It wasn’t hard for her to look out of place and foreign in a city that was so different from the one that she had come from. She stared and gaped at cars, sometimes fell silent when somebody approached her with the intention of talking, and there were instances when she threw out words in French, forgetting that most of the people around her spoke English. It was during moments like this, that Marie-Christine could be thankful that she knew the common language associated with America and the men and women who now surrounded her. She had to admit that it would be horribly difficult for her if she had no idea how to communicate.
When the girl approached her she hoisted Mathilde higher up on her hip, but didn’t try to coax her into looking up just yet. She quickly took notice to the appearance of the stranger and with doing this she realized that she was considerably more at ease. She couldn’t have been much older than she was. Actually, they could have been the same age, and the slayer thought that perhaps they were.
She offered a smile that may have looked considerably uneasy. She was still heedful and fairly disoriented, but she didn’t feel threatened by the other teenager’s presentation. She had always been a capably judge of character, had always been able to see past masks and artificial intentions. It was a skill that kept her alive, and one that she wasn’t about to ignore.
“Oui, I am,” she answered. “And the child is called Mathilde.”