Co-written with villains-doitbetter

Claude Frollo had read the letter once. A man can read "bury" and "his wife" only so many times. The effort to read the letter alone was arduous enough.

Staring down at the unfolded letter, his reading glasses began to blur. It was then he realized his eyes were welling with tears. He blinked, allowing them to fall into small blots upon the parchment. The ink blurred while the memories defined.

Melody, his housekeeper, was still waiting for her next order at the door. Had she noticed him crying? He wasn't certain.

Clearing his throat, Claude staunched his emotions like an extinguished flame, pinching the bridge of his nose in attempt to feign exhaustion, but really to wipe his tears.

"Very well," he sighed, sitting up in his leather chair. "Write a correspondence. Tell him I'll be taking my leave soon enough. Have Kitty help you with my wardrobe and Mr. Collins will load them into the coach if they are too heavy. I want everything packed. Everything." If he agreed to wait until winter passed before returning to Paris, he would need to make means for himself. Perhaps a village doctor, delivering babies or cooling the common fever. He'd think of something.

"Yes sir," Melody replied in her tiny voice as she curtsied before leaving the study.

He took this moment of solitude to remove his glasses and scrub his face with his hand. Tiresome as he was, he needed away from this house and this city, no less. It pained him to reside here within the walls, to stare out the window of streets he and his wife strolled together, or to gaze upon the river where he watched her count ducklings and small fish.

The lot of the area around him was stained with these images. Happy ones. Hilarious ones. Solemn in others when they were unable to conceive. How was he supposed to recover when everything around him ripped him open again? Though he hadn't eaten in hours, his stomach churned and twisted. He feared he may be sick with grief.

By midday the housekeeper and her maids had readied Claude for his travels. His traps were stacked neatly within the rear boot and tied down to withstand the jostling of the journey.

Having dressed into a warmer and more suitable attire of black and a plum colored tie, he settled himself into the cargo after alerting the driver their destination.

Before they could embark, Melody, as incessant as she was, came bursting from the front porch with a heap of fur in her arms.

"Monsieur!" she called, rushing towards the coach, "For comfort!"

She beamed as she opened the door to his coach, and threw the rug across his lap.

"How thoughtful," Claude muttered, allowing her to tend to him. It was certain the drive would be a frigid one. Claude was so desperate to leave he hadn't taken in account comfort amidst the cold.

"Safe travels, Monsieur." Melody wished, stepping back to shut the door. She returned to the steps and began to wave him goodbye.

Claude nodded curtly, waiting until his manor was out of sight before throwing the rug onto the opposite bench. This act of consideration was done innumerable times to his wife, the gentler of the two. And it panged him for Melody to remind him of that.

Now, he not only needed to escape Paris, but his staff as well. He could hear them reminiscing about his beloved to themselves, wrenching again at his heart to remember.

Glaring tearfully at the bundle of fox fur, he thought of Mr. Collins, his driver. The driver's box was opened to the elements and far more unforgiving by all account.

After careful consideration, he decided he'd give the large pelt when they made their first stop to grease the hubs.

Only because it was something Myriam would do.

Beynac-et-Cazenac was a southward trek, approximately five hundred and fifty kilometers from his establishment.

Having never been to his brother's estate of practice, it was a far stretch from Paris which, he knew, was replete of people, businesses, and every possible convenience available. Beynac could very well be of the same magnitude, though Claude doubted it, considering the breadth he was having to make to reach the estate. He knew only very little of the area. For example, he knew it was well within the countryside and hugged the banks of Dordogne river. To that, the extent of his knowledge. His brother only briefly described his home—A little piece of Eden, by his words.

After several days en route, Claude finally reached the outskirts of Beynac-et-Cazenac to its rolling hills, crowned with trees that would have billowed in the breeze had they been in full bloom. Regretfully Claude waited until winter to grace himself the long needed company of the countryside, but winter could not steal away its charm. The sight, even amidst a time of decay, was still beautiful to behold.

As expected, he saw the river, wide but not rabid, follow the winding migration around a craggy cliff. The crest of the cliff held a most impressive chateau. Claude wasn't aware of any noble families within the area and sat back bemused with wonder. Perhaps the hearing of his arrival would grant him a visit to whomever resided within the stone walls, he hoped.

The driver steered off from the small town, following a dirt road hemmed with barren trees coated in fresh snow. The birch trees lined the side like soldiers standing watch as the carriage rattled and groaned down the worn path and beyond that, straight ahead was a building of pale stone and dark roofing.

Claude had finally reached the asylum.

Chateau Beynac was in bedlam.

Not administratively, Jehan thought, not yet at least, but most certainly in the morgue.

The blood. The sloppy incisions. The inability in it all.

Despite that he took the necessary precautions, he still had stains on his frock coat. Unnoticeable by the lot, but nevertheless, still a problem and improprietous. Such work seemed to prove so inconveniently messy.

A death with a lunatic asylum was expected.

Whether an old bird finally made its last song or a chick, living too fast and carelessly, meeting an untimely demise.

It was really all the same for Jehan, the institution's lead alienist.

Glancing between hands sooted in coagulated cold blood, he grimaced.

Then casually glanced at his pocket watch, almost marring it with the mess among his hands.

His brother, a renowned Parisian surgeon, was en route to Jehan's estate. The thought alone stirred giddiness and wonder. Things would go much smoothly with the companionship of his elder, and only, brother. And given the state he would be in, he would have no qualms in assisting Jehan in his endeavors.

Another wave of elation sent his heart soaring into the heavens.

Stepping back from the operation, he sighed satisfactorily.

It was time to clean up.

Claude would be arriving soon.