Snow lashes the windshield as I pull into the roadside motel near Grotte aux Fées. Rally day’s grind over, tomorrow’s stages call. Dump duffel in lot, swipe keycard at desk. Beep. Room 12, second floor. View over frozen pond and jagged rocks, wind howling corridors. TV blares wanted posters: Anastasia, nun who allegedly bashed her mother superior. That face from ten years back. Can’t shake it. Grab chapka, head out into whiteout.
Blizzard bites balls. Clairière deserted, branches clawing sky. Shout her name. Nothing but crows cawing. Heart pounds at snow lump: igloo scrap, habit-clad form inside. Bare sandaled feet, pulse faint. Hypothermia deep. Sling her over shoulder – lighter than memory. Back to 505 rally hack, backseat quilt, puffy jacket pillow, heater maxed. Dodge cop barricades on backroads, verglas dancing tires.
The Stopover
Room keycard swipes. Carry her in, door thuds shut. Peel sodden habit. Nothing under: gaunt ribs, shorn blonde stubble, white stockings, red garters framing blonde bush. No tease – starvation’s mark. Fill tub hot-not-scalding, elbow test. Strip her fully, dunk. Shivers start, good sign. Towel dry, mound blankets on bed. Phone doc pal Daniel: ‘Hand injury.’ He slips in, checks: no breaks, just frost. ‘Feed soup, no meat. She’s veg from convent hell.’ He ghosts out.
Coridor snores filter. She stirs, eyes flicker. Hands grip me. Anonymity pulses – transit ghost, gone at dawn. No names needed yet. Lips crash, tongues urgent. She’s fire under ice.