Author's Note: I wish I didn't have to write this disclaimer-I realize that I probably have my readers' trust-but I've seen too many good fics go downhill after the first few chapters. So here goes: This story is absolutely not turning into FrolloxOC. That's all I'm going to say for now; I prefer to let the story speak for itself.

Musical Recommendation: "Bachen Bene Venies" by Modo Antiquo (search for micrologus2 on YouTube). A good old medieval drinking song.

Margaret's gaze roamed over the board in search of the fastest way to let Frollo win. If she moved her king one space to the right, she would be in the path of his bishop. That would end the game, and they could both go to bed.

"Oh no you don't," he said, moving her king back to the safe position.

"I thought you're supposed to beat me."

"You can't move your king into danger. It isn't permitted."

Margaret sighed. Of course he wouldn't bend the rules, just this once. At least they were speaking again. "Do you think Lady Agnes is alright?"

Frollo peered at the board and rubbed his wrist. He wondered how she dared suggest that he hadn't followed his mother's condition with all solicitude.

"Do you really think she's well enough for a ball?" Margaret asked, referring to the celebration Lady Agnes was planning in honor of her rescue. "That's an awfully bad cough."

"No doubt the city atmosphere does not agree with her. I told her she needed rest, not a fortnight of commotion over a wasteful amusement. To no avail, of course."

Aware that she was responsible for the commotion, Margaret decided to change the subject. "Who was she talking about just now?"

"Just when?"

"She said I reminded her of someone you know."

Frollo turned away from the board, although it was his turn to move. "I can only assume she refers to my brother, Jehan."

"I thought you had a brother!" Margaret thought back to golden Sunday morning masses at home. She was a child, and wore her hair loose. When no one was watching to scold her, she would perch on the gravestones and watch the parishioners enter the gray archway with measured steps. Among them every Sunday was Lady Agnes, accompanied by young Frollo and a tow-headed boy not many years older than she. She had always liked him, even though he foiled her attempts to gain the attention of his elegant, black-haired older brother. In her world of close family and servants, Frollo was the only person who seemed neither to know nor care who Margaret was or what she thought about anything. The more he ignored her, the more he fascinated her, the more his merry companion responded to her smiles and curtsies, as though he were picking up a toy ball she tossed in their direction. She had even once heard him call her "his little admirer." She wondered what he would say all these years later, when she told him the real object of her attentions. "Will I perhaps get to meet him soon?"

"He's been dead these eleven years."

Margaret's mouth, uncertain what to do, began twitching into an awkward grimace. She bit her tongue to stop it. "I'm so sorry. I think I saw him years ago, when I was young. He was always smiling-"

"He was debauched, a profligate."

Margaret searched for a solemn reply, but instead found herself smirking and snapping back, "Quite unlike his brother, I suppose."

Frollo stared, uncertain whether it was in Margaret's nature to be arch. Her tight, mischievous smile confirmed his fear. She was flirting with him.

Catching his stern gaze, Margaret looked down at her lap. "I'm sorry. That was very improper."

Frollo was too absorbed in contemplation of the fireplace to notice her apology. "I did what I could to restrain him-I was practicing law in Paris when he was at the University. We roomed together, and I saw his companions, the way he spent his days. I knew it would be the death of him. I told him as much, a thousand times."

Margaret began to ask what happened, but changed her mind and closed her mouth. Even if it were the right thing to ask, Frollo was too distant for her to reach. He seemed to be reading the fire, the way she had seen one of the gypsy women scrying in a crystal ball.

"The night of his death, I endeavored to keep him at home. But his companions had organized an entertainment of sorts-a crew of gypsies, some men but mostly women. They spent the night carousing, while I attempted to keep working over the din." He didn't tell her how he had at length put aside his books and descended the stairs, with determination to drag Jehan away and turn the rabble out at sword point. How one of the gypsy women had taunted him and dragged him into the circle, where he found himself flanked by drunken scholars who jostled him as though he were part of the dance. In that moment of confusion, haggard and lax of mind after hours and days of study, he had felt a passing thrill of sinful frivolity, had almost longed to be one of them, to throw all his books and parchment into the fire and follow the ragtag band into the night. Then one of the gypsy women threw her arms around his neck and kissed him on the cheek. Overcome with shameful delight, he hid his face from their laughter. After that, they had no more use for him. They danced out into the night, taking their music with them-the warbling voices of the students, the jingle of gypsy tambourines, the beguiling strains of the viol. Frollo stood alone in the wreckage left behind, nursing a wormwood bitterness.

He turned back to the chessboard and moved a piece at random. "My brother never returned. A night watchman found him, felled by a blow to the head. The gypsies responsible were never arrested." He did not share with her his memories of the night they found the body, when he stalked out alone on foot to the gypsy camp outside the city walls. He found one of their campfires unattended, burning low but steadily enough for his purposes. He adored fire, so useful and yet so beautiful. A gentle, contained domestic fire had a charm all its own, but his real fascination, his delight, was for the fire set by his own hands for a purpose, to consume and purify. Once again in his mind he watched the wagons collapse in ashes while he crouched in the dark thicket, sword in hand, waiting for the next gypsy to flee the bonfire.

He started at the realization that Margaret was repeating his name. "How did you know it was the gypsies?" she asked.

"What?"

"I mean, you said he was with friends. I suppose they saw the gypsies do it?"

Frollo sneered. "Those 'friends' of his were never seen again, to my knowledge."

"Did anyone think . . . that is . . . could they have done it?"

Frollo frowned and rubbed his temple, as if trying to coax patience out of it. "My dear, when one has a band of gypsies connected with such a crime, one need not look further. I should hardly expect you to defend them. But of course, they did return you to us unharmed. No doubt living among them for some time has clouded your perception. It is not an unheard-of phenomenon, to develop some loyalty, even attachment to one's captors."

"Oh, I wasn't defending them. I just didn't understand."

"Naturally. But they were not inordinately cruel to you?"

"No, quite the contrary-"

"They feared my retribution if they should abuse you. And you're quite certain you know nothing of the place they kept you?"

Margaret squirmed and recrossed her ankles. This was the third time he had broached that subject. Twice before Lady Agnes had told him to stop importuning their guest with questions she couldn't answer. Each time, Margaret said nothing, not even about her suspicion that she had been kept somewhere underground. Whenever Frollo mentioned gypsies, Margaret saw Esmeralda's jewel-green eyes and heard her whispered pleas. It pierced her to think that someone like Frollo could be so convinced of the right, yet threaten those she knew were innocent. She wondered what would happen if that sense of duty were ever turned on her. She pretended to be absorbed in the chess game. "Oh! Check."

Frollo tried to recreate the last few moves to determine how such a thing could possibly have happened. Even though he had the excuse of distraction, he was disgusted at the thought of Margaret gaining the upper hand.

Margaret avoided looking at the board, as though it represented a faux pas on her part. Whatever she did, she felt like an imposition on her savior and host. She toyed with the ruby pendant he had given her that still hung round her neck. "I suppose we'll be hearing from my mother soon. I wonder if she'll come in time for the ball." She thought it best not to speak of her father. When she had first arrived at the Palace, she had diplomatically mentioned "my father" by the hour, until Frollo began to glare at the very sound of the word "my." She resigned herself to wait on his judgment. No doubt he was doing the best he could to help his future father-in-law.

Frollo pursed his lips. It was in that very room not two nights past that he read his mother a letter from Lady Bertaut, recounting Margaret's disappearance and expressing the hope that Margaret had sought Frollo's aid, as her mother suspected. She closed with a prayer that Frollo would look kindly on the family until the truth of Lord Bertaut's fate should be revealed. Notably, she said nothing about her location, and the messenger himself had received the letter from a stranger. After reading it, Frollo and Lady Agnes had together agreed it would be prudent to shield Margaret from the family disgrace and keep her in Paris. No good could come from bringing her mother there and strengthening Frollo's connection to the traitor. Frollo wasn't entirely sure that Lady Bertaut hasn't sent Margaret to him on purpose to persuade him in their case. No doubt she trusted in Margaret's supposed romantic hold over her betrothed. Ignoring Lady Agnes's halfhearted protests, Frollo had tenderly consigned the letter to the fireplace.

He smiled condescendingly at Margaret. "I highly doubt your message to her could travel so quickly this time of year. I would prepare for rather a long wait." Margaret folded her hands and nodded. "Checkmate," he intoned.

Margaret exhaled and stood up. The wooden feet of her chair scraped over the stone floor. "Well played, Your Honor. Thank you for teaching me how to play. I hope to be a better opponent next time."

Frollo's condescending smile became more strained as she passed to his side of the table.

"All this time, I haven't been able to properly thank you for rescuing me," she said. "I realize now what you must have gone through, trying to help me, knowing what happened to your brother."

Frollo was no longer smiling. He stared at Margaret the way so many commoners had looked up at him when he pronounced their sentence from the bench.

"May I take the liberty?" she asked. He didn't have time to reply or defend himself. While he sat bewitched, she leaned in, and placed her lips on his cheek. For many years, all he had felt there were his mother's tepid, dry kisses. He had not felt the firm, moist warmth of a young mouth in years, not since the night of Jehan's last revel. A lock of her hair tickled his neck. It smelled like violets-a clean, light fragrance compared to the heady sweetness of his mother's rose water.

He didn't see how she left the room. He only realized at length that he was again alone. Long into the night, he struggled to decide whether the pounding in his temples signified anger or some other feeling with which he was less familiar.