A Brand New Adventure

by mynameisqwerty

Summary:

Six years after Hugo found a family, everyone's starting to grow up. Including Hugo and Isabelle. Can their friends finally get them together? Or will they find each other by themselves? Hugo/Isabelle obviously. Later might be adult-rated. Will warn.

Chapter 1: The Beginning

"Go on, off with you now," said Papa George with a playful smile. He waved off the two ... what to call them now ... it had been six years since he had met Hugo. He was now 18, Isabelle 17. They were hardly teenagers anymore...

"Ah, time makes a fool of us doesn't it?" he conversed to a small clockwork mouse. "I am old, and they are young, and you, my friend, you are ready to be sold,"
He put the mouse back into prominence on the counter of the toy shop, which despite all the success of his re-released films, he had kept open.

Isabelle and Hugo came to the train station and helped at the shop nearly every day, assisting in their own ways. Isabelle would strike up interesting conversations with passersby and lead them or keep them at the counter, encouraging more sales, and keeping up public appearance, though they hardly needed that anymore, when people found out the old man behind the counter was The George Melies. And Hugo in his quiet way would sit at the back of the shop, mending, repairing, improving.

Papa George had noticed that several young women had taken to the habit of lingering around the benches directly opposite the toy shop. Giggling, they would wave to Hugo, just visible at the back. Papa George had once or twice caught Hugo waving back, with a slight, if somewhat nervous, smile to his face. Papa George had also noticed Isabelle scowling at these moments.

He did not need Mama Jeanne to tell him what that meant.

So, he had decided to send them out for the day.

"Go on," he said to the protesting couple. "Go and enjoy the day, you can't spend your whole lives stuck inside a dusty shop, not at your age; you're at your prime you two. Go out and spend the day. Oh and Isabelle," she looked up, "Don't forget your coat, it's in the back,"
"Of course, Papa George,"

George Melies made sure his god-daughter was safely around a corner before pressing a two 20 Euro bills into Hugo's hand.
"Go out and buy her something nice. I'm not talking about jewellery, give her an experience."
Hugo mumbled and muttered and tried to return the money, but Papa George was adamant. And before anything else could be said Isabelle returned, coat and beret firmly in place.
Hugo quickly stuffed the money into his jacket pocket.

Isabelle looked at the two of them expectantly, "Well, Hugo, what are we waiting for? Don't be a remora! * Let's go!" and she grabbed his hand.
Hugo muttered to himself. "Right, don't be a remora ..."

"Go on off with you now," said Papa George with a playful smile as he waved them off. Isabelle tugged impatiently at Hugo's hand, ready to start an adventure.

Chapter 2: The Movie

As Isabelle led him through the varying crowd, Hugo thought it was almost like old times, one of them leading the other to new exploits, new adventures ...
He looked down at their hands, clasped together, utterly familiar, and yet a new experience every time.
A new experience. That's what Papa George had entrusted him to give Isabelle. But it was nearing the end of the holidays. They'd done nearly everything, visited all the new exhibits at the Louvre, climbed up as high as they could up the Eiffel Tower, shouting out to the Parisians below, the Wednesday Market, even just walking through the streets of Paris, combing the city for street performers, buskers, or dancing bears and monkeys. That one had been Isabelle's idea.
And they'd seen all the films at the cinema. Contrary to Papa George's prior instruction, Isabelle and Hugo were now encouraged to see as many movies as possible. "To widen your horizons," said Mama Jeanne. "To look out for the competition," said Papa George with a wink. "To become more perspicacious*," said Isabelle. Naturally.
"So ... what do you want to do?" said Hugo, somewhat awkwardly, as they walked under a large clock and passed through the train station doors.
"Let's go and see if any new films are on," Isabelle said excitably. "You never know, there might be some new ones,"

They walked the streets of the city, now as familiar to Hugo as the inner walls of the station, and stopped outside the cinema, looking at the posters that advertised new films.

"Oh, look!" Isabelle pointed at a poster with excitement. "A new Marx Brothers film. "A Day at the Races." Sounds exciting! Shall we see it?"
"Sure," said Hugo. "Unless there's something else you'd like to do ..."
"What could rival a horserace? Come on!"

The film was good. Isabelle said nothing could compete with her Papa George but Hugo thought she might be a bit biased. He'd certainly enjoyed it, though he couldn't help thinking that while a horserace was exciting, it wasn't exactly what Papa George had meant by an experience. Especially since there had been no actual horses. Just images.

He was walking beside Isabelle, hands in pockets and looking at the pavement somewhat disconsolately when something like a little miracle occurred.

It started to rain.

Not a light sprinkle that gradually grew on you but a great torrent of water, covering the pavement and road with a film of water almost instantaneously.

Both Hugo and Isabelle shouted out in shock and ran, laughing as they almost slipped in the rain.
Hugo pulled his jacket over his head, and Isabelle did the same with her coat, pointing out a little cafe down the road about 10 meters ahead.

"There," she panted, almost tripping over her grip-less boots, "we could wait there until the rain stops,"

Despite their best efforts, they were both soaked by the time they reached "Le Petit Gateau." They stumbled over the threshold and into the cosy warmth of the cafe.

"Oh, my dears," A plump woman dressed entirely in an odd shade of pink waddled towards them, smothering them in a tight, perfumed embrace. Hugo smelt violets and musk. He resisted the urge to sneeze with great difficulty.
The woman continued to fuss over Isabelle and Hugo as if they were the long lost son and daughter of a beloved sister. "Oh come my dears, out of the wet and the cold. Come to the fire."

She led them to a blazing fireplace, surrounded by a mish-mash of assorted armchairs, all of which looked very lived-in and comfortable.
She covered them both in knobbly knitted shawls ("The best we've got I'm afraid my dears, the blankets were taken up long ago,") and seated them each at an armchair.
Hugo could now see that in fact the blankets were all taken, at least seven other people were also huddled around the fire, taking refuge from the storm. They all looked quite snug if a little cold.
"Are you expected anywhere dears?" the woman said. "The man on the radio said the rain's not supposed to clear up for some time. You don't want anyone to worry,"
Isabelle answered, "Yes, My Godparents, is there a phone I could use?"
"But of course,"

As Isabelle got back up, brushing lightly past him, Hugo sank back into his armchair staring into the fire. It was very warm here. He forgot he was cold as he stared into the hypnotising flames. He felt his eyelids begin to droop ...

When Isabelle came back from the phone, she found Hugo passed out beside the fire.

Notes:

* Perspicacious – Having keen mental perception and understanding or discerning.

Why is the rain a miracle you ask?

You'll find out in the next chapter! :D

Chapter 3: The Dance

Isabelle looked down at Hugo. He looked so peaceful. Since Hugo had come to live with them, he had seemed much happier. And yet sometimes, in those quiet moments, she would catch him with a forlorn expression on his face, staring into space looking lost, abandoned, and she believed it was then that he remembered his father and all that he had lost.

"He's very handsome,"
Isabelle jumped. The kind woman who had taken care of them was right behind her. She hadn't heard her, Isabelle was so lost in her thoughts. She realised she was absentmindedly stroking Hugo's hair. She stopped at once.
"Don't worry, my dear," said the woman, smiling knowingly. "Unrequited love happens everywhere. Including here. I think, perhaps, mostly here. For "The City of Love," Paris leaves an awful lot of broken hearts, don't you think?"
"I – I don't – I mean, I –" Isabelle was ready to deny everything to this woman. This usurper. This intruder. But the look she gave Isabelle desisted her. This woman meant no malice. She could see that.
"Sometimes," she murmured. "I think he realises, and then he grins and smiles, and I know it's just my imagination,"
"I do not know very much," the woman confided. "My mother owned this shop before me, she thought that school was for men and the home was for girls, so I never went to school, though I wanted to very badly. But I still learned a few tricks from my dear maman," she looked down at Hugo. "I saw both of you come into this shop. The moment you were taken care of, he relaxed,"
"He only ever sees me like an old friend,"
"All right," the woman said, putting both hands up in surrender. "All right. I am an old woman. What do I know?" And she left to see what her husband was doing, a slight smile on her face.

Isabelle looked down at Hugo. He was handsome. He'd grown over the last few years. Now he was the taller one, something he'd delighted in ever since he'd noticed. And with his dark hair, bright, effulgent* blue eyes, and pale skin that had refused to darken after his years in the tunnels, he was quite striking. It was no wonder those silly girls were giggling over him all the time.

At the thought of Romilda and her posse, Isabelle felt a wave of rancor* sweep through her, and she turned her head to the window, and the inclement* weather pounding against the glass.
As if their unendurable giggling and carrying on were not enough, a few weeks ago, as Hugo was locking up the shop they had swarmed him, like a horde of fashionably-dressed bees. Hugo had been so disarmed and nervous. Then Romilda, foolish leader of a foolish group, had tried to loop her arm around his.
Hugo had jumped back before he knew what he was doing. He had knocked a bucket of tin soldiers from the counter. They spilled all over the floor, a flood of tiny armed troops, a considerable amount broke on impact, others caused a Brobdingnagian* obstacle course for the daily commuters passing by, still others, those that had survived, were stolen. The commotion had brought on a flock of street-boys, almost as though it was a rat trap, with soldiers as cheese.
And of course, none of those silly girls had been any use at all, screaming and carrying on, clutching at their cheeks.
In the end, Isabelle and Hugo were able to save 22 of them. The bucket was barely a quarter-full. It had taken Papa George and Hugo months to build them all. The troop had been 100 men strong. And now all that was left were broken swords and tiny, squashed tin fingers.

Isabelle scowled at the rain.

"She doesn't mean any harm you know," Isabelle jumped as, for the second time that day, someone came up behind her. She had to stop herself from being lost in her thoughts. Hugo was constantly teasing her about it,
"It's like when you're lost in one of your books," he said smiling. "The world could move on 50 years, and you'd never notice. You'll still be getting lost in London with Oliver Twist,"
Isabelle turned to see what appeared to be a younger version of the woman she had been talking to earlier, excepting the lurid shade of pink. The girl looked about her age.
"Sorry?"
"My mother. Match-making is her favourite pastime."
"Your mother?"
"Yes. Claire Amantine," she held out her hand. Isabelle shook it gladly. The girl looked out the window too.
"Lovely weather we're having," she said with a smirk. Isabelle smiled back. She liked Claire.
"Are you going to run the patisserie after your mother?" she said, indicating around the room. It was a strange combination of cafe and living room, the fireplace took up the entire side of one wall, and another was plastered with bookshelves, there was a counter with a cornucopia of sweets, cakes, biscuits and pastries, there was a piano in the corner, and the middle of the room was taken up by several tables and chairs, none like the other, yet matching in an odd sort of way. Eclectic. Almost.
As Isabelle looked around in the vague reddish light that filled the place, she realised nothing was new. Everything was slightly worn or chipped or scratched. Especially the floor.
Isabelle loved it.
"No, I don't think so," said Claire.
"Oh!" cried out Isabelle in dismay. "But it's so lovely," and she meant it too. She felt at peace and at home here.
Clare laughed at her response. "It's silly I know, but what I'd really love to own is a toy shop, we live in the apartment upstairs and having to smell all this every day has put me off dessert for life,"
Isabelle quietly contemplated this for a moment. It was almost as if one of the Fates had intervened; this couldn't be a coincidence ...
"Do you love him?" Claire said suddenly, indicating Hugo, still conked, arm and head over the side of his armchair, his mouth slightly open.
Isabelle was caught off guard. "What?"
"I thought I'd ask the blunt question; you're no use to Mum if there isn't at least some attraction between you," she said with a wry smile.
"Um ...," Isabelle was at a loss for what to say. She didn't know. The thought of Romilda certainly made her want to ring that delicate little neck until it turned blue, but did that mean she loved Hugo? Truly loved. As Heathcliff loved Catherine? As Mr. Darcy loved Elizabeth? As Watson loved Mary?

She was saved the answer by the waking snuffle-snore of Hugo. He shook his head lightly as he rose.
Then he caught sight of her. He made his way forward. He indicated the rain.
"It still hasn't let up?"
"No, it blazing sunshine, can't you see?" said Claire, indicating an imaginary spot of sun and smiling slightly.
Hugo grinned.

Just then a small distraction in the form of a small girl appeared, she had two short blonde pig-tails that stuck out of her head at off angles and wore a red, pink and white chequered dress. She was about to say something to Claire, but then caught sight of Hugo, and decided to hide behind Claire's legs instead.
Claire looked down at the tiny girl with a loving endearment. Then she looked back up at the two of them. "This is my sister, Flora, Flora, this is ... oh,"
There was a slightly awkward moment as everyone realised something at the same time.
"Isabelle," said Isabelle kindly.
"Hugo," Hugo knelt down slowly, so that he was at the same height as the girl, and put his hand out to the girl as if to shake her hand. The girl giggled ferociously. It was like a tinkling bell, innocent and free.
Once they had subsided, she tentatively put out one hand.
"The other hand, Flora," Hugo said gently, Isabelle noticed that he talked to Flora, not as if she were a child, but someone his own age, even someone older.
As they shook hands, Claire looked on in amazement.
"Flora," Hugo said with a mischievous look on his face. "Would you like to see some magic?"
The girl gasped in delight and nodded vigorously.
Hugo smiled and put his hand in his pocket, drawing out a pack of slightly scruffy cards. He looked up at Flora as he spread them in a fan flawlessly. "Pick a card, any card," he said. Flora was practically bouncing as she picked one. "Now, take a good look at your card," Hugo said. "Remember it hard; it will be important later," Flora screwed up her eyes in an effort to remember, she opened them again. "Are you ready to hand back your card?" Hugo asked. "Remember! Don't show it to me," Flora passed back her card. Hugo put it back in the pile and started shuffling. "Have you had a good day so far, Flora?"
"Uh-huh!" the girl said excitably. "Except for the rain. I was supposed to go for a play with Annette today, and now I can't. But this has been the best bit of the day so far!"
"Good," said Hugo, his teeth flashed slightly as he smiled again. "Now, can you remember your card?"
"Of course I can!"
"Of course, how silly of me to underestimate you, is this your card?" He pulled it out, not physically, but by hovering his hand above the cards. And one shot out, over his head and he caught on the tips of his fingers. He brought it round so Flora could see. Flora burst out in a delighted giggle again, she took the card and ran back behind the counter and through a door, waving it above her head.
"Maman! Maman! There's a magician in the cafe! Look what he did, maman,"

Claire, Isabelle, and Hugo all grinned at each other. Then Claire turned to Hugo. "That was incredible! Not just the magic trick, but what you did with Flora. She's normal such a shy thing! She never trusts strangers,"
"It's something I learned while working with my father," said Hugo, a little quietly, and Isabelle knew they had reached a sensitive subject. "We worked in a clockwork's shop, so not many children came in, but when they did, my father always treated them as equals, like he was talking to adults, not children. Once he did that, they respected him, especially if their own parents molly-coddled them."
Isabelle thought Claire was about to ask something more about Hugo's father, Isabelle had a feeling Claire had picked up on his tone and had guessed what had happened, at least in part. But before she had the chance, Madame Amantine came back through the door behind the counter, being led forcibly by Flora, who was dragging her mother across, back to see Hugo.
"It was him, maman! He picked my card, and he made it fly. He's magic!"
"It seems you've made quite an impression on my daughter, my dear, I hope you'll be coming again, hopefully with company," Madame Amantine stared at Isabelle.
"Mum," said Claire, a little embarrassed. "Leave them al –"
"But of course, we must have music, my dears," said Madame Amantine, cutting off her daughter mid-sentence. "Benji!" she started moving back to behind the counter and put her head through the door,
"Benjamin, come out here! Come and play some lovely music for our guests!"
A young boy, about 13 years old, came through the door, he had short hair and large square glasses. He grumbled something that was probably best left unintelligible and sat down at the piano.
A moment, and then ...
The most beautiful sound Isabelle had ever heard released itself from the piano. A gambling waltz of a tune that flew through the air, straight into Isabelle's heart.

"Come, come my dears, we must all dance," Madame Amantine was getting lively. She got all her refugees out of the armchairs and partnered them up with each other. All together, including Claire, Isabelle, and Hugo, there were six girls and four boys. It didn't seem to bother them. They all started spinning round and round the small free space in the cafe, leaving one's arms and falling into another's, Hugo at one point spinning Flora around, in and out, in and out, in a ridiculous, fantastic, spontaneous celebration of life and then Isabelle fell into his arms, and the waltz slowed, and they danced, almost in a dream, as they drew closer ...

"Oh, look the rain's stopped, what a pity!" the slam of a piano lid and closing of a door, and the magic of those last few precious seconds was gone, as the notes of that final, unfinished melody faded to air.
Everyone else seemed to have come out of a daze too. They looked around, and some exclaimed at the crepuscular* light making its way through the windows of "Le Petit Gateau." People began to leave in three's and two's.
Finally, only Hugo and Isabelle were left, mainly because Flora would not let go of Hugo's arm, "Please, please maman, can't The Magician Hugo stay? Please,"
"The Magician Hugo?" Hugo repeated with some uncertainty as Isabelle and Claire hid smiles behind their hands.
"Well ... If Isa –"
"No Mum!" and Claire lost her smile instantly as she grabbed both Isabelle and Hugo by the hand and pulled them out of the shop to the glistening pavement outside. "Sorry about that." She said, shaking her head. "She doesn't know when to stop."
"Why is your brother so angry? He plays the piano beautifully," Isabelle asked. Although she had loved the harmony as it played, now that she was no longer listening to it, she could not remember it.
"He doesn't like playing in the cafe. You know, for customers. I'm not sure why,"
"Well, tell him his music was absolutely piquant* and I thoroughly enjoyed every moment of it,"
"I'll be sure to pass on the message," said Claire with a smile.

Just then, Flora came running through the doors holding two bundles wrapped in wax paper.
"Isabelle and Hugo the Magician, maman said to give you these, she said not to worry about paying and that you're both welcome to come here again anytime you like," she handed them the bundles.
Isabelle and Hugo opened them; it was pain chocolat.
"Thanks a lot, Flora," Hugo said smiling at her, causing Flora blush scarlet. "Here," he reached into his pocket and pulled out some spare change from the movies. "Have 2 Euro, one for being a fabulous dance partner and one for bringing me and Isabelle pastries. You can use it save up for your own pack of magic cards,"
Flora took the coin reverently and placed it carefully into her pocket. "Thank you very much, Hugo,"
"No problem,"
"See you later, Flora," Isabelle bent down and hugged her.
"Bye,"

As Flora came back into the shop with Claire, Madame Amantine rushed towards them. "How did it go Flora, did they take the pastries?"
"Yep, and then The Magician Hugo gave me 2 Euro anyway so I could save up to buy my own pack of magic cards!"
"That's wonderful, my dear, I think Hugo likes you,"
"I like him, too,"
"Mum, you can't keep giving away pastries like that!" Claire cut in. "We're not made of money. You keep giving them away and get nothing in return; you're wasting good product. Why did you insist on Hugo and Isabelle not paying? They would have,"
"I know they would have, Claire. Because they are polite, and they would not want to seem rude. I know we are not made of money. But what would they think of me, if they thought I was trying to make a sale out of them, even after they had left the shop! They would never come back. But now, I have given them a free pastry, a lovely dance and Flora has made friends with Hugo. Now, they will definitely come back,"

"That was divine," Isabelle said, as she finished off her pain chocolat.
"It certainly was," Hugo agreed, still licking his fingers. Isabelle bumped him slightly.
"I mean more than the pastry," she said. "The movie, and then dancing..." She started to spin around, humming, trying to find the tune again. But she could not. Hugo caught her hand and spun her around, once, twice, and then again out, and back in so that she was suddenly very close to him.
"And then pastry," he said.
"And then pastry," she agreed with a laugh.
And they were quiet for a moment, Hugo looking down at her face as he held her. He suddenly let go.
"We should be getting home,"

Notes:

Maman – affectionate term for "mother" in French. Pronounced "ma – mon" with a very soft "n" almost at the back of the throat.
Pain chocolat – pronounced "pan shock – o – la," again, the "n" in "pan" is very soft and at the back of the throat. More commonly known as chocolate croissants. This is a favourite afternoon snack for the people of France. To make the home version, simply cut a baguette (French bread stick) into chunky slices, stick a few squares of chocolate (any kind, though preferably dark) into the bread and enjoy! Pain chocolat that is bought from shops or patisseries are considerably fancier. They are croissants that have been cooked with a long stick of chocolate almost baked in the middle. They are, simply put, delicious.

Effulgent – bright or radiant.
Rancor - deep anger and ill will
Inclement - harsh; severe -- especially said of the weather.
Brobdingnagian - gigantic; enormous
Eclectic – a style of decorating. The theory being, if you've got really fine pieces of furniture, it doesn't matter if they match or not, they will go together.
Talkies – "talkies" was a colloquial name for some of the first films to have sound.
Crepuscular – pertaining to twilight.
Piquant – agreeably stimulating, interesting, or attractive.

Chapter 4: Aftermath

When Mama Jeanne saw the two walk in, she knew immediately that something was wrong. Usually, when they came home, Hugo and Isabelle came in laughing, talking, bantering, discussing, Hugo might have his arm around Isabelle's shoulders as he dictated a finer point.
Today, as Hugo and Isabelle walked in, Hugo was making sure that they did not so much as touch. He took one look at Mama Jeanne and sped up the stairs.
Isabelle and Mama Jeanne looked at each other.
"A Black day?" the elder asked with concern.
"I don't know!" Isabelle exclaimed with exasperation. "Today was so good! More than good, it was spectacular! But now ..."
Isabelle looked about her, trying to find the words, a rare occurrence, and never a good sign.
Mama Jeanne walked forwards and held Isabelle in a tight embrace.
"Come," she said firmly. "You can tell me all about it as you help me with the vegetables,"

They started with the potatoes.

"What happened? Begin at the beginning, don't leave anything out,"
Isabelle contemplated as she brought out the chopping board and peeling knife.
"Today was barnburner*. Papa George let us have the day to ourselves,"
"He what?"
"I know, it was strange, he said ... he said we couldn't spend the all our time in the shop, that we should enjoy the day ..."
Isabelle watched her hands, methodically rubbing the dirt off the new potatoes.
"We went out and saw a film. "A Day at the Races," it was a lot of fun. Then it began to rain, and we ran into this haimish* little cafe. The lady who ran it - dressed all in pink –"
"Pink?"
"Pink. Have you ever thought about the word pink? It seems a bit rough, doesn't it, for its colour? I believe it's the 'k' at the end. Blue suits blue, and black, black –"
"Isabelle," interrupted Mama Jeanne gently, "you're going off on a tangent,"
"Oh," Isabelle shook her head gently and realised that the potatoes were washed.
"I met her daughters and son, the eldest is my age, the youngest so sweet, and the son, Mama, her son plays such beautiful music!"
Isabelle swirled effortlessly around the room.
"We danced, and it was so perfect. A perfect harmony,"
Mama Jeanne watched her god-daughter glow in the spell of memory. Then the moment passed, the light faded and Isabelle stood to face her. Alone.
"And then it stopped. It was still so amazing even as Hugo and I were walking home, and then ... and then ..."
Mama Jeanne waited, all the appearance of calm and demeanour, but waiting impatiently.
"Oh Mama, I don't understand!" Isabelle suddenly burst out. "We were coming home, and he was suddenly so cold, so distant. He didn't even look at me!"
Isabelle stared imploringly at her godmother, for an explanation. Why was Hugo suddenly so distant?

"My love," said Mama Jeanne, taking Isabelle once again into her arms. "I believe Hugo is grieving again,"

*

Hugo raced up the stairs. He didn't want to see Isabelle's face a moment longer.
It was dangerous.
He pulled open his door and collapsed onto the bed.
Breathing.
In, out, in, out.

Her voice floated up from the staircase.
"He didn't even look at me!"

Hugo turned over, pulling his pillow over his head.
He didn't want to feel anymore, didn't want to listen anymore.
He wanted oblivion.
Because Oblivion had to be better than this confusion.

***
Slippers flapped up the stairs as Hugo raced up the stairs, trying to keep his balance and hold the present behind his back at the same time.
He had to be careful not to drop it, but he couldn't let them see either.
Hugo stopped, panting slightly, as he reached his parent's door. He took one hand and quickly pat his hair in place.
He wanted to look his best.
He reached up and opened the door, trying not to let it squeak.
He peered in...
Good. They were still asleep.
He carefully placed the gift behind the door. Just in case. He leaped onto the bed.
"HAPPY BIRTHDAY MAMAN!!"
"mmmph, morning Hugo," his father mumbled into the pillow, but Maman* grabbed him, engulfing him in kisses.
"Thank you little poppet. Good morning to you too!"
"Wait!" Hugo squirmed. "I made you a present!"
Maman snuggled into his five-year-old shoulder. "Cuddles first, presents later."

***
Hugo wept himself to sleep.

Chapter 5: The Black Days

Isabelle noticed the Black Days about a month after Hugo began living with them.
They had been walking through the Botanical Gardens, in their first autumn together, as a family. A riot of fiery colours surrounded Papa George, Mama Jeanne, Hugo, and Isabelle. A kid brushed past them, running and laughing, swirling the fallen leaves into a frenzy, trying to catch them.
A young couple had soon come into view, hand in hand, watching the child lovingly as the woman had contentedly rested her hand against the man’s shoulder.
Hugo, who had been in the middle of explaining how they could improve the automaton’s hand movements, had stopped mid-flow. His hand, which had been demonstrating his point more than his words, slowly dropped to his sides as he watched the little family.
That day too, he had raced up to his bedroom the moment they got home and stayed there for days, emerging only for meals, barely eating and not talking much to anybody.

*

Mama Jeanne tried to explain it to her.
“Grief can be overpowering and can hit you at the strangest moments; you think you’re ready to move forward, and then you smell something or hear someone laugh, or think you see them in the crowd, and suddenly you can’t breathe anymore,”
Isabelle opened her mouth, nearly interrupting her when Mama Jeanne continued.
“Don’t forget my love, Hugo has lost both his parents, he will have very strong memories of both, then he was raised by that poor soul of an uncle. Hugo’s soul is scarred, his heart is broken. It is our job now to help him to mend,”

*

Hugo’s breathing slowed as his hand flew across the page. He tried to think as the movement of his hand became fluid and subconscious.
He needed to think. He needed to work this out.
Before someone got hurt.
Isabelle meant the world to him. She had saved his life in so many ways that year she had appeared, like a particularly loquacious angel, and completely changed his life. She was the one person he could count on for anything and everything.
But thinking of her as anything more than a friend was dangerous.
It was what he had sensed when he watched her dancing in the street. A slight tug in his stomach, the curves of a smile working their way on his face, looking at her.
Because you never knew when someone could be wiped off the planet and disappear in the blink of an eye.

*

Hugo didn’t come down to dinner that night.
He didn’t come down for breakfast in the morning.
He didn’t eat lunch.
Isabelle had never quite realised how much emotion could be charged by a closed door.
Each time she passed his room, a new feeling would surface within her.
Anger. Curiosity. Confusion.
Pain.
But every day the door was closed, and she dared not open it.
Mama Jeanne had begun to bring Hugo’s meals to him, and Isabelle wanted to scream because the
real Hugo was brave and clever. He was courageous, and he was able to make her smile whenever
she was upset. He wasn’t an empty shell who needed to have his meals taken to him.
On the fifth day, Papa George talked to Hugo behind a closed door.
On the sixth day, Papa George took him to a brass-smith, to help him choose some special gears for
a new invention.
On the seventh day, when Papa George and Isabelle were out getting lunch, Hugo got out of bed. He
walked down to the train station, and let himself into the shop. And he began to tinker. To fiddle. To
improve.
To mend.

Notes:

Hope it answers a few questions and that's it's not getting too dark for you!

Lots of love,
mynameisqwerty

Chapter 6: The Catch

Hugo still wouldn't look directly at Isabelle. Not for long. They would talk, and it would almost be like old times, then he would check himself, and continue working, avoiding her glance for the rest of the day.
Most days, exhausted and confused from being ignored all day, Isabelle would find herself wandering down to "Le Petit Gateau." As Mrs. Amantine tried to feed as many cakes into Isabelle as she possibly could ("Too thin," she would exclaim, looking at Isabelle "Too thin!"), Isabelle and Claire tried to figure out what had triggered Hugo's brief depression, why Hugo still wasn't talking to her properly, and what Isabelle could do to get him back to normal as quickly as possible.
This last one, Claire insisted, is especially urgent for all parties involved. Not only for Isabelle and her suffering family, but also for Claire, who, she said, was being driven near insanity by Flora's constant queries as to when the "Nice Magician Hugo" would be coming back.

***
Hugo was locking up the shop when he felt someone behind him. He knew who it would be; it had to be her. He wasn't ready to face her but turned in spite of himself.
"Isa – oh,"
"Hello Hugo,"
It was Romilda.

***

Isabelle stirred her coffee nonchalantly, staring into the creamy, dark substance.
Benjamin's playing was slow and morose today. How fitting.
Claire leaned forward, over her steaming croissant, and took her hand.
"It's going to be all right,"

***

Romilda's face filled his vision, her perfume – a light rosy kind of smell – was nice but still slightly overpowering.
Her face – with perfect make-up – was waiting expectantly.
He realised she was expecting him to answer her.
"Er – Hello, Romilda,"
She smiled sweetly, showing perfect teeth.
"How are you? I haven't seen you in days!"
"Oh, well ... um" Hugo stalled for time, "I was ... um, working, at home,"
It wasn't lying exactly ... He had been working, on a very, very big problem.
"Hmm," Romilda looked concerned, "Well, I just came over to apologise for the other day,"
"What?" asked Hugo, nonplussed.
"Those little tin soldiers, I didn't mean to startle you,"
"Oh," Hugo nodded. It was coming back to him now. "That's all right."
"No, it wasn't," Romilda tucked a lock of chocolate hair behind her pale ear, revealing a delicate silver earring. "You lost a lot of time and money because of me, let me make it up to you,"
"Hmm," Hugo nodded assent, slightly nervous, he had a vague idea where this was leading.
"Let me take you out sometime,"

***

Isabelle and Claire laughed as they watched Madame Amantine chase Benji chasing Flora around the patisserie. Benjamin, sick and tired of playing the piano "for the customers," when the only "customer" was Isabelle, had started to chase Flora around the cafe instead.
Madame Amantine, trying to display all her qualities as a matriarch, had ended up hitching up her skirts and chasing after her offspring.
The bell tinkled, and everyone quickly snapped to attention as Flora ran and hid behind Claire.
Isabelle's heart sank to new lows as Romilda and her posse flounced confidently through the walnut door. They couldn't be here. Shouldn't be here. Not this place. Her one and only sanctuary.
Isabelle kept her head low, her eyes not leaving her coffee. Claire looked from the posse to her friend and seemed to understand immediately, turning her back on the new arrivals.
Romilda and the others could hardly fail to notice her, the only other customer, but it seemed they had other things on their mind.
"That was amazing Romilda, you handled him so well," gushed one girl.
"Yeah, you were great, Romilda," said another.
"He'll be yours in no time," This comment came from a blonde girl with a complicated and elaborate hairstyle that did not entirely hide the face that her golden hair was quite thin and wispy.
Romilda took a seat elegantly and waved at the other girls to sit down as well, as if she were used to being showered with unending compliments. She probably was. Isabelle wondered what poor boy had been snatched into her clutches this time.
"Please girls," Romilda drawled. "Enough,"
The others were instantly silenced.
Mrs. Amantine bustled over to them asking them what they'd each like to eat.
Romilda gave her a cold look.
"We'll each have a cup of your finest coffee," she said, not bothering to consult the others, "no milk and no sugar,"
Mrs. Amantine went to the back of the shop, not quite as bustle-y as before, a slightly forlorn look on her face.
Claire gave a disgusted noise and put on a face. " "No milk and no sugar," Honestly! What are they expecting to find in a patisserie? Salad? Fruit that's not covered in sugar and surrounded by pastry?"
Isabelle nodded in agreement. Romilda was talking again.
"Trust me, girls, in a few days, Hugo will be as good as mine,"
Isabelle stood up, so suddenly her coffee knocked over, spilling its contents all over the table. She took one look at Romilda and stormed out of the cafe. Romilda and the other girls looked at each other, giggling behind their hands.
Claire stood up as well, looking up in concern as her friend disappeared down the street, as brown liquid slowly seeped through the table cloth and dripped to the floor.

***

Hugo was tinkering with the automaton. A bottle of oil and gears were spread all over the holey, intricate lace covering a little table next to him in the living room as he carefully screwed the little man's elbow tighter. Even after all these years, the machine needed checking up and improvements almost every week. There was always something that needed doing. Hugo didn't mind. He almost took comfort in it.
The front door slammed, and Hugo jumped, glad his hand was outside the machinery.
Isabelle appeared, hands on either side of the doorway, her face streaked with tears. Hugo stood up in concern.
"Isabelle, what –?"
"How could you?"
"What?"
"How could you go out with that – that creature?"
Hugo was thoroughly confused now. What was Isabelle talking about? Isabelle was breathing heavily but had calmed down enough now that she could see how lost Hugo was. She closed her eyes, trying to clear her head.
"Romilda,"
"Ooh." Isabelle watched as Hugo made the connection. "No, but, Isabelle, no! It's not like that! She wants to apologise for the tin soldiers. That's all it is!"
Isabelle stood there, arms crossed, wondering whether she should push it or not. Was that really all Hugo saw in this?
"Well ... alright, I guess, if that's all she wants," Even though she knew very well it wasn't all that Romilda wanted. She looked at him a moment longer. "You better pack that up soon," she said, sounding a little more like the Isabelle he knew, "If Mama Jeanne finds out you've been working on the automaton without a protective mat again, you're done for,"
Hugo nodded and gave her a grateful smile, which she returned tiredly, as she went upstairs.

He had thought the reason behind Romilda's request had been entirely innocent. But now Hugo wondered. What was really on Romilda's mind? And why had Isabelle reacted so violently when she found out that Romilda had asked him? Hugo sighed and stared at the wall trying to answer his own questions as the clock on the mantelpiece ticked by ...

"HUGO CABRET!"
Mama Jeanne's furious voice broke through Hugo's thoughts. Hugo jumped out of his seat, realising too late that Mama Jeanne was back and he still had not packed up the automaton.
He looked at her guiltily.
"Hugo, I swear, if I find that thing, any of its parts or, heaven forbid, any oil in or on any of my living room, I will confiscate your toolbox for a month, and you can pay for any of the damages that god-forsaken oil will have left on my furniture!"
"Yes, Madame. Sorry Madame,"
She shook her head as he quickly packed everything up and sped upstairs. Hugo caught a glimpse of Papa George's face before he scampered up to his room.

The cheeky old man was chuckling to himself.

Notes:

Hope you like it. The ending's a little more light-hearted then usual so yeah ... C:

Comments and Feedback are ALWAYS appriciated!

Also p.s. I realise exactly how "meant to be" Hugo and Isabelle actually are, combine their names and what do you get???

...

...

...

Hugable!!

See! It's meant to be!

Chapter 7: Rain

Isabelle watched the rain splatter itself against her bedroom window as she listened to the radio, crackly and sounding far-off, though it was right beside her on her bedside table.
"And a reminder to all our listeners that the rain is unlikely to stop for some time, so remember to stay indoors as much as possible,"
Isabelle rolled over on her bed, trying to get comfortable. It was no use. She couldn't sleep. No matter how warm she felt, how cosy she felt, how safe she should have felt, she could not get rid of the slow nausea that threatened to flood her stomach. It was always the same in this kind of weather.
Fear.
Slowly she got up and drifted across to her bookshelf, perhaps if she read, if she escaped into the world of a book, she could calm down enough to fall asleep.
Her fingers flickered over the various spines of her favourite books, a kind of serenity already spreading through her, calming her beating heart.
A flash of light illuminated the room momentarily, and Isabelle scampered back to her bed, book in hand, already under the covers before the roll of thunder hit the room.
She tried to relax and enjoy her book but just as she felt herself drifting to sleep a crash of thunder woke her with a jolt.

*

Breakfast the next morning was an almost silent affair. No one had gotten much sleep last night, as was always the case when these violent storms came.
The constant weather meant everyone was kept indoors that day, and as the thunder and lightning continued through the day Hugo thought he saw Isabelle flinch every so often, dark circles tracing her eyes.

*

The day past in a tired daze for Isabelle who, with no sleep the night before, became snappish and irritable.
That night too, she tried to read but her attention span shortened as the rain lengthened, her eyes begging for release before being jerked awake by the sound like a shotgun, and Isabelle soon found that none of her own books could hold her attention.

*

On the third night, after finding no book in her own room could hold sway against her, Isabelle, desperate, her mind clouded by lack of sleep, snuck down the corridor and crept into Hugo's room.
Perhaps one of his books could entice her.
She crept past his bed, where he slept, dead to the world. He was curled over to face the wall, his gentle snores filling the room, his quilt twisted around him.
She envied him.
She squinted at the books on his shelf. Unlike her own bookcase, Hugo's bookshelf was messy and disorganised. Her books were carefully placed upright, squished next to each other for want of space and set alphabetically. Hugo's books had been stashed unceremoniously on top of one another, Verne right next to Proust, with no discernible order at all. His paperbacks were dog-eared, and various screws, gears, and tools were scattered over and in between the novels.
Isabelle squinted, trying to see through the dark and her own tiredness.
"Isabelle," the murmur woke Isabelle more thoroughly than anything.
Hugo had turned to face her, his face hidden in shadow. Isabelle froze, her hands on a book entitled "Les Contes de la Mythologie Grecque"* and she knew she had been caught.

Seconds that lasted eternities passed as she watched his body rise slowly, and then slump sharply back down to his pillow.
Isabelle breathed again.
He was still asleep. He had only muttered her name in his sleep.

She quietly continued to the door. She was almost out when she heard him mumble her name again. Confident this time, she continued on her way.
"Isabelle, what are you doing in my room?"

***

She stood there. Ghostlike in her pale nightgown, her skin deathly pale against her flushed cheeks and eyes now completely rimmed in darkness.
"Isabelle," Hugo repeated, his voice clearer now, unclouded by sleep, "What are you doing in my room?"
Isabelle turned slowly to face him. She looked flustered as if searching for an answer, when a flash of lightning broke across the room, and she cringed again, as he had seen her do before.
Hugo got up, he looked from the window to Isabelle, tired but also with concern.
"Are you afraid of storms?"
She avoided his gaze. "Not storms. Lightning. And the thunder keeps me up,"
"But these storms have been going on for – are you telling me you haven't slept for three nights?!"
She stared at him now, biting the lower corner of her lip nervously.
"Maybe,"
He looked out at the rain, shaking his head slightly, "and you've been reading all this time ... because you can't sleep ..."
Isabelle nodded again, watching carefully for his reaction, as he continued to stare out the window. The pale glow of the outside street lamps lit his face, the rain-stained window casting glimmering shadows across his face, giving the illusion that the water outside was speckled across his face, almost like tears.
He seemed lost in thought, contemplating something. She flinched again as another flash of lightning made its way across the room. His eyes flickered back to her face, uneasy.
"Do you want to try to sleep here? I mean, in my bed. With me. Would that help?"
He was looking up at her, through his eyelashes, and at that moment he looked so nervous, so afraid that she might reject him, might take his request the wrong way, so striking that she almost ran up to him and hugged him, right there and then. As it was, she contained herself to a small smile, and she saw the tension in his shoulders relax instantly.
"I think it might help," she said softly, "That's what I used to do when I was younger, I used to sleep in Mama Jeanne and Papa George's bed. I thought I had gotten over it. I thought I wasn't afraid anymore, but the truth is that there simply hasn't been a storm as tempestuous* as this one in years. I didn't want to go in there this time, though, because I thought ..." she faltered, "I thought they might think ..."
"That seventeen was too old to be afraid of lightning," Hugo supplied for her, and she nodded.
He stared at her and then said suddenly, "There are some things, I think, that you can't outgrow," and she smiled at him gratefully.
He turned towards his bed and got in, then twisted back towards her, opening the quilt to her. "So, um, do you want to get in?"
She nodded.

The bed dipped slightly, and then, suddenly, she was right there, right there in front of him. Her eyes had circles so dark they looked bruised, and somehow the deep contrasts that created in her face, even though he knew she wasn't well, made her even more beautiful than usual.
Not that he allowed himself to think like that often.
However, he knew he needed to ask one more question if he was going to get any sleep tonight.
"Why?"
"Hmm," Already she seemed calmer, as she closed her eyes.
"Why are you afraid of lightning?"
She opened her eyes with a shudder. "It's the idea of what lightning can do more than anything else. It's so sudden and unpredictable. It only appears for a second, but that second can kill someone. With no warning. That scares me. Even when I'm safe, it terrifies me,"
Hugo nodded as he felt her shift her body so that she was cocooned in his arms.
"I ..." He began, but he was broken off by the soft, steady breathing of Isabelle. Already, she had fallen asleep. He gave a small half-smile down at her, glad she had found peace and she could sleep at last.
He was almost glad she had fallen asleep before he spoke. He hadn't been entirely sure he was ready to tell Isabelle his own fear that night, and now, he didn't have to. Still, however unbidden, the thought of them came to them. The one thing he hated above all else, for all the memories they brought. Rats.

***

"Papa! Papa! Papa! It's here! It's here! Come on!"
Papa came through the door, walking. Not running like Hugo expected him to. But by then it was too late.
"You missed it. It ran away again!" Hugo crossed his arms and frowned at his Papa. It was his fault. Papa, instead of looking ashamed like he should, grinned down at him.
"You know Hugo; all small creatures will run away if large creatures are being particularly noisy. You must be careful and quiet, like the animal you are seeking. Not jump and shout like an elephant. Think how small it is compared to you."
Hugo looked down at his shoes, ashamed. "Sorry, Papa. I just thought we might have been able to get it this time."
"It's all right. But come, I have something to show you,"
Hugo followed his father down into the basement cellar. A small hole had been made in the wall. Papa put his finger to his lips, and Hugo nodded understanding. Hugo leaned forward to see through the hole ... and leaped back, disgusted.
"Papa! There are little monsters in there!"
And there again, Papa was trying to hide his laughter. Hugo frowned at him.
Papa's face straightened. "Those are not monsters, Hugo! Those are rats! Baby rats with their mother. Do you see? That rat we see above in our house is father to all these. He is the provider. If we kill him, then the whole family would die,"
Hugo frowned. "Would that really be a bad thing. I don't like rats that much,"
"Hugo. No matter how much we might dislike something, that dislike does not give us the right to kill it. Every soul on this earth has a story and a family, no matter how small they are. Or ugly. Or scary. Or just because we are bigger than they are."
Hugo was feeling uncomfortable again. But he still wasn't too keen on the idea of having a family of rats living with them. "Could we just remove them then?" Hugo asked. "Would that be okay? Take them out to a forest or something? Where do rats live anyway?"
Papa smiled at him. "Yes, I think that would be okay. Let's see if we can catch that other one. Just catch, mind you –"
Hugo was already racing up the stairs.

***

Hugo smiled at the memory. He realised he had been gently tracing Isabelle's outline in the dark. Her hair, her cheek, her shoulder, all gently coming under his touch.
He drew his hand back.
He looked around the room, empty and dark, thinking of his father. The Provider. He had died. And so too, just as he had said, a part of Hugo had died with him. Never to return. Never again would he be as innocent and carefree as he had once been.
Hugo closed his eyes in pain and guilt as he thought back to those first months with his uncle.

How he would rather spend his paychecks on his drinks, which he found harder to steal than food. Or rather, he taught Hugo to steal for him. How his uncle, once the food was in his grasp, would guard it, putting locks on all the food cupboards, keeping the key, delegating food rather than letting Hugo choose it for himself. How he had punished Hugo for letting so much as a crust of bread out in the open unprotected, usually with a beating. How he hadn't understood.

***

Hugo was organising the jars on the bench when he heard a scuffle to his right. A sort of scratching sound. He turned and saw a rat. A rat so painfully thin that its ribs were showing and little tufts of fur was missing from its coat. Pity swelled in him for the creature.
Hugo took out a crust of bread from his pocket, which he had been planning on eating later when he was doing his evening rounds of the clocks. Deciding the rat needed it more than he did, he carefully knelt down and carefully tossed it to the middle of the floor.
The rat bounded to a corner, but then carefully, cautiously, it weaved its way towards the bread. It sniffed it tentatively. And then suddenly grabbed it in its jaws and scampered away.
The rat came back the next day. And the next. And the next. Slowly but surely getting better. Hugo grew fond of the little creature. It was playful and adventurous and soon grew to trust him.
One evening, as Hugo was kneeling down, now able to feed the rat out of his hand, his uncle came back. Earlier than usual.
Hugo watched fearfully as his uncle stood there, not moving, filling the doorway.
In a sudden jerkish movement his uncle swooped down and grabbed the rat. Around the belly and under the legs so that it couldn't bite him.
He walked back out again, and Hugo did not know he wanted him to follow until his uncle yelled back at him. "Come boy! Come see what happens to parasites like this!"

They walked and walked. Right down to the River Seine. Hugo stamped his feet in the cold and dark. His uncle looked down at him. His eyes were full of quiet fury, and Hugo wondered what would happen next.
Then his uncle threw his rat out into the river. Hugo cried out, but his uncle held him back. "Don't be a fool boy! Do you want to drown!"
Hugo bent and squirmed trying to get free, but it was too late.
He watched as the rat twist in the dark water. Squealing terrified as the water engulfed the small body.
Hugo slumped, his energy gone. His uncle let go of him and began walking back towards the station.
After a long time, Hugo followed him.

When he got back, his uncle was waiting for him.
"How much food did you waste on that creature?"
Hugo looked up at him, his face streaked with tears. He did not answer.
His uncle got up. "I asked you how much food did you waste, boy!"
Still, he would not answer.
His uncle turned his back on him and brought out a loaf of bread, tearing off a small chunk. "This much?" He asked holding the piece out for Hugo to see.
Hugo stared at him a moment longer before murmuring, voice hoarse, "About that,"
"About that, eh? For how long?"
"About that every day, once a day, for two weeks,"
His uncle nodded again. His face looked deep in thought.
Hugo wondered what was coming next.
"Well," his uncle said suddenly, "best be getting to bed Hugo. You've got a big day tomorrow,"

The next day, his uncle handed him his breakfast. It was the knob of bread he had broken off the loaf the night before. Hugo looked up at his uncle confused, but his uncle looked straight back as if saying, 'Well, are you going to eat it?'
Hugo ate it.
That day, his uncle didn't give him lunch or dinner.
Hugo collapsed into his bed, exhausted from his day of work.
The next morning his uncle gave him breakfast again. A small knob of bread.
And again, he would not give Hugo any lunch or dinner.
Day after day Hugo pushed through his exhaustion. Climbing all the stairs of the train station, winding the clocks. Sleeping whenever he could to preserve his energy.
Day after day it went on, until, two weeks later, his uncle didn't give him breakfast.
Hugo looked at him in protest. His eyes were almost bug-like in his face, he had lost so much weight. But his uncle either ignored him or took no notice.
That day Hugo didn't return until late. He didn't see the point. After he had finished the clocks he knew his uncle would feed him no lunch, and so he climbed to the tallest tower, looking out over Paris and wondering what on earth he was doing there, when all he felt like was an extra part.
In the end, though, he had to come down. He couldn't sleep there.
When he opened the door, he nearly cried out in joy.
On the table, untouched and at his place, was an entire loaf of bread. He raced to the place. Then looked up at his uncle, would he allow it? But the bread must have been put there by him, and his uncle gestured for him to go ahead.
Hugo eagerly sat down and began tearing at the bread, slightly stale though it was, he felt he had never had anything so delicious.
His uncle watched him almost hungrily.
"Now you know," He said softly. "Don't ever feed a rat. It will always come back for more."

The bread suddenly felt dry in his mouth.

***

Hugo looked down at Isabelle, unshed tears glistening in his eyes. But he would not cry.
Carefully, so as not to wake her, he put his arms around Isabelle and held her. Because she was here. She had found him. She had taken him away from that place. She saw him for all that he was, all that he could be.

It was at that moment, so long ago, two weeks after his rat had drowned, that Hugo first began to see how his uncle saw him. A rat. A parasite. Indeed, he believed the only reason his uncle hadn't gotten rid of him, the only reason he had come to fetch him in the first place, was that Hugo could do things for him. Like doing the clocks and stealing their food. Things that put his uncle in the line of fire.

Notes:

· Les Contes de la Mythologie Grecque – this is French for "The Tales of Greek Mythology." It is a homage to the original book "The Invention of Hugo Cabret" by Brian Selznick where Isabelle's (and then Hugo's) favourite book is one of Greek Mythology.
· tempestuous – tumultuous, turbulent, of the nature or resembling a tempest.

 

God, I hope you like it ... Too me it seems too sappy and then far too emotional at the end ...

What are your thoughts?

Chapter 8: Waking

When Mama Jeanne woke that morning the first thing she noticed was the golden, watery sunlight streaming in through the window, illuminating the room in a game of shadows.
The storm was over.
She sighed gently with relief and got out of bed, careful not to wake her husband, who was turned the other way, as she moved toward the armoire. It was early yet, and nobody else would be awake. She slipped on a black dress, polka-dotted with small white spots, bought years ago at a Wednesday Market Day. She then went upstairs to check on her charges, as she often did in the morning before starting to make breakfast for the family.

She had been worried about Isabelle lately. Jeanne knew her dislike for storms and had seen in Isabelle's face that she had not been sleeping lately. Carefully, she pushed open the door.

The room was empty.

The bed had been left unmade. Books were scattered across the floor.

Mama Jeanne stood, one hand gripping either side of the doorway, her left higher than her right. Where was she? She swept a glance around the room once more, then looked out along the landing.

Hugo's door, which he always closed at night, was ajar.

She made her way to his room, perhaps a little less carefully than before. She peered in.

Hugo was in bed. He wasn't alone. His arms were wrapped in a careful embrace around Isabelle, whose head rested on his chest. Isabelle looked more peaceful than Mama Jeanne had ever seen her. Hugo too looked calmer; now she came to think of it.
Quietly, she closed the door on them. She was very glad it had been she, and not George who had found them. All the same, it was better to ensure that Papa George did not go up until Isabelle came down.
There was no doubt in her mind that Hugo and Isabelle's night together had been completely innocent, but she could not vouch that Papa George would not jump to conclusions the moment he saw them both together.

She made her way downstairs and began to prepare her family's breakfast so that it would be hot when they came down.

.

Papa George had already been awake when his wife got out of bed. Not wishing to worry her, he had pretended to be asleep.
George Melies was tired. Fatigued was a better word.
He shouldn't be. By all accounts, he had had a good night's sleep, but the thought of getting up made him want to bury himself deeper and deeper under the quilt.

He roused himself eventually, his feet fumbling over each other as he made his way to the ensuite bathroom.
He splashed a little water over his face, hoping to wake himself up. He inspected himself in the mirror; it's edges speckled lightly with black spots. Dewdrops of water clung to his beard. His face had a rouge quality that will have died down by mid-morning. And ... was it his imagination ... or was there a slight yellow tinge to his eyes ...

.

Isabelle woke up sleepily; she felt deliciously warm. She suddenly gave a start as she realised where she was. He head was full of Hugo's musky, sweet scent as she looked up at him from his chest.
She hadn't dreamt at all last night, but she didn't mind, and now she felt refreshed and rejuvenated.
Ready to start a new day.
It slowly entered Isabelle's head that she didn't know what time it was, and that worried her for a moment. She looked over at a pocket watch, hung on a leather strap on the wall, a habit Hugo had retained from his days in the walls.
Seven o'clock.
Wanting to stay, but knowing breakfast would soon be ready (she could already begin to smell it) she got out of Hugo's bed.
She folded the quilt back over him, and stood up, looking at his face. Then, on impulse, she bent over and kissed him swiftly on the forehead. She straightened slowly, a faint tinge gently spreading through her cheeks, as she walked out the door towards her own room to get dressed and ready for the day, confident that neither Mama Jeanne nor Papa George knew about what had happened the night before.

However, from that moment Isabelle knew.

That she was irrevocably, irretrievably, deeply in love.

.

Hugo woke to find his bed disappointingly empty. He had hoped to find Isabelle still lying there. Still, he supposed, better to not have her found here.
He got out of bed, the wafting smell of breakfast already enticing him downstairs. He dressed quickly and, hands in pockets, he went down the stairs in a kind of gambling gait.
While usually mornings were a tired and irritable blur for Hugo, this morning he was feeling uncharacteristically optimistic. "Particularly chipper," his mother would have called it.
He came into the kitchen and kissed Mama Jeanne on the cheek.
"Morning Hugo," Mama Jeanne said, surprised. There was something else in her gaze as well, but Hugo did not stop to contemplate it as he grabbed an apple and sat down opposite Isabelle.

Time, which had seemed a little fast ever since he woke, slowed to normal pace once more as they stared at each other, eye contact broken only by Mama Jeanne's arm as she set crepes at each of their plates.

.

Mama Jeanne looked between the two, unnoticed by either, curious, could she say even slightly excited, as to what the day would bring.

Notes:

Hope you like it.

Comments always appreciated

Notes:

* Remora – an obstacle, hindrance or obstruction