Who: Lucy and Nicholas Where: Moulin Noir When: Sunday, 7pm Rating: PG I'll say.
One thousand four hundred thirty-six. The number had burned itself onto the inside of Lucy's eyelids so that it was all she saw when she closed her eyes. 1,436. Dead, the whole lot. It was numbing, really. She had nearly cut her finger off with scissors that morning, but even as the blood flowed ruby red onto the newspaper in front of her, the pain never really seemed to come. The bottle of brandy that had been full yesterday morning was nearly gone now, and Lucy took the last of it before heading out to meet Nicholas.
He was the first one she had thought of when she saw the headline about the London attack. Not only was he the only British company she had in Paris (or all of France, for that matter), but she imagined that he had to be in a bad way about it, too. The walk to the Moulin Noir seemed relatively quick with everything going on in Lucy's crowded brain, and she hurriedly muttered the password before being ushered inside. Her eyes scanned the somewhat empty club for her companion. Upon not seeing him she chose a small table near the back corner of the place, lighting up a cigarette as she waited.