It was raining in the mountains of France.
Not a downpour, but a fine, steady drizzle that was quite gloomy and mysterious.
Clouds obscured the peaks, hiding them from view of the people shopping and eating lunch in well-to-do Paris.
High in the mountains, near to the treeline but not quite there, a small log cabin stood off the cobblestone road in the pines.
Half hidden by fog, the cabin was not easily visible from the road. In fact, if you were just walking by on a day like this, you could very well miss it completely.
Water dripped off the delicate bluebells growing on either side of the gray stone path and wisps of cloud skimmed the rough cobblestones before drifting off the cliff edge to float down the steep greenness of the mountain.
The windows of the cabin were glowing with light from the oil lamps and the fireplace, and inside a teenage girl sat on the only bed, perusing the contents of a ragged brown rucksack.
She was a stranger in this odd parallel world, France being the one place on this planet that resembled where she came from.
It was not her country of choice for the sole reason of its looks, however; it was also the best hiding place she could find, as she was from England in her own world. The peaks of France seemed to her the best place to hide. She pretended to be an artist in her mid-twenties under the false name of Angelique Levesque.
From the rucksack, she pulled out a compass, several stiff and yellowing maps, a worn book with a brown leather cover—a diary, she assumed—and a handful of tarnished coins.
The rain slowly grew heavier until it was pouring steadily.
She had decided to look at the diary first, but no sooner had she picked it up than a folded note fell out. The note wasn’t written on the old, yellow paper of the diary pages, but on clean, white, new paper.
Intrigued, she opened it, taking care not to tear it.
Her heart skipped a beat as she recognized the long, spiky handwriting. Her eyes raced over the note, her heart beating faster and faster as she read.

You know where I am.
Bring all of it and meet me as soon as you get this.
I can’t say more in case this is intercepted—be wary.
You know what to do.
Love, A

She threw everything back in the rucksack, snatched a first aid kit and a sweater, and glanced around the little cabin as she strapped her knife to her belt.
She eyed the revolver, but knowing it would be useless as a stick where she was going, left it.
She yanked the laces of her tennis shoes tight and looked around one last time.
Seconds later, Marie Thibault stepped out into the downpour.
Her black hood hid her face and her right hand hovered near the long knife at her left hip, the rucksack over her shoulder, and the note clenched in her left hand.
She had been waiting for this moment for two years. She was ready.
Marie was not a teenager as she walked to the top of the cobbled road, the bottoms of her jeans dragging in the puddles.
She was a warrior.