The journey across France had not been easy, but they’d mercifully not run into any Revolutionaries. Or for that matter, she thought as the carriage rocked along the streets, the motion lulling her into a light doze, Royalists. She rested her head on André’s shoulder, felt his arm come round him and finally relaxed. It wasn’t until now, finally in London and on their way to the townhouse André and Eric had purchased, that she felt safe. The Channel crossing hadn’t been difficult, though Gabrielle had discovered a sincere aversion to sea travel. London Hellfire representatives met them at the port in Dover and they’d crossed England in a blur of motion. Now, with safety and freedom all but theirs, Gabrielle found she could barely stay awake to enjoy it. “We’re here,” André whispered, gently urging her to sit up. Gabrielle nodded and opened her eyes. Exiting the carriage into the darkened, and nameless, London street, she wondered where their new home was located. Anywhere not Paris, indeed France, suited her perfectly well.
