earlgreytea68 | How Fortuna Saved the Universe (3/24)

Title - How Fortuna Saved the Universe (3/24)
Author -

earlgreytea68
Rating - General
Characters - OCs
Spoilers - Through "A Christmas Carol," just to be safe.
Disclaimer - I don't own them and I don't make money off of them, but I don't like to dwell on that, so let's move on. (Except for the kids, they're all mine.)
Summary - Fortuna gets her story. And it's pretty timey-wimey.
Author's Notes - Huge thanks to Kristin,

chicklet73 , and

lorelaisquared , who all talked through plot points and gave early drafts once-overs. And, last but not least, everlasting thanks to

chicklet73 for beta-ing, with flair.

The icon was created by

swankkat , commissioned by

jlrpuck for my birthday.

Prologue - Ch. 1

Chapter Two

Fortuna tried not to rely overly much on psychic paper, but, truthfully, she wasn’t sure she’d get into the culinary school she chose without it. L’Ecole Parisienne was the most prestigious culinary school in Paris, and she knew she didn’t need to go to the most prestigious culinary school in Paris, but, well, she’d always been fascinated by it. It sat in Montparnasse, surrounded by buzzing cafes. There were more charming areas of Paris, but she had always liked Montparnasse, not just for the culinary wonder, which her father had first taken her there for, but for the train stations, because Fortuna had been born a wanderer and loved train stations. L’Ecole Parisienne was near enough to the train stations that the comings and goings were evident, and near enough to the cafes that food was constantly in the air, and Fortuna had loved it: its protective scroll-y gates hugging the building and its central courtyard, unusual in that area of the city, the green patina on the equally unusual copper roof, the way it sat in the shadow of the Tour Montparnasse and didn’t care at all.

So, when she had decided that she needed to be in Paris, and she had decided that her excuse would be culinary school, she decided L’Ecole Parisienne was the only culinary school she was interested in. And, because she wasn’t sure she could get in, she used the psychic paper.

She could have gotten a flat but that seemed silly. It seemed a little bit like wearing one’s knickers on the top of one’s head. One could do it, but why would one? So she parked her TARDIS in an alley near the school on the first day and tried not to be nervous. She would like culinary school, she told herself. She had always liked cooking. And she had always been good at it. Maybe not Michelin star good, but good enough. She’d be fine.

She was still nervous.

After a while, you got used to running for your life, it stopped being scary. It was this standing very still that could be the scariest thing of all.

She squared her shoulders and walked through the gate and the bright, cobbled courtyard, into the building. She had never been inside before. The lobby was soaring. It was done in dark marbles, but there were so many windows with so much light pouring in that it didn’t seem dark. And, in front of her, a grand staircase rose up to the second floor. There were people in knots, catching up with each other, their laughter bouncing off the marble. She was in L’Ecole Parisienne. For a moment, she felt slightly giddy, and she took a moment to revel in the feeling, standing in the doorway.

Someone bumped into her, and a male voice said, “Oops. Pardon me. Didn’t see you there, should have been looking up.”

She edged aside, saying, “No, that was my fault, I’m blocking the—” She turned, and found herself face-to-face with the man who had collapsed in front of her in the street that day. Same wide brown eyes, same thicket of dark, luxurious hair, same strange, not-tweed-maybe-tweed coat, which he was wearing over a plain T-shirt. She fell silent, staring at him.

“Not at all,” he said, with a brief smile, and then he stepped around her. His eyes went back to the piece of paper he was holding, and he moved quickly up the staircase, at a jog, without a second glance at her.

She stood, frozen. She had intended to come to Paris to hunt for this man. She knew it was true, even if she hadn’t quite said it out loud. He was tangled up with her future, and she’d wanted to know why, and why she had stumbled across that future in the first place, since potential paradoxes like that were seldom entirely accidental. She supposed she should have expected that he would literally run right into her, but it was amazing nonetheless.

Instinctively, she started up the staircase after him, but a voice called, “Excuse me! Miss! Have you checked in?”

Fortuna turned her head and blinked at the woman at the desk in confusion. She looked severely disapproving of Fortuna walking up the staircase without checking in.

“I was just…” Fortuna indicated the staircase.

“Only students are allowed into our school,” the woman clipped out.

“I’m a student,” Fortuna protested.

“Are you? Really? I’ve never seen you before. And I know every student here.” The woman settled a leveling glare onto her.

Fortuna whipped out her psychic paper. “Here,” she said, annoyed, stalking over to the desk, “is my acceptance letter.”

The woman pulled out glasses and peered at the psychic paper.

“It says here your name is Fortuna Tyler,” said the woman.

“Yes,” Fortuna agreed. “That’s my name.”

“It is not familiar to me. This letter is forged,” she announced, definitively. Fortuna had the impression that she was about to whip out her finger and shout J’accuse!

“Forged!” Fortuna exclaimed, hotly. “How dare you imply that I—”

“She’s with me.”

The voice startled Fortuna, who had been so deeply embroiled in the disagreement with the unpleasant woman that she had not realized that he was back, the mysterious man her future self had referred to as Sylvain. He was only halfway down the staircase, but he was looking at her with a curious expression on his face. Not an expression like he thought he knew her, but an expression like her couldn’t figure her out.

“With you, Sylvain?” echoed the woman. Surprise made her voice very high.

“Indeed.” Sylvain jogged lightly down the staircase and turned to the woman. “We discussed this, Madame Richaud, remember? My cousin, from England. The one who makes the most divine escargot?”

“An Englishwoman who makes divine escargot?” sniffed Madame Richaud. “This I must see.”

“Which was exactly what you said when we first discussed her, and you said you would put her on the roster for the next semester, and then you clearly sent her a letter of acceptance but neglected to put her on the roster.”

Madame Richaud stared at Sylvain. So did Fortuna.

“Oh, I…I suppose you must be right.” Madame Richaud sounded dazed. She looked down at her roster in obvious confusion.

“Excellent. Now that that’s settled. If you could please give my cousin her orientation packet, I’ll be sure to accompany her to the welcoming address.”

“Of course. Of course.” Madame Richaud, with a great deal of nervous paper-fluttering, provided Fortuna with a thick packet of materials. “So sorry for the confusion, Miss Tyler.”

“That’s quite alright,” Fortuna replied, primly, and accepted the orientation packet.

“Splendid. This way, dear cousin.” Sylvain placed a hand at her elbow and, with a little wave to Madame Richaud, guided her up the staircase.

Fortuna, a bit at a loss, said, perplexed, “Thanks.”

“Not at all,” responded Sylvain, in British-accented English. “I’m Sylvain San Broglio.”

“San Broglio. British accent, French first name, and a last name that’s…?”

“And your name is Fortuna,” he countered, instead of answering the question. “What sort of a name is that?”

“The same kind as San Broglio,” she rejoined.

He laughed. They had reached the top of the staircase, and they were standing now in front of an open set of doors that led into what was clearly a lecture hall. “Here we are,” he said, pleasantly, gesturing to the room. “Welcoming address.”

“What was that all about?” asked Fortuna.

“What?”

Fortuna lifted her eyebrows instead of further explaining.

“Oh,” he said. “That. Well. It is my firm belief that a school should never turn away a beautiful woman.”

“British accent, French manners,” remarked Fortuna, dryly.

Sylvain laughed again. “What’s it matter? Consider it an apology for running into you in the doorway.”

“How did you know I was English?”

“Tyler’s not a French name. It was a gamble, really, but it paid off and it got you into the school. And, now that you’re here, you really shouldn’t miss the welcoming address, it’s helpful for people who have never gotten into this school to learn a little bit about the place.”

“I did get into the school. I have an acceptance letter.”

“You weren’t on the roster,” Sylvain pointed out.

“That was some sort of mistake.”

“Of course it was.” Sylvain smiled. “Dear cousin.” He sketched a strange little bow and turned away.

“Wait,” Fortuna said, before she could stop herself. “Aren’t you going to the welcoming address?”

He stopped walking and turned back to her. “I’ve already been welcomed. And I’ve got something else to do. Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.”

“Except for the fact that I can’t cook escargot. I cook many, many things very, very well, but never escargot.”

He grinned. “Don’t worry, I make quite excellent escargot. Welcome, Fortuna, to L’Ecole Parisienne.” He sketched another silly bow, and then turned and walked off briskly.

She didn’t call him back this time. She stood in confusion. Here she was in Paris, having met Sylvain at the right point in her timeline, and he seemed to make even less sense.

She would have followed him, except that she heard the welcoming address beginning, and truthfully, well, she had time to figure out the mystery of Sylvain San Broglio. In the meantime, she was a student at L’Ecole Parisienne.

In a manner of speaking.

Next Chapter

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Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

azriona.livejournal.com

First? HA. Yes, First. I'm never first. Except now I am. Yay me.

After a while, you got used to running for your life, it stopped being scary. It was this standing very still that could be the scariest thing of all.

Oh, how very true. And oh, how very mysterious. I have a guess for who Sylvain is, but of course I'm very wrong. (I'm guessing he knows Fortuna already, and that their relationship is more timey-whimey than she thinks. I have an idea how, but it's so crazy I'm not going to put it here; I'll keep it in my pocket for later.)

And clearly, Madame Richaud is very well set not to like Fortuna at all. Adversaries are excellent. :)

Edited Date: 2011-02-17 01:28 am (UTC)

From:

dqbunny.livejournal.com

I'm starting to think think timey-wimey in the River Song manner myself.

(no subject)

From:

earlgreytea68.livejournal.com - Date: 2011-02-17 03:18 am (UTC) - Expand

(no subject)

From:

earlgreytea68.livejournal.com - Date: 2011-02-17 03:16 am (UTC) - Expand

From:

hence-the-name.livejournal.com

Wow. I don't know that I've ever managed to comment this high up the thread before, even if I'm not first.

But more importantly, yay! And the plot thickens. I'm most puzzled...

From:

It depends on my mood

How Fortuna Saved the Universe (3/24)

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