Page 44 of Casting Butterflies

“How about if I said suck it up, buttercup?”

“You’re really not good at offering emotional support,” I huffed.

“I’m a dryad, not a shrink. Think of it as tough love. You don’t have a choice, Florence. The spirit in you has to be returned to the elves, or having had a taste of power, have you decided you’d rather keep it?”

“What? No, of course not.” While there was a thrill in wielding magic, the ease with which I could fuck shit up worried.

“Is this because you don’t have a man to hold your hand? I thought you were a strong independent woman.”

“I am.”

“Then stop the woe-is-me pity party and yank up your panties, Beavertail.”

I glared. “Don’t you dare start using that awful nickname.”

“I won’t use it so long as you stop your whining. You’ll feel better after you eat.”

“I did eat,” I reminded, pointing to the crumbs.

“Bah. I’ve seen your usual portion size. That was merely a snack. Go get some real food in your belly.”

Good advice as it turned out. The dining car had a limited menu, but I enjoyed every bite of it. A full tummy, along with the motion and noise of the train, lulled me to sleep for the remaining hour of the trip, and I woke feeling ready to conquer the world.

We chugged into a Paris station, which, yes, for those familiar with geography, meant we’d gone away from Russia instead of toward. I chose Paris because they had a train that went direct to Moscow. It would take almost forty hours, but I wouldn’t have to hop on and off in strange cities.

Since the Moscow train I bought a ticket for didn’t leave until the morning, and Paris wasn’t a city that slept, I did some shopping. Within an hour, I’d purchased several changes of clothes while Cedric put his furry paws to use stealing us more cash. He gathered enough for us to rent a hotel room for the night, plus enough left over I could eat while we travelled.

My previous nap on the train didn’t keep me from falling asleep the moment my head hit the pillow. The magic I’d used earlier in the church had sapped me more than I realized. But in good news, no sign of the pernicae—or butterflies.

We boarded the train the next morning, and unlike the previous day, I greeted this next part of our journey with excitement.

“Do you think I could do a little sightseeing in Moscow?” I asked Cedric.

“Only if you’re not in a rush to dump the spirit.”

“It’s been gone for decades. An extra day or two won’t hurt.”

“Just keep in mind Valefor is still looking for you.”

A reminder this wasn’t a touristy vacation. “I know. But chances are I’ll never be able to afford a trip overseas again.” As the train began to move, I watched the platform outside, wondering if this would be like a movie and I’d see Misha running and leaping to board. Fanciful thinking. I mean, what were the chances he’d gotten bailed, knew to follow me to Paris, and would be on this train?

Despite it being farfetched I couldn’t help but feel disappointed as the station left my sight. I also bit my lip over the guilt suddenly filling me. Maybe I should have stuck around Rotterdam and tried to get Misha released? He’d told me to keep going. Doubtful I could have helped. Still…I should have probably done more.

Knock. Knock.

My heart stopped.

“It’s likely the person who checks tickets,” Cedric whispered.

Oh, right. I stood and slid open the door to see a mustached man in a blue suit standing there.

“Votre billet et passeport, s'il vous plaît.”

I didn’t understand French, but Cedric did and hissed, “He wants your ticket and passport.”

The former I had, but the latter still posed an issue. I plastered my brightest smile. “Hi, here’s my ticket.” I held it out and pushed a thought at the man with the pencil-thin mustache. The passport was good.

The man in uniform handed back my ticket and then held out his hand. “Votre passeport?”