"Remember from dust you came and to dust you shall return."

            Somewhere in Paris, Marguerite crossed herself and stood up, having received the ashes from the priest on her forehead.

            With a glance to the stained glass Madonna and Child above the altar of the small chapel, she turned and moved back towards her seat, making room for the other parishioners to take the place she had occupied kneeling in the front of the church. A mother, with head covered, accompanied by a small boy kneeled at the rail where she had been. The young woman tried desperately to keep the boy still long enough for the priest to make the sign of the cross on his forehead, but he squirmed away and escaped back to his pew.

            His father is probably at the Front, she thought to herself. Then, taking a morbid turn mentally: Or, of course, he could be dead.

            She continued her walk towards the back of the little church, past a shriveled old woman holding a worn wooden crucifix close to her heart and silently repeating the prayers for each bead.

            She passed men too old (and boys too young) to fight.

            She passed mothers and wives weeping.

            She passed far too many young girls holding close the letters they had last received, hoping against hope.

            It all made her sick to her stomach.

            She also passed more than a few off-duty German soldiers (not to mention the few stationed in the back of the church with guns to make sure nothing got out of hand), most of whose heads turned to follow her in her walk towards the back.

            She glared at them. Sick dogs.

            Instead of turning back into the pew she had occupied, Marguerite continued straight back out of the sanctuary and into the foyer of the church. She retrieved her coat and scarf from the rack. She was disappointed that she could not stay for the remainder of the service, but timing was everything these days, especially for her. Especially in Paris.

            Stepping out of the church and down to the street, she looked around, pulling her coat closer around her. It was unusually cold for this time of year.

            A nondescript car turned a corner onto the narrow Paris street and stopped next to where she was standing. The driver spoke through the rolled down passenger side window.

            "Everything set?"

            She nodded, opening the door and climbing into the car.

The driver pressed the gas.