The aroma of freshly-baked croissants and rich dark coffee wafted up the stairs, almost strong enough to counteract the stench of Monsieur Toulet’s cigarettes. I shut the door on the bathroom, clutching my clothes in one hand, toiletries and towel in the other. The narrow hallway was carpeted in plush maroon shag pile, at odds with the era of the building and my feet sank into the pile as I walked to the room I was sharing with Emma.
I’d suffered through a sleepless night, at odds with Emma whose quiet snores had accompanied my worried fretting. While I’d come to no definite conclusions regarding Perrault’s outlandish claims, I hadn’t been able to disregard one irrefutable fact.
A statue had come to life.
There was no getting away from that one, and I twisted the doorknob on the room I
