He was hungry. This was England. Roasting oxen and warmed bread - that's how it used to be at English country fairs. Now it was all vegetarian, creeds that offended him deeply.

He shrugged lightly and moved around to gauge the extent of delicacies on offer. Darkness had only just fallen and he was in no hurry - happy to feel, if not part of the crowd, then at least in contact with life; not merely humanity, but life itself and the music that rose around him, so vibrant, invasive. It pleased him greatly.

He moved on, admiring the scenes before him. His stomach muttered discontently, reminding him he had to fill the void. A tall, dark woman passed by, her cinnamon-scent lingering. He'd follow if she were alone.

The lights stung his eyes with their glaring intensity. Maybe he was getting too old for all this frivolity. He cast around for an option, and almost blundered into a burger stand. He shuddered at an abomination surpassing tinned spaghetti and, reeling away from the hideous stench, quite literally stumbled into a small, one figure.

Engrossed in the contents of her purse, the young woman was unaware of his presence until she looked up, face blushing. She was an open invitation, wild emerald eyes and flawless skin.

"Oh, pardon, Monsieur," Her voice was oddly childlike in her surprise at his appearance.

He bowed and smiled, anticipating a treat he hadn't thought to find in Britain's wilderness. It didn't matter where he found himself, it would always be hard to beat a good French red. 1