From the hallway Ethan Chandler can hear her conversing in French. She speaks quickly, like birdsong, and the rich ebbing and flow of her voice is melodic and velveteen; as rich as a finely hewed tapestry.

He has always had an ear for languages - he can speak fluent Abenaki, and more than conversational Ehressaronon, from his time amongst the Indians. Both from when he lived amongst them as brethren, and then after as a killer of those same men he once called friends.

Now in this strange house, which felt so alien to him at first, he watches a woman - one of the bravest he has ever known - nibble a piece of Sembene's cake for breakfast and gossip, in giggles and sighs, with her French maid.

He can see her, just beyond the half closed door, as she prepares herself for the day. Already she has been dressed, her gown of the the darker fabrics she favors so strongly, and her face, pale and nude, but for a soft blush creeping, pink and enticing, across her cheeks. As he watches, she cuts the edge of her silver fork across the surface of the cake. There is a slight chink of sound as the metal hits the round China surface, and then she lifts it, slow and languorous, to her mouth. She barely chews, but he can see her lips curling upward, just the slightest bit, as she takes in the taste.

When the maid exits, they startle each other. She is quick excusatory curtseys while he stumbles a step back against the wainscoting of the hallway wall. "Excusez-moi, s'il vous plaît." He amends. The teacup in his hand rattles. Already its grown tepid from the time he's stood watching her. "For Madame," he goes on.

She gives him another quick curtsey and moves away quickly. He cannot tell if she is frightened of him, or leaving quickly to allow her mistress privacy.

"Ms. Ives," he announces, wrapping his knuckles against the wall beside the open door.

She doesn't turn. Instead she looks up, meeting his gaze in the reflection of her mirror glass. "Mr. Chandler." The smile lights her face.

He gives the teacup in his hand a bewildered stare. "Your tea. Sembene forgot to add it to your tray... He asked that I bring it to you."

Her smile widened. "How kind." She stood, her hand stretching out. When she took it from him their fingers brushed against each other ever so slightly.

"My apologies," he continued, studying the floorboards. "For not being able to accompany you to Mr. Gray's ball last evening, I..." Ethan cleared his throat. "Was unavoidably detained."

"It's quite alright," she assured him. "I understand."

She turned away slightly, all he could see now was her profile and the intricate style of hair that her maid had just arranged. "I just don't want there to be any hard feelings between us... Had I not already...well, made plans... I would have been delighted to accompany you."

Cocking her head, she studied him and revealed a slow, languorous smile to his ever watchful eye. "I've learned something very interesting about you recently."

Ethan gulped painfully, and his exhail of breath came out as a sputtering cough. Had Sembene told her of his change last night? Had she come to see him like that? As he truly was.

Vanessa laughed at his embarrassment. "Nothing terrible, Ethan. I assure you."

He watched her, expectant, yet still apprehensive.

"My maid was actually just telling me - your surname 'Chandler' I've been told where it originated from."

He brightened slightly. "My surname..? I've never thought about it."

Ethan could tell by her face that she had guessed that. "It's an old English name, my maid tells me."

He interrupted her with a grin. "Your French maid told you this."

Vanessa swatted his arm in irritation. "Yes, my French maid."

"Alright, an old English name. Go on."

"Well," she continued. He could tell that he had embarrassed her. "Apparently it means candle maker."

Ethan couldn't help the blank look from filling his face. "Candle maker...?"

She giggled. "I thought you might find that amusing."

He queried the room. Saying 'candle maker' to himself before plucking one of the tallow candlesticks from their base on the fireplace mantle. He rubbed his fingers over it. "Fine workmanship, if I do say so myself."

Vanessa's giggle turned into a full laugh and he smiled.

"How about 'Ives' then? What does your surname mean?"

"Well," she began. "According to my father it's an old French name that dates back to the Conquest." She laughed again. "It means bow from a yew tree - possible a title for an archer who specifically used that type of weapon."

"Hmm..." He scratched his head. "A candle maker and an archer."

She fought to control her laughter. "That's us, alright."

"Ms. Ives?"

"Vanessa, please."

The same conjured the image of a lush full petaled flower blooming to life. "Vanessa, I couldn't help noticing that you'd finished your breakfast of...cake. Might you allow me to bring you another piece, and perhaps one for myself so that we might..." He cleared his throat, "...enjoy Sembene's culinary feats together?"

"I would be delighted, Mr. Cha-"

"Please," he cut her off. "Call mine Ethan, or if not, I think I prefer 'Mr. Candle Maker' now."

She reached out her hand to him, and it was almost as if they were being introduced for thee first time. "Ethan. Of course."