epernay

It’s such a small town there is no welcome sign announcing their arrival, no emblazoned Welcome to Épernay. In fact, he has no idea he’s arrived until he parks in a nearly empty lot save one rundown sedan and enters the inn to inquire after where he is.

Épernay. 

Was it really so simple? Where was the dividing line, the hellfire, the metal spikes he had to pass through, when so long this had seem so unacquirable, so impossible - 

was it so easy for him to stammer over his words, stumble as he asked about the nearest vineyard, only to have the man behind the counter laugh huskily and gesture outside, remark amusedly in thickly accented French, 

“take a good look around, man, it’s all vineyard out here.”

So Victor begins to visit them, one by one. He pulls into long driveways and up to short gates, knocks on doors and with a sheepish smile and a wave of his fingers, asks after Katrina, and time and time again, he is turned away.

And he begins to wonder. Perhaps she never made it out here after all. Perhaps she had lied. Perhaps he was mistaken. Perhaps he would have to return to London after all, having failed again, back to that terrible flat, back to being watched like a hawk. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps…

he pops a painkiller, ruffles Gloria’s ears, and pushes the car open. The sun is setting. He watches the colors fade on the horizon from purple to orange, and then stands fully, groaning slightly at the strain on his already stressed legs. Gloria jumps out of the car and he shuts the door, limping his way up the slightly winding beaten path past trellises covered in vines, and rests his knuckles against the door.

He breathes in, deep and slow, and knocks.

Then Victor closes his eyes, and turns away, lacing his fingers at the back of his neck, bracing himself.