Chapter One: Auberge de Mosaïque

She looked at me through frosted, stained glass eyes as she whispered, "the Mosaic Inn is no longer open."

My heart plunged down to my toes before the words ever reached my ears. I could see past the girl's thin silhouette that the inn, or at least, the remnants of the inn, was dark and bitter; the glorious, mahogany mantel that was implanted with gold was cracked and gloomy, the magnificent fire that once sustained its comfortable climate now permanently extinguished. I could feel the unfriendly chill of the wrecked inn creeping out to greet me, even colder than the inches of snow that I was situated in.

I wondered about the miniature Botticelli paintings that once adorned the high ceiling. I always loved a high ceiling, and I didn't know what kind of damage this one could have possibly withstood. The thought of it being injured even slightly projected thoughts of suicide. Honestly, I forced myself to believe that they remained unharmed, even in the midst of all the rupture inside the rest of the inn. The ceiling, at all costs, had to be untainted and perfect. I had no interest in being corrected; I would not look at the ceiling.

"May I see the ceiling?"

The fragile girl's chin fell as she stared at me in amazement. "I haven't met a soul who ever knew about the beautiful ceiling. Since the plague, everyone moved out, and by the time people came back and I was offered a job here…"

Her voice trailed off, but I knew the rest of her sentence. The inn had lost its tenants rapidly during the revolting epidemic that no doctor could cure, or quarantine, for that matter. When the city repopulated, this girl was hired to attract residents again and help them get settled inn, but there were grander hotels being built, and no one cared to inhabit this gorgeous piece of art. Today's society did not want to live in a piece of art, but a luxury condominium with five-star room service.

"The ceiling," I reminded her.

Sorrowfully, she led me into the waiting room, where I strained to pin my eyes to that lovely, lofty ceiling with its paintings that mimicked Botticelli's and it's grandiose, mahogany arches. They matched the mantel of Mosaic's grand fireplace.

"Mon Dieu!" I cried. Not even a fraction of the splendor that that ceiling once bestowed remained; the plaster of the frescos was chipped and crumbling, leaving trails of dust where birds had flown in and pecked the fingers of both Adam and God away for their roost. I wished to crumple up on the weathered, marble floor that once hosted the rhythmic feet of dancers at so many festivals and balls; I longed to lie there and weep for my beautiful haven, my lover, of sorts, that I used to love and cherish with every piece of my fragmented soul. The sight of despair ripped my spirit into bits, because most of my contented youth was now infected with this new, ghastly vision. Only one other thing lingered on my mind.

"Is Marjorie still here?" I wondered aloud.