Having never before left the island of her birth, Ishara had very little appreciation for what an undertaking it would be for her to travel to the United States. A ferry to Liverpool. A train to London. A flight to New Orleans. And finally a cab ride to the French Quarter.
She’d gotten very little sleep during the entire trek mostly due to first-time traveler’s anxiety.
Ishara was downright panicked on the flight. Suffocated by the smell of jet fuel and bodies in a plane that felt impossibly small for the length of the trip. She internalized every bump and jitter of turbulence until her stomach was churning. During a particularly bad episode, she’d grabbed her neighbor’s arm and gasped through fingers splayed over her mouth. Though she apologized profusely to her seatmate, the middle-aged business man frowned at her and grumbled under his breath every time she begged his pardon to get by and rush to the bathroom to relieve her nausea.
After deplaning Ishara took her time in the refresher at the airport. She unwound her hair which had been braided so it wouldn't tangle. She brushed it out and let it fall in waves over her shoulders. She changed from heavier winter clothes to a lighter outfit. She chose an eggplant colored turtle-necked sweater dress paired with a cream cloche hat and modest t-strap kitten heels. The outfit would seem somewhat unseasonable to locals who insulated themselves with full coats and gloves against the “cold” of New Orleans winter. Though to Ishara the weather in the southeastern United States was considerably warmer than where she’d come from.
She paid the cabbie to drop her off in the French Quarter and she meandered the streets letting herself get carried along by the flow of foot traffic. The cool air felt refreshing on her exposed legs in comparison to the stuffy plane.
Ishara delayed in heading to her final destination. She hadn’t really planned out her course of action for after she arrived to the U.S. And instead of working that out, she ruminated about her parents, who she knew would be furious with her when they found out where she was and more importantly, what she had done and was going to do.
She’d been secretly reading her father’s diplomatic correspondences. Then she’d called the airline he’d booked passage with and pretended to be her father’s secretary to change the ticket from his name to hers. Then she’d taken off to America with some choice documents in her possession that her father had been using for political leverage.
Oh yes, her parents would be down right pissed when they found out she had snuck away in the middle of the night and crossed the Atlantic Ocean without permission. Not that a twenty-odd year old woman should have needed permission. But under the circumstances such behavior would only fuel her parents’ ire.
She really had no excuse for her behavior. Except that she was just really curious about certain things. Certain things that should they turn out in her favor might gain her some notoriety as a healer. So really curious. And very ambitious. Never mind that she’d be the saboteur to her own father’s political machinations. Such things would be par for the course for the troublesome young woman.
Ishara had written the address out on her hand before leaving home. She had also committed the general content and intent of her father’s letters to her memory and took a few notes on details in a leather bound journal. The papers containing the information at stake - the whereabouts of a certain body of interest - were hidden in a removable compartment in her suitcase for safe keeping. The suitcase was an impossibly unfashionable old thing. The unsightly cracked grey leather clashed terribly with her bright outfit. It was a right embarrassment for her, but it was the only one her father owned - stealing her father’s only suitcase, yet another line item for her growing list of transgressions - and wouldn’t be replaced until it was falling apart.
The ink detailing the address on her palm was a little worse for wear after her long trip, so Ishara couldn’t be sure whether she were approaching the correct residence. She breathed in through her nose, exhaled sharply, straightened her back, brushed out her dress, and knocked authoritatively on the door.
She knocked longer than what would be considered polite, distractedly squinting at the smeared ink on her palm trying to make out what was nearly hieroglyphics at this point.
Bitch, I'm limited edition.
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Paper Trail [Closed] - by Blade - 09-04-2016, 08:15 PM
RE: Paper Trail [Closed] - by Blade - 09-04-2016, 10:10 PM
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