violent men. She flicked through her lenses. No heat traces anywhere. Strange.
It wasn’t until she was in her neighbourhood, the houses cramped together like bad teeth, the familiar orange awnings greeting her, not until she could practically feel the heat of a warm fire bringing her toes back to life that she finally listened to the voice inside her head, wondering where everyone was that Isabelle realized something was terribly wrong.
Paris was never this silent. She had been away too long. There should have been revellers falling out of cafés and Jacobin patrols pounding the streets. There was wood smoke in the sky and vegetable peelings lining the street, but no people, no sound. Some primal instinct was keeping them all indoors.
The growling started at the exact moment panic shot through Isabelle’s veins, all her senses screaming at her that something terrible was wrong.
The Canfri were here.
Terror dictated her next movements. She bolted down a side street and headed north. No going back home now, not with the spoils of her theft still on her. She needed to get to a transmission bank, send the sense markers to all the other Time Thieves before they caught her; at least then her last mission would have been of some use. There were a few banks across the city, but the only one closest was on Rue St. Denis, in a small perfumerie. Luckily, Isabelle still had the key.
The growling continued to ring off the buildings. Not close, but not far enough. The Canfri war dogs were notoriously quick. She’d seen some on Delmaru and had to resist the urge not to run away each time.
Sweat was turning into icicles on her skin. Not far now. She turned right and was blessed with the sight of snow-covered trees lining the street and large windows displaying wares. She practically fell into the pale blue door of a modest grey building, then pushed up the sleeve of her right wrist, grabbed the key and jammed it into the lock. The door clicked open. As quietly as she was able, Isabelle scrambled inside and closed the door behind her, praying that the dogs were far enough behind that they hadn’t seen her.
The sound of her own rapid breathing was overshadowed by another click. The safety being released on a flintlock pistol.
“The shop is closed,” said a voice from behind the counter.
“Élo, it’s me,” said Isabelle, relief pouring through her limbs.
A thud. Then, hands practically dragging her behind the counter and into the storeroom where Élo made her concoctions for Parisians of all stripes. Even in the dim light, Isabelle knew the room well. A work bench, littered with dried flowers, wood shavings and miscellaneous bottles, the chest next to it filled to the brim with ingredients and files of handwritten recipes of the perfumes she’d mixed special for individual purchase only. There were two stools. Isabelle used to twirl around on hers talking all kinds of nonsense while Élo crushed rosehips in with her mortar and pestle.
In the far corner of the narrow room was what looked like side table, covered by a dark velvet blanket. Pull it off, however, and a Time Thief who knew where to look would be greeted by a smooth black box, glittering and alert to touch, that corresponded with seven others across Earth’s history and geography.
“What did you do?” said Élodie, as Isabelle ripped the blanket off the transmission bank and pressed a palm into its flat surface.
“They arrived two days ago,” she continued. “Marchand is dead. So is Camille. She managed to send a distress signal, got everyone out before the Canfri attack expanded.”
“I don’t understand,” said Isabelle, “How did they find us? Last I heard they were on the outer arms.”
Isabelle pulled up her skirts and tapped against the side of her thigh. A rectangle of skin opened to reveal three sense marker vials. She took them out and glanced at Élo. Her hair was frizzy, her eyes glassy and a little wild, as if she hadn’t slept in days.
The transmission bank pinged to life. Green and red text punctuated the surface and a hole opened up at the top. Isabelle placed one of the vials inside. Élo knelt down next to her and eyed the outputs flowing along the bank’s top.
“You were the only one in the Original Timeline when they showed up,” said Élo, still not looking at her.
A shiver ran down Isabelle’s spine. Someone—something—banged on the perfumerie’s door. A deep, alien growl erupted the quiet night.
It didn’t make any sense. The Original Timeline was what the Canfri considered their lodestar in time-space—it was where all decisions got made, where the high priestesses resided, rarely ever traveling themselves. It was a common hunting ground for Time Thieves, where most of the Canfri’s sense markers were mixed and where they were stored across the planet in the obsidian temples of the High Families.
“That’s not possible,” said Isabelle. “I stole from a low-level priestess! I almost didn’t bother, honestly, her ancestry was so diluted, she can’t possibly have had anything important.”
But she got nothing from Élo, who was staring at the bank’s outputs with an almost frantic intensity. Another bang.
“Élo, you have to believe me. I would never knowingly endanger—”
“Shut up for minute,” snapped Élo. “This…this can’t be right.”
Isabelle tried to refocus her attention on the transmission bank, instead of on the woman just a few minutes ago she was desperate to see, with whom she only wanted to reconcile, and gasped.
“This is a sense marker from Earth,” whispered Élo. “On the Original Timeline, from before we arrived.”
The outputs disappeared, the vial successfully transferred to the other Time Thief communities.
“How is that possible,” said Isabelle. Too loudly. Her breathing sped up. There was another bang and a cracking of wood.
“Give me the other one,” yelled Élo.
Isabelle did so, and then scrambled to look at the perfumerie’s door. It was splintering, but the wood was reinforced with future-earth steel; the lock was still intact. Despite the awful sounds emanating from the door, they still had some time.
She turned back to Élo who was staring at the transmission bank, biting her lip, jaw clenched. “This one…this one’s also from the OT, but it’s from before the rift,” there were tears streaming down her face. “They want to destroy the Time Thieves before the rebellion ever happened.”
The implications swam across Isabelle’s vision. No one from their home planet, across time and space, had discovered Earth before the rebellion. She could see it now. Entire families identified and executed before they even formed the thought of rebellion.
“It’s sent,” said Élo, breaking Isabelle’s trance.
Just then, a furious whine erupted at the door. Both Time Thieves pressed hard against their ears to try and dampen the sound.
“They must have a metal saw,” shouted Élo over the noise.
Isabelle grabbed her by the elbows.
“Leave. Now. Get out while you still can. I’ll take care of them.”
“But you still have one vial left.”
“I’ll send it later,” yelled Isabelle. “You need to leave now before they—”
There was a huge crash. The metal reinforcing the door creaked under heat and pressure sent daggers of wood and steel across the perfumerie. Isabelle, her head in her hands, only felt Élo’s kiss on her cheek. There was the sound of contracting air, then nothing but the sigh of dust and debris as it settled to the ground.
No time to think. No time to enjoy the tingle of anticipation that she might not, in fact, have ruined things with Élo. Isabelle scrambled up the back stairs to the bedroom, straining to hear any movement in the main shop.
Silence. Clearly the Canfri were expecting a more violent response to their incursion. Isabelle tiptoed across the room to a window overlooking the road.
At first glance, they looked humanoid enough, minus the hair and lungs. The Canfri breathed through their skin, like frogs. Another one of the ways the Time Thieves had branched off since being on earth. She could see three of them. Despite the frigid air, no fog of warm breath escaped their lips. They were clad completely in white. Eyes and noses were just indents in otherwise seamless spacesuits. Isabelle frowned. Earth sensations were incredibly harsh compared to those on Delmaru. The planet was a dull, soundless black hole in comparison. They had anticipated this though, which made Isabelle wonder how long they had been doing reconnaissance, and how the Time Thieves had not realized it.
There wasn’t much in the room she could use. As a plan started coalescing in her mind, Isabelle grabbed a pair of shears from the dresser, a thick-heeled shoe, and a small bottle of perfume. She could hear the Canfri below her, slowly making their way through the room, scanning for bodies and vials.
There was no easy way to get down from the perfumerie’s balcony. There was, however, a barren trellis along the wall of the next building. The air felt even colder when Isabelle stepped onto the rickety balcony. An icing of snow coated the creaking wood. She would have to climb the railing, jump across and grab the trellis, without causing too much noise.
Isabelle hefted the shoe and tossed it underhand into the middle of the room. With a grunt of effort, she jumped off the balcony and scrabbled to grab the trellis, which promptly groaned at her weight before cracking in half and dropping her into the street.
So much for being quiet.
Without looking behind her, Isabelle ran.
Just a few hours ago, Isabelle had been lying in a private room at the trendiest sensory café in Iludi, Delmaru’s only outpost. The planet was a relatively new Canfri colony in the Original Timeline. It was mostly water, dotted with millions of small islands and one large continent. Thanks to two moons, the planet’s tides were strong and erratic, but the wild topography of the ocean floor meant that there were also innumerable coral reefs teeming with life in and around the islands. The Canfri were never shy about coveting beautiful things. When Isabelle arrived they were already harvesting for sense marker ingredients—and of course for sensual baubles to sell to wealthy but unranked Canfri families, destroying the reefs in the process.
The official story was that Delmaru had no sentient life on it, so no one was around to complain about this unabashed exploitation.
Regardless of Delmaru’s natural bounty, it made no sense for a low-level priestess to have critical, arguably genocidal sense markers with her on the planet. Having spent a great deal of time in one of the coral harvesting work camps, Isabelle concluded early on that Delmaru would be stripped for parts and then cast aside. At most, the planet would be monitored remotely for any signs of life or new and pretty sensations to be extracted. Maybe they would keep a few forced-labour communities on planet. In the meantime, what little Canfri population there was had attracted opportunists and poachers who set up black market trade houses and illicit cafés to take advantage of the coral harvesters’ meagre profits.
The café where Isabelle had met her priestess was called the Pleasure Centre. The name alone had almost made Isabelle turn around, but once inside she was relieved to see it looked cleaner than most of the other Illudi spots. The space was decorated in soft light, velvet chairs, with deep pink walls. The sea kelp tea was a warm sweet-salty mix that made her feel better about having nothing to show for her long time away.
The priestess was sitting alone in her deep red robes, lounging on a couch as if hoping to disappear into it. She was rubbing circles of cuttlefish paste onto her glistening skin. The gesture sent a pulse through Isabelle. She went over, recognizing the recklessness of her behaviour even as she sat down and offered some of her tea to the priestess. The woman was young and already half out of it in sensory overload when Isabelle came over. Her name was Rin, and she didn’t stop talking in a low drone of self-importance until Isabelle had rented them a private room and put her mouth on Rin’s cupid-bowed lips.
Thinking about it now, lungs screaming, legs straining at the effort to keep ahead of the Canfri hit squad behind her, Isabelle probably should have clocked it as odd for a priestess, even a low-ranking one, to be in such a place. Of course, it happened. The priestess class was just as debauched as anyone, if not more. Still, they tended to keep their activities private.
Whatever. Her thoughtless behaviour had led to her unexpected theft. Rin, blissed out on the bed after inhaling more Delmaru blowfish powder than any person should, had casually informed Isabelle that the satchel she carried at her side was from a scouting mission.
“I’m taking the slow route home, to stay undetected,” she slurred, smiling.
“From who?”
“Oh, come on,” said Rin giggling. “Our defective off-shoots. You know,” and then she used a word Isabelle hadn’t heard in a very long time, one that made her feel absolutely no compunction about stealing the whole satchel once Rin passed out. At her waypoint, she returned to her mostly human form, grabbed her Parisian clothes, and thanked the universe she’d been able to stop herself from slitting Rin’s throat then and there.
Isabelle imagined Rin was getting a punishment much harsher than death from her fellow temple-dwellers now they’d discovered her carelessness. One that Isabelle was sure to encounter if she didn’t keep running.
The noise came before the pain, wrenching Isabelle to the present. A screeching violence scattered all thought and sent Isabelle crashing to the ground mid-stride. She was barely able to keep her eyes open as she got up, vomited, then tried to hobble forward, trying to get her bearings. She was on the edge of the Palais Royale gardens. Bare-limbed linden trees gave a little cover along the wide-open gravel courtyard. Ears still ringing, Isabelle sunk behind a large tree trying to catch her breath. They had a sound gun. She let out a moan, then put her hand to her mouth. Her hand was shaking.
It did not take long for the Canfri to enter the garden. Isabelle tried to steady her breath. She still had the shears at least. She gripped them hard.
At least five of them spread out into the courtyard. Good, thought Isabelle. Taking down one at a time would be easier than facing them all together.
Isabelle strained to listen for what was not there. The lack of breath, followed by a hush of someone trying to make as little noise as possible on gravel inching closer and closer. She swung herself around the tree and slashed hard at the Canfri on the other side. The figure screamed a low, croaking sound. She’d managed to cut through the suit just a bit—enough so that the cold was already piercing at the delicate, porous skin beneath. The Canfri collapsed to the ground, body expanding and contracting violently, trying to regulate their body temperature.
But there was no time to celebrate this minor victory, Isabelle turned to deal with the others—and was met immediately with a needle-thin blade designed to tear through her own, much more earth-appropriate skin suit with precision and violence.
She managed to fall back just in time but tumbled over the Canfri body on the ground, dropping the shears. The others were now running towards her. She was dead, there was no escape. The one in front of her moved briskly, knife at the ready, aimed at her heart.
The knife got closer, as did the others. She tried to look weak, curling in on herself until finally she was surrounded.
Please only have one of those horrible knives, she thought.
The knife-wielder did not hesitate, for which Isabelle was grateful. Any move to pause and assess the situation would have only made things harder. They lunged at her hunched form, and simultaneously she lunged towards it. The knife caught her below the ribs. She screamed in pain, half in reaction and half in alarm at how deeply the knife had pierced. But it didn’t matter. Rather than collapse back, she let her momentum carry forward and fell onto the Canfri. The knife now skittered across her abdomen, a thin angry line of blood pooling out. She grabbed the Canfri’s wrist and wrenched. The knife loosened against her, and with all the force she could muster Isabelle pulled the knife away from the Canfri and whirled around with the blade facing out. It happened so fast she had to keep herself from falling over in dizziness when she returned to face the original knife-wielder. There was a hiss and a few croaks of pain, but this was only part one of the plan. She still held the vial of perfume in her right hand. She threw it on the ground and watched in dark, painful satisfaction, as the overpowering mix of jasmine, lily, vanilla and tobacco found each one of them and they collapsed in a stupor of sensory overload. Their bodies twitched, clearly trying to recalibrate. The one who’d come at her with the knife roared in frustration, but the concentrated explosion of scent was too much to combat, especially with a slash in their suit. Leave it to the French to make perfume that could down a Canfri. Isabelle ran.
It was so hard to breathe. The streets were still quiet. Even in the normally rowdy neighbourhoods, which Isabelle passed in a barely conscious haze, there was no one in sight. It was as if she was in a dream of Paris instead of the real thing.
Eventually, she found herself in a familiar area. There were market stalls huddled together like sheep fending off the cold and beyond that—through an alleyway, panting, stopping to rest on walls every few steps—Isabelle recognized the fabric district. There were Time Thieves who lived in this area, about a dozen, if only she could remember exactly which homes.
Well she’d tried. It was a good effort. The Canfri were surely freed from their torment and on the move. They’d be here any minute. Gasping, Isabelle let herself indulge in a few tears. The ripping sound of sobs in her throat echoed along the narrow street.
“Isa!”
Someone was calling her, but she couldn’t identify from where. She sank to the ground, the world swimming in front of her eyes.
A wood fire, soft cotton, warm air. Isabelle opened her eyes to the yellow glow of a hallway and Monsieur Charles de la Campagne fretting over her.
“Get a bath running, will you Clara?”
A thick blanket had been wrapped around her. Charles was looking at her with concern, adjusting the blanket so it came up to just below her chin.
“You’re lucky you don’t have hypothermia.”
The wound across her ribcage had been patched. Isabelle could feel the ridge of rejoined skin and a stitched suit. She took in a slow breath.
“It wouldn’t have stopped bleeding on its own,” Charles said, slowly moving her to a couch in the house’s warmly lit sitting room.
“It looks like the work of an atom blade. You’ve been spending time with dangerous company, Isa.”
She swallowed hard and tried to focus. The de la Campagnes were part of her generation of Time Thieves. Charles was not that much older than herself. The room was decorated in pink and white wallpaper. Above the fireplace was a portrait of Clara, looking stunning in deep shadows and a glowing emerald dress reminiscent of a Caravaggio painting. She wondered vaguely if they’d traveled to Renaissance Italy and gotten it done by the man himself. It was a growing trend amongst their cohort.
“Can you walk?” Charles asked.
Isabelle nodded. Charles slowly steered her up the stairs to a candlelit bathroom, in the middle of which sat an enormous porcelain tub.
“A gift from my parents,” said Clara, who was arranging a soap dish on a stand next to the tub.
Charles closed the door behind Isabelle with a friendly smile and a nod.
“Do you know—do you know if my parents are safe?” asked Isabelle as she began to undress.
“As far as I know we only lost two,” said Clara. “Everyone else managed to escape.”
She hesitated, gathering up Isabelle’s clothing.
“I don’t know where Élodie is though.”
The water was scalding hot and glorious. Isabelle sank into it, taking in every moment, as if she hadn’t been properly warm in years. The tension in her muscles began to loosen.
“She’s safe,” she said once fully submerged.
“Good. That’s good,” murmured Clara. “She’s one of our best. We can’t afford to lose her. Do you know where she went?”
“No. I assume it was one of our gathering points. There was no time to check.”
Something was off about the question. Every Time Thief had an emergency sense marker on them to one of the various gathering points scattered across Earth’s time-space. Most of them didn’t even know where they would end up—that was the point. It was randomized, so there wouldn’t be a large concentration of Time Thieves anywhere.
Clara smiled. “I’m relieved to hear it. I know how close you two are. I feared that if the Canfri had caught you they would have had coordinates for two of our most valuable members.”
She smiled again, motherly, though Isabelle was pretty sure she was a few years younger.
“I’ll be just downstairs if you need anything.”
She gathered Isabelle’s clothes and closed the door with a click.
For a few minutes, Isabelle surrendered to the bathtub’s heat and closed her eyes. The house was quiet. There was only the sound of floors creaking and the dull crackling of a fire.
There was a window next to the tub. Surely the Canfri were still looking for her. It probably wasn’t wise to get too comfortable. She unlatched the window and groaned at the whip of wind that came through. Rather than silence, the streets seemed revived from their slumber. People strolled through the street talking loudly. She could hear laughter in the distance.
It didn’t feel right. They knew what she had. They had pursued her this far and she had hurt them. In her experience, the Canfri were big on revenge. Why else chase the Time Thieves across whole galaxies to erase them from existence?
Another question popped into her mind. Why were Clara and Charles still in Paris?
She rose out of the tub too quickly and almost collapsed. She managed to steady herself with a hand on the side of the porcelain. Clara had her clothes. There was only a white robe on the back of the bathroom door to put on.
And, Isabelle quickly discovered, the door was locked from the outside.
New sounds floated up from downstairs. Isabelle put her ear on the floor.
“What took you so long? She’s upstairs.”
The dull tones of a Canfri voice box answered. It was too low to hear, but Isabelle could easily guess.
“I’m sure she still has it—”
There was a scream from Clara, then a gurgling, followed by a thud.
“Please—”
Then Charles was abruptly cut off too. Isabelle was sure she could hear the sheathing of the deadly blade.
Well, at least she’d been able to warm up before whatever came next. She touched her upper thigh and grabbed the third sense marker. She gulped it down just as the Canfri banged open the bathroom door, by which point she had disappeared into smells, sounds and colours she couldn’t even begin to describe.
She opened her eyes and saw why.
This was not Earth. In the dim pre-dawn light, she could only guess that she was in some kind of forest. The ground was sticky. She was still in the bathrobe. Not exactly adventuring gear.
Adjusting her lenses, she was able to determine that there was in fact some sense to the thick underbrush of ferns—not trees—taller than two-storey buildings. A few paths wound through them.
A completely new world. Who could say what kinds of new experiences she’d find here? Maybe she could bring back some new sense-marker materials, really seal the deal with Élodie.
Her hip was healed, for now, no one was chasing her... Her family was likely safe. She would find them in due course. In the meantime…
A new time, a new place. Nothing a Time Thief liked more. Isabelle, grinning, stood up and began to walk the path before her, touching every leaf, taking deep breaths, letting herself be taken away.