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that in the bookshop on the Left Bank where the cherry trees stood?
    With a nervous flutter in my belly, I said goodbye to my books, and silently wished them well, hoping that if a customer stumbled upon them while I was absent they’d be cherished.

Chapter Three
    The sun bobbed in the blue sky, making me squint. For October, it was warmer than I’d expected, more so than Ashford. It was as though the city of love had pulled out all the stops on my first morning here. The air was fragrant with promise. I rifled through my backpack, searching for sunglasses. My face was split with a cheesy grin.
    I was really here! Paris!
    And so far, I’d hadn’t been snatched, mugged, or even scammed, as Mom had warned me about four million times before she kissed me goodbye. Rolling my suitcase along, stifling a yawn, I made my way to a ticket booth to ask where the train station was.
    I had to catch the RER train to central Paris, but I’d been swept along in a throng of people, and unsure of which way I was meant to go. Somehow I’d ended up outside, and couldn’t contain my joy. I wanted to jump in the air, kick my heels together, and screech
Bonjour, France!
Instead, I smiled and trundled forward. Fatigue tried to catch me, I’d stayed awake for most of the flight, as excitement pulsed through my veins making sleep impossible. I shook the lethargy away, promising myself a nap before starting at the bookshop. The time difference made my head spin – but I was here, and that was the only thing that mattered.
    A raven haired woman, chewing gum in the same repetitive pattern,
click, blow, pop
, eyed me with feigned disinterest as I approached the counter. “
Oui
?” she said.
    I dropped my backpack to the floor, and leaned close to the glass.
    I hastily found the train timetable, and pointed. “
Où est
…” Where is – how did you say train station? I flipped through my French phrase book.
    Before I could find it, she popped her gum and said in English, “The train station is that way.” She looked over my shoulder to the next person, signaling she was finished with me. I wanted to laugh, she was so French!
    “
Merci beaucoup
,” I thanked her, feeling foolish that my accent was so jarring compared to the words that fell from her tongue in a silky cadence.
    Hefting my backpack on, I wheeled my suitcase in front and made my way to the platform. The sign was a maze of different colored lines crisscrossing all over the place.
Shoot.
It was a complicated web, how on earth would I pick the right one? I’d expected one freaking train! My research hadn’t stretched to public transport, and again the size of the place hit home.
    Overhead on the PA a French voice rang out, announcing something, but speaking so quickly I couldn’t untangle the words. I blew out a breath, maybe Sophie’s French lessons wouldn’t be enough here – unless people spoke to me like I was a five-year-old, with laboriously slow enunciation. Behind me people hurried along, bumping into me and jostling me out of the way. A train approached, its motor screeching, and brakes grinding, so loud it was like a drawn out scream. I turned in fright, but no one took any notice. Open mouthed, I watched crowds exit the newly arrived train, and others elbow their way on, in one big gorging mass of bodies, and bulky accoutrements.
    As fast as a click of fingers the doors shushed closed, and the train was off again. I double blinked. Why was everyone in such a hurry? Where did they all come from? One minute the station was empty, then full of bustling bodies, then empty again. Somehow I had to pick the right train to head into central Paris, and then squeeze into the damn thing.
    Could I push my way forcefully like everyone else including grappling with my heavy suitcase and backpack? Why did I smuggle so many books into my bag? The weight of them slowed me right down, despite the wheels on the bottom of my case. It’s not like I was going to a place bereft of