----------------------------------------------- Paris,
Île Saint-Louis, April 1799 -------
Waiting, and actually a good bit more unsettled, Adeláire crouched on a rooftop on the other side of the river, staring as if hypnotized over the Café Théâtre. She still could not understand the Council's decision to continue to rely on Dorian. They had even advised to leave her camouflage, and to simply be who she was. Assassin of the Paris Brotherhood, and one of the few women among them. She scolded herself as a stupid girl, as she spasmodically ceased her nervous habit, clinging to the buckles of her over-knee-high boots. She took a deep breath and swung herself down into the street. The Council had decided and instructed her. And unlike Dorian, she never questioned the Council.