Chapter 3
1512 Words
The Palais Garnier was a swirling vortex of gold leaf, marble statues, and people who looked like they had never stepped in a puddle in their lives. Julian led Siena toward the grand staircase, his hand gripping her elbow with the intensity of a man escorting a high-value prisoner.
"There," Julian hissed, nodding toward the VIP entrance. "The guest list is being handled by a man named Etienne. He has the memory of an elephant and the temperament of a wasp. If he sees me, he’ll alert Elena’s security immediately. We need to move when the crowd surges."
Siena nodded, but her "human tripod" walk was attracting attention. With every step, the floral wire in her hem hit the marble floor with a distinct, metallic tink... tink... tink...
"Siena, you sound like a grandfather clock," Julian whispered through gritted teeth.
"I’m just establishing a rhythm!" she whispered back.
As a group of boisterous Russian philanthropists moved toward the door, Julian pulled Siena into their wake. They reached Etienne. The man looked up, his gaze sweeping over Julian’s tuxedo before landing on Siena’s eucalyptus-adorned head.
"And who is... this?" Etienne asked, his French accent dripping with disdain.
"She’s a... performance artist," Julian blurted out. "The 'Spirit of the Dying Forest.' She’s part of the evening’s silent installation."
Etienne peered at the green florist’s tape peeking out from under Siena’s sash. Siena froze, offering a wide, unblinking stare that she hoped looked "artistic" rather than "terrified." Etienne sighed, waved them through, and went back to his list. They were in.
The Grand Foyer was sweltering. Three thousand candles and five hundred bodies had raised the temperature to a tropical level. Elena was visible at the far end of the room, surrounded by a wall of tuxedoed security guards and adoring fans.
"Okay," Julian said, his brow beginning to bead with sweat. "When the orchestra starts the first waltz, the guards will rotate. That’s when I make my move. You stay by this pillar and—"
He stopped. A strange, sharp smell was beginning to waft from Siena’s general direction.
"Do you smell... pine?" Julian asked.
Siena’s eyes went wide. The industrial-grade green florist’s tape, designed for cool refrigerators and damp stems, was not rated for the 85-degree heat of a Parisian ballroom. Under the velvet, the adhesive was beginning to turn into a warm, slippery goo.
"Julian," she whispered, her voice climbing an octave. "The 'Spirit of the Forest' is currently undergoing a structural liquidation."
"What?"
"The tape!" Siena gasped, clutching her side as a distinct pop echoed from her ribs. The tape holding the side of the dress together had reached its melting point. The gap was widening.
"Hold it together!" Julian commanded, looking panicked as he saw Elena beginning to move toward the balcony. "I’m ten feet away from a conversation! Do not let that dress fail now!"
"I can't stop physics!" Siena hissed. She tried to shift her weight, but the rigid wire in her hem caught on the edge of a heavy gilded catering table.
As she tried to untangle herself, the heat did its final, cruel work. The main adhesive strip along her waist gave way with a sound like a giant Band-Aid being ripped off a hairy leg.
"Oh no," Siena breathed.
The dress didn't fall off—the wire hem was too stiff for that—but it did begin to rotate. Because she was no longer taped into the center of it, the entire blue velvet cylinder began to slide clockwise around her body. Within seconds, the eucalyptus headpiece was the only thing still pointing forward. The front of her dress was now facing left, and the gaping, broken-zippered side was exposing her polka-dot thermal leggings to the entire French aristocracy.
"Julian!" she squeaked, spinning in circles like a cat chasing its tail, trying to catch the front of her own outfit.
Julian looked at Siena—now a whirling dervish of velvet and wire—and then at Elena, who had just turned around and noticed the commotion.
"Is that... Julian?" Elena asked, her voice echoing across the foyer. "And is that the girl from the boat... wearing a hedge?"
Julian froze. For a split second, the polished investment banker within him considered fleeing to the nearest exit. But then he saw the security guards’ heads turn toward the spinning blue velvet disaster that was Siena.
This was his window. It was paved with polka-dot leggings and the smell of pine resin, but it was open.
"She’s a genius!" Julian suddenly shouted, projecting his voice over the whispers of the elite crowd. He gestured toward Siena, who had currently managed to get her wired hem hooked onto the leg of a passing waiter’s champagne tray. "It’s a commentary on the rotation of the earth and the fragility of our ecosystems! Witness the spiraling decay of the forest!"
The guards, confused by Julian’s authoritative tone and Siena’s frantic spinning, hesitated. Is she supposed to be doing that? Is this art?
While the entire foyer watched Siena perform what looked like a struggle between a woman and a haunted sleeping bag, Julian slipped through the security line. He caught Elena by the wrist just as she was retreating toward the private terrace.
"Elena, wait," he pleaded, his voice low and urgent. "Look at her. Do you really think I would hire an assassin that looks like a discarded Christmas tree? I came here to tell you that my life is a mess without you. It’s chaotic, it’s uncoordinated, and apparently, it’s held together by florist’s tape—but I love you."
Elena looked at him, then back at the center of the room. Siena had now successfully tripped, and because of the rigid wire in her dress, she didn't just fall—she tipped over like a felled oak, her dress remaining a perfect, upright cylinder while she lay horizontally inside it, legs kicking.
"Julian," Elena whispered, a tiny, reluctant smile twitching at the corner of her mouth. "You’ve brought a disaster to the Opera."
"I brought the girl who ruined the proposal because she’s the only one who knows how much I want a second chance," Julian lied smoothly, though he was mostly just trying to survive the night.
The romantic tension lasted exactly four seconds.
"Monsieur! Mademoiselle! This is enough!" a booming voice echoed.
Etienne, the wasp-tempered gatekeeper, had arrived with two members of the Police Nationale. They were looking at Siena, who was currently attempting to "inchworm" her way across the marble floor toward a pillar, still trapped inside the rigid velvet tube.
"The 'Spirit of the Forest' is not on the permit!" Etienne shrieked. "And the 'Spirit' is currently leaking adhesive onto the 19th-century parquet!"
"Wait!" Siena shouted from the floor, her voice muffled by the velvet. "I can explain! It’s a structural liquidation!"
One of the officers leaned over her, his hand on his handcuffs. "Mademoiselle, you are a fire hazard. And your 'foliage' is a violation of the Palais security code."
Julian tried to step forward, but Elena’s security team finally snapped out of their trance and blocked his path. He watched, helpless, as the two officers hoisted the rigid blue cylinder—with Siena still inside—upright. Because her feet were still tangled in the wire at the bottom, they had to carry her out like a roll of expensive, thrashing carpet.
"Julian! Tell them I’m an installation!" Siena wailed as she was carried toward the grand exit. "Tell them about the rotation of the earth!"
The last thing the elite guests saw of the "Spirit of the Dying Forest" was a pair of polka-dot ankles kicking wildly from the bottom of a midnight-blue tube, followed by the clatter of a eucalyptus branch hitting the floor.
~~~
The Commissariat de Police in the 9th Arrondissement was a far cry from the gold-dusted ceilings of the Opera. It smelled of stale coffee, industrial floor cleaner, and the lingering scent of pine resin that seemed to follow Siena like a curse.
Julian stood at the front desk, still in his tuxedo, looking profoundly out of place. He had spent the last three hours explaining to a very skeptical French sergeant that the "blue velvet cylinder" currently in holding was not a terrorist threat, but an employee.
When the heavy iron door finally groaned open, Siena emerged. She was no longer a "Spirit of the Forest." The rigid wire hem had been confiscated as a potential weapon, leaving her dress limp and dragging. The florist’s tape had been replaced by a borrowed police windbreaker that was four sizes too large.
She looked up at Julian, her eucalyptus headpiece now dangling over one ear like a sad antenna.
"Did you get the girl?" she whispered.
- Writer
