Two months following her recovery, and she never thought she would set foot in this place again. It's not too late to turn around, Lena. Go and don't look back. This advice echoes in the young blonde's conscience, but she didn't listen. There was a time when I once avoided this place like it carried the plague for me, she thought, marveling at the estate's crumbling beauty. It bodes nothing but bad memories for you, and yet, here you are.

"Here I am," she responded to her inner voice bitterly. God knows the bloodshed that has been on the castle ramparts and soaking into moss covered grounds the past few years, ever since Jehan's death. The townspeople won't go near it, they think it's haunted, and they think Madellaine insane for daring to set foot in her old house, her old haunt.

But I'm not. Not anymore, though. No longer will I hide from this place. I can't run from these demons anymore. Madellaine over the years had come to crave the experience of the nighttime, when the stars kiss the sky, decorating the heaven's above like the most exquisite of jewels. It was here in Geoffroi's study that she discovered her thirst for life after sunset, seeking ghosts and whatever else preferred the world without the glare of the sun. In this shadow less black, her ears are perfect, her senses heightened. This once glorious castle has succumbed to the weather of countless years, the cold stone stoic in each passing storm.

Once fully into the room, she stood with her clogs upon the damp wood, kneeling to take in the watery aroma. It was the heady scent of fall, so different from the winter's harsh chill. Perhaps once, I would have staked across these planks, caring for the noise I made, but no longer, she thought, surveying Geoffroi's room with a carefully trained eye, her gaze pained. Now each of my steps is soft and soundless—so soft that even my husband with his excellent hearing won't be able to track me down.

The iron grille she curled her fingers around, the metal that has already leached the heat of the day into the air. The room itself was quite cold. There was something about the lack of others that allowed Madellaine to imagine—for her creative mind to surge with new ideas. In those precious extended moments, poetry comes as if from the ether, in full form without struggle, arriving as thick as arrows on a committed foe. But this is no war, she mused. History blew in the soft breeze of the Frollo estate and called from the skyward bound walls. The house had become aware of itself, almost, of the history that echoed within its walls. Somewhere within, mixed with the pain, were images of soft flowers, of the ones Lady Elaine used to plant for Lord Geoffroi. Yet, if inside felt stagnant, just as a river, it simply needed to flow.

And so, one day, after time unmeasured, the house opened each door and window. It shivered at first, for the wind felt cold and it was used to the dust and the odor of nothing. It was about to close, to find a way to love the permanent isolation, to become one with the rats who crawled and the sticky spider webs, when in came the soft fragrance of the flowers. The house shivered again, but in a different way. This time there was a small fragment of Elaine and Geoffroi's warmth, their kind spirits, a tiny brave smile in the walls.

There were days, Madellaine could have sworn, that the estate did shut every door and window, times darkly shrunken from the world, hoping to be invisible to the rest of Paris, France. Yet, as the seasons changed, as Earth circled the sun, the doors and windows of the Frollo house opened even more. They say that the pain blew right out of that house a little at a time and the nature that the house craved entered it a little at a time—the birdsong, blossoms, and the sunshine of the earth. It was the one place Madellaine could let down her hood, and not be afraid to show her emotional and even physical scars from Jehan to the house. She knew, that in his own way, Geoffroi could see it and she imagined that he wept for her.

"I'm treated like a monster, Geoffroi," she whispered to the house, her footsteps barely making any noise as she wandered. Is that so? The house seemed to ask, challenging her. "It's true!" she protested, a wry smile tugging at the corners of her lips. She ran a hand through her hair and smiled sadly. "I have feelings, you know. I'm sensitive, I'm human just like the rest of our townspeople here in Paris. People these days when they learn who I am, and that Jehan was my brother, they only see my surface wounds. They open their mouths to me to taunt and to criticize, their fingers jamming on my chest and shoving me backward." And why might that be? If she listened closely enough, she could hear Geoffroi speaking to her, his tone solemn and sad.

"Children scream at me the moment I appear. They run and tell on their mothers or fathers in fear of what the monster's wife might do to them, now that she has become like him," she whispered, a note of bitterness seeping its way into her tone. Why do they scream at you, Madellaine? Because they're scared. "Imagine it! Me, being feared! What possible damage could someone like me inflict upon these poor, misguided children? My very presence is becoming a nuisance to society. But the people have no idea what it feels like," she hissed through clenched teeth, as she picked up one of Geoffroi's old books and fingered the spine, her fingertip coming away coated with grime and dust.

And what, my child, does it feel like to you? The house asked of her.

"They have no idea what it's like. The painful pang on my chest resounding every time glares and scowls are bestowed upon me. Loneliness is a silent murderer, slowly killing me."

But you are not alone, Madellaine. You still have your family.

"If I were in deep trouble, and my family wasn't around to save me, no one in the streets of Paris would dare to approach me for help or for aid. There are kind people who pity what's happened to my face, like the old woman in the marketplace that sells us apples, but I don't want to be pitied, Geoffroi."

Then what is it that you do want, dear sweet daughter?

"To be loved," she whispered. "Acknowledged for who I am, not for what everyone else wants me to be, Father. I—I can't."

But you already are, the house creaked and groaned.

"I know I have my husband, and we're having a baby," she agreed warmly, the light slowly returning to her gray eyes, the passion slowly reigniting. "Without him, I'm a tree stuck forever in winter, bereft of leaves and shivering under a blanket of frost. My world without him is cold, so very cold, Lord Geoffroi. I wish that you could have met your grandson," she whispered, her voice cracking. "You'd like the man he's become. You would be proud of him, no doubt." What the house said next surprised the young woman. I already am, it whispered into her ear lovingly as she turns to leave. A hand lingering on the doorway to steady herself, she turned back and smiled, and if she looked close enough, she could see the faint outline of Geoffroi's silhouette in the shadows. She raised a hand and waved at him.

He waved back and smiled that ambivalent smile before disappearing.

Scurrying home under the twilight sky, she struggled to reach the cathedral before night fell. It wouldn't do to be out alone in the dark. The brown robe the woman wore suggested she was someone of nobility, and for her to be wandering the streets of Paris after nightfall past curfew would be a grave mistake on her part. The robe she had donned had an elongated silhouette and a high waistline, which brought emphasis to her slender waist. The fabric was draped in rich architectural pleats. The skirt of her robe was a wide, floor-length skirt with two godets. The long turnback sleeves kept her warm in the cold autumnal air. The half-round hood draped elegantly over the back, although she currently wore the hood up around her face to conceal her face in the shadows to avoid being seen by the children as she listened.

At twenty-six, Madellaine was perhaps the most beautiful woman in all of Paris, drawing more than a few jealous looks from women her age and a few interested looks from men, who did their best to ignore the gold wedding band she proudly displayed on her finger. She paid them no mind, as was her routine. The young Parisian woman had been graced with high cheekbones, her skin pale and perfect. Her blonde hair was cut extremely short, most unusual for a Parisian woman, framing her face in stray wisps and strands.

Her hair was the very essence of summer, she the goddess of the sun, of light and warmth. Framed by graceful brows, her eyes reflected her soul. The beauty with the hauntingly tragic eyes. Her gray eyes were often compared to that of ashes and smoke blowing in the wind—coming from a fire that burned everything to the ground, leaving nothing but ashes in their wake. They were intense, coming from the fire that burned deep within her soul.

She was all too used to the stares and the insults.

Madellaine came across a group of children who were tossing their toys into the air, play acting a story and each taking turns acting out the different roles. The woman stopped to listen without being observed, for the adults are often invisible to the young children of the world.

A play of a distinguished beauty that fell in love with Notre Dame's reclusive bell ringer—some called him monster, she called him beautiful. Another was pursuing her, a vile, wicked man accused of witchcraft and sorcery. His name, Jehan Frollo and his brother, Claude, were still spoken in hushed tones throughout the streets of Paris; those who dared to speak their names know no fear. Most refuse to speak their names still. They were too afraid to speak their names. Two months had passed since the last surviving Frollo's death, and still, the people were afraid of the entire family, the mark they'd left on the world, including Madellaine, though she was not related to the family by blood.

Everywhere she went in the street, she was either shunned once the people found out who she was and who she was married to, or her beauty was the only thing the men and women ever chose to comment on. Never mind her brain, how smart she was, what she could offer to the world, it was just beauty.

Notre Dame's bell ringer adored her and romanced her, and their great love transcended the restraints of time. Madellaine let out a laugh as she thought to herself: How like some fairy tale this all sounds, and perhaps it is. Our magic—our love—is a great story. Have these children fallen victim to the tales of Clopin, who in his old age, likes to add fanciful touches for their amusement? Have they heard him gossiping about me and my kin, the little ones turning it into a tale of magic? Witchcraft indeed. Nothing in my childhood was charming. What followed my childhood was a life of hell to servitude in Jehan Frollo's service. If magic in my life was ever present up to the point, I arrived at Notre Dame—it moved beneath the skin of this world so that I could not see it. My love for my husband—that is my magic. My beauty is naught but a curse. I never asked for it. I never wanted any of it. Take it all.

As she listens to the children tell her story, Madellaine imagines each of the children holding a piece of broken stained glass, each part telling a story, each piece a pivotal part of her story. Let two of the pieces fall into shadow, where they belong—Jehan and his brother—and let heaven's light spill over the third, her husband, her lover, her confidante until she dies. She might have been the most beautiful woman in all of Paris—but was her life the prettiest tale? Madellaine knows it wasn't. It never was, and it never shall be, I'm afraid.

A voice spoke up from behind her, making her jump. "My lovely, you took some finding. I thought I'd find you out here. You recognize the area, don't you? Surely you must." The voice speaking was cold, unforgiving. A man's.

Madellaine froze in her tracks, unable to move. She can feel her shoulders tensing and her jaw growing tense. Every fiber of her being is screaming at her to run, but she can't. Jehan. She turned around and found herself staring face-to-face with Jehan Frollo. A man she never hoped she would see again.

His strong hands held her face gently as he stared deep into her eyes. Madellaine felt her face blanch and lose what little color she had left. When she opened her mouth to speak, nothing came out. Jehan's voice was deep, with a serious tone. His lips brushed her ear as he spoke softly to her.

"You know, I really did love you, pet."

"You never loved me!" she snarled angrily, trembling.

He let out a bitter laugh at the expression of shock on her face.

"Oh, my love, don't act so surprised. Surely you knew this was going to happen sooner or later? Me, stuck deep inside you," he smirked, his dark eyes briefly wandering the length of her slender body, pausing as he briefly stared at her breasts before bringing his eyes up to meet her own. "You need to start looking out for yourself, Madellaine," he grinned. "After all, you're brooding for three now," he growled, his wicked laugh haunting to her ears.

How she hoped never to hear him again.

Instinctively, she felt her hand drift to her still very flat abdomen. It had only been two months since she'd told Quasi the news and Jehan had died.

Or so she'd thought. "You—you're not real," she managed to croak out when she'd finally regained her voice. "You fell." Jehan laughed, his laughter charming and wicked at the same time. He spread his arms open wide and glanced around. "This is real. I am real. And no, my lovely, you can't kill me again, so don't even think about it," he snapped, his gaze landing on her hand, which was hovering near the sheath she wore strapped around her waist, ready to draw her knife if she needed to.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded, careful to keep her voice low.

"All those times I knew you wanted to kill me, lovely, I knew you never had it in you. You'll never have a violent bone in your body," Jehan sneered. "I'm playing for keeps this time," he said silkily, coming up behind her and snaking his hands around her waist. "You're mine. There's no getting rid of me."

"YOU STAY AWAY FROM ME!" Madellaine shouted, feeling her voice waver as she struggled to control her tremors. A few startled Parisians looked her way for her outburst. Feeling her face grow hot in shame, she dipped her head and muttered a half-hearted apology, drawing her hood tighter around her face and hurried home back to Notre Dame. She was late enough as it is.

He's probably worried. I'd be surprised if he didn't put the word out to Alice and Jeanne to have them keep an eye out. How right she was. Madellaine barely made it through the large oak doors of the prayer before being tightly enveloped in an embrace that threatened to crush her ribcage.

"Quasi!" she cried, struggling to speak as she returned the gesture. "I'm home, I'm okay. You can let go now," she teased, feeling her fingers clutch onto his shirt tightly. "I can't breathe, my love, you're crushing my ribs."

"Where were you? You snuck off again, sweetheart, how many times have I said?" he demanded, an edge to his voice. He sounded almost angry with her, not wanting to relinquish his hold on his wife. "It's late, past curfew!"

"I know," she groaned. "I was kept later than I anticipated," she grinned, laughing at Quasi's annoyance at the mention of the gypsy king. While not exactly friends, the two men weren't enemies, either. They tolerated one another. Her husband's expression softened as his anxiety over her lateness evaporated to be replaced with concern as he looked into her eyes and noticed her forehead beaded with sweat and her skin was growing clammy.

Notre Dame's bell ringer reached up a tender hand and gently brushed back a stray wisp of blonde hair and tucked it behind his wife's ear. "What's wrong, my love? You don't look well, what's going on? Talk to me," he urged kindly. "Are you feeling ill?"

"I…." she started to say but lost her train of thought as she gazed up into his eyes. His eyes a deep soulful brown, they were beautiful. His eyes showed the essence of his very soul. Her husband's deep alluring eyes captivated anyone who happened to be fortunate enough to look into his eyes, as flecks of gold danced within the deep swirls of cocoa, making them appear to have a mystery hidden inside, waiting to be discovered. Quasi's eyes were the color of deep sienna, with a mischievous glint that seemed to reflect the corners of his mouth, which were currently fighting a smile despite his worry for his wife. He was just relieved she was home with him, in his arms where she belonged. His eyes were every shade of brown she could imagine, a raw umber and caramel mix dotted with bits of dark oak with just a fleck of gold at the irises.

Quasi's eyes glowed with a humor and playfulness that always had the ability to give her the shivers and wrap her in a warm embrace at the same time. Quasi's short red hair curled slightly and glinted in the light. Madellaine had always found her husband handsome, even though she knew he never thought so. He was a kind and gentle soul. Her soulmate.

Notre Dame's bell ringer was tall and muscular but lean. His wife admired the way his simple white linen shirt hung open to reveal the hollow of his throat and allowed for the briefest of glimpses of his muscular form underneath his shirt. There was a scar from a knife wound on his face that began underneath his right eye and worked its way down to the tip of his mouth. Even after eight years, the redness of his scar was still shocking, an affront to look at, its jagged edges harsh and raw. Despite his scar, Madellaine had always found him beautiful when he couldn't see it for himself. One day, she hoped he would be able to see it with his own eyes. She'd been amazed at how easily she'd fallen in love with him and how he had stolen her heart before she'd even realized it was gone. He called her the thief of his heart often. The young woman winced at the memory of her life as a petty thief.

How she'd hoped by now to be able to put it behind her, but it would always remain there, like a demon. She swallowed hard as she looked into her husband's eyes and did her best to quell the sudden wave of nausea that threatened to make her faint, and she would have if he hadn't caught her.

"Easy," he muttered quietly. "You should be resting. Come, love, you don't need to be on your feet any longer." Smirking only slightly at her quiet protests and murmurings under her breath as she protested him carrying her, he ignored his wife's protests as he gently lifted her in his arms and carried her up to their tower.

"Put me down, love! It's not like we have to go very far, I can walk on my own, thank you, I'm not an invalid," she laughed, wrapping her arms around his neck and enjoying the feeling as she rested her head into his chest. "You can put me down now."

"Not a chance, sweetheart. You've done enough for today," he laughed, the corners of his mouth tugging as he felt himself smile as he looked at his wife.

"But I—"

"Don't even think it," he teased, setting her down once they'd reached the top. "You need to rest. I should let you sleep. You've a long day tomorrow and you've been out late."

"No. I'm not tired," she protested, her gray eyes twinkling as she waited for him to catch on. She playfully bit her lip and quirked her brow at him and waited. Her husband let out a startled shout as she grabbed his shirt's collar and backed him aggressively against a stone pillar, her eyes twinkling.

"Love, what are you doing—?"

"You can't tell me you'd rather be doing anything else right now other than your wife, would you?" she teased, laughing.

Quasi grinned. "You caught me, I can't hide anything from you," he smirked. His gaze briefly wandering the length of her slender form and he fell into a hard stare as he met his wife's eyes. He pulled his wife closer, his body heating. Quasi's face fell closer to Madellaine's until their foreheads touched.

He looked straight into her eyes and brushed his lips against hers. She returned his kiss, softly pressing her lips against his. Her husband released a soft moan and leaned in for more. His arms encircled her and tightened around her and his impulsive nature ignited and entwined with his lust and love for his wife. He slanted her head to the side and deepened the kiss, pushing Madellaine a little roughly against the pillar, his gentle hands exploring her sides. She let out a tiny gasp as her own hands wandered up and down his back, finally stopping at his waistline. Quasi reluctantly pulled out of the kiss and let out a husky groan when he hit against her. He gently nipped at her ear lobe and buried his head in her hair, loving the softness and the scent of harvest and apples. "I love you so much," he whispered breathlessly.

"I love you too," she managed to gasp out.

"Well isn't this just fucking charming," a voice spat out bitterly. Madellaine froze. "There was a time when I would have killed for you to look at me the way you look at him."

Jehan. "Go away," she hissed through clenched teeth, her voice barely above a whisper, hoping her husband wouldn't notice. She tapped her husband on the shoulder. Quasi looked up, startled.

"What is it, love?" he asked. "What's wrong?"

"Do you hear that?" she whispered, her eyes darting frantically around the room, watching as Jehan paced the bell tower floor, taunting her as he smirked.

"Why didn't I get invited to this little party?" Jehan teased.

"What is going on? What is going on?" Madellaine whispered panicking, wrenching away from Quasi, shoving him off her as gently as she could. She let out a weak laugh and rubbed her temples. "Oh my God, I am losing it. I'm—I'm talking to myself," she muttered darkly, meeting her husband's worried gaze. "First it was in the marketplace, and now he's here again!"

"Lena, enough," he coaxed gently. "You need to sleep."

"No, no, you don't see him?" she shouted, her voice trembling. "He's right there!" she pointed, but Jehan had gone.

Damn it! Where the hell did he go, he was just right there!

Quasi stared at the place where Jehan had stood only moments ago.

"There's nobody else up here but us, my love."

"No…." she whispered desperately. "He was there…"

"Who?" Quasi asked, frowning, his brow furrowed.

Madellaine turned back to her husband, afraid to tell him.

What he would think of her if he knew the truth. "I—it's nothing. I—I guess I must be tired," she lied, hoping the lie didn't reach her eyes. She suppressed a shudder as Quasi's brown eyes bored deep into the depths of her heart, searching her eyes for the truth. "I didn't mean to startle you."

He said nothing, choosing to let it go for now, for which she was grateful. "You should sleep," he muttered softly. "It's late, we should both be in bed. You've a long day tomorrow."

Shit. How could I have forgotten? "Sophia," she moaned, smacking her forehead with the palm of her hand. "Oh no, I completely forgot!"

Quasi grinned. "Luckily for you, I didn't. You're going."

Madellaine opened her mouth to protest but deflated as her husband shot her a reproving glare, warning her not to contest it.

"Fine, fine, I'll go," she growled irritably. "Lest I face your wrath," she teased. "I won't like it, though," she snapped.

"Of course, you're going. You don't have a choice," he responded airily.

"Will you come with me, then, since this is your ideas?" she asked suddenly, grabbing his hands and holding onto them tightly. "I don't want to go alone. Please. Come with me," she coaxed. "I'm begging you, love."

Her husband had a pained look in his eyes at the desperation in her tone. She'd never asked him for anything. His response was a passionate kiss. "Of course, I'll come. You never have to ask. I wouldn't miss it, sweetheart."

"Thank you. I don't see why I must keep going to see Sophia when it's only been two months, love. It's too early! I really think she's overdoing it."

"Sophia's just being cautious. As well as me. I don't want a repeat of Esmeralda, especially not you, beloved," he finished, turning away sharply as a muscle in his jaw jumped at reliving the memory of his friend's death.

"I know she won't let that happen," she responded soothingly, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder and sitting on his lap as he collapsed into a chair. She rested her chin atop his hair and closed her eyes, relishing being in his arms once more. "Besides, even if something does happen to me, I'd come back to haunt you," she teased, running her fingers through his hair. "You won't get rid of me so easily, my love," she whispered.

"Don't talk to me like that," he snapped, a harsh bark to his tone.

She recognized it all too well. He was getting irritated.

Madellaine stared, surprised at his outburst. "What—?"

"Is this a joke to you?" he asked, lifting his head to look his wife in the eyes. Her heart practically shattered into a million pieces at seeing the untold grief and heartbreak in his eyes as they shone with sadness as he looked at her, not needing to say a word. "Do you realize how much you mean to me?"

She nodded, feeling tears beginning to brim in her eyes.

A muscle in his jaw twitched as he looked at her. Smiling softly, Quasi reached up and tucked a stray wisp of hair behind her ear affectionately.

"You are my life now, my love," he said softly, his calming voice soothing to her frayed nerves. "You are the sweetest melody on my eyes and my ears. I could wrap myself up in your words and sleep more soundly than any child I know. I guess that's attraction, but to me our love is so much more than that. It feels deep, soothing to my soul. You are the soul mate I've needed in my life for so very long. Never forget that," he said, reaching up and held her face in his hands. "I love you," he said, his voice cracking.

"Never," she promised. "The day I forget, come find me, for then my soul is truly lost," she echoed, recollecting the very words he'd spoken to her the night they'd confessed their love for one another. "Come find me, and we'll wander the earth lost together, for as long as I'm with you, I'll never be lost. I'll always find my way home to you." Madellaine sighed and rested her chin on top of his head, stroking his hair in the way she knew he liked.

Quasi swallowed hard, turning his head away for a moment to gather his thoughts. He turned back to look at her and smiled gently.

"Because your love is so whole, my missing pieces just appear. Your very touch carries with it such passion and hot flames, what of myself was scarred becomes soft once more. You are steady and patient with me, my open wounds have time to heal and vanish. Perhaps that is why they say our love is magic—this gift from the universe. Walk with me in heaven's light for all eternity, my love."

He kissed her and the world fell away. It was slow and soft, comforting in ways that words would never be. His hand rested below her ear, his thumb caressing her cheek as their breaths mingled. She ran her fingers down his spine, pulling him closer until there was no space left between them and she could feel the beating of his heart against her chest. For that single moment, time stopped. Neither cared about anything else in the minute except for each other. It was just the two of them.

No wars, no death or suffering, just them. When they kissed, their lips fit perfectly together, as though they were meant for each other, and they both knew that they were. Moving against each other, feeling each other.

He grabbed the back of her neck, growling in the kiss as Madellaine whimpered in pleasure. In the twilight of their tower as the light faded, their fingers caressed each other's skin, both afraid a heavier touch would break the heady magic. Madellaine had been scared everything would change between the two of them once they married, but if anything, it made their attraction for one another and their intimacy when they were able to get it so much more deeper, more sensual. Her hand alights on Quasi's face, moving down past his collarbone and settles on his heart. Already his brain is on fire.

She's his angel, his angel with the delicate fingertips of flame that leave a trail of sparks in her wake anytime she touches him.

One touch and it was over. It had always been that way with Madellaine. In these moments, she loved her husband with her eyes as much as her body, their souls mingling in the quiet moments between the action and the stillness.

The cool tower already felt warm. It was hard for him to hold back, to make the moment last. His moments alone with his wife were precious; time spent with her was to be cherished. He grinned as he heard his wife let out a low moan as his hand wanders beneath her skirts, entering her delicately, moving fast. Their tongues entwined in a kiss, and then she shifted so she ground against him. He let out a groan and stood, lifting her slightly and gently placing her on the table. Quasi cupped his wife's face gently in his hand and kisses her passionately, slanting her head deeper into the kiss, reluctantly pulling away to watch her reaction, feeling out her legs move against him, watching her body writhe at his touch. His eyes searched hers and he saw nothing but love. She smiled at him and kissed him back as he knew she would.

With her lips, she felt his mouth stretching wider than it should, fighting between the urge to grin and continue kissing her. They've done this so many times before and it keeps getting better every time. There was something about him that lights her up from the inside, just as she knew there was something about her that melted his confidence to nothing at all. Touching him was like being handed the Holy Grail, like her heart was mended, even though she never knew it was broken.

They loved each other, and that was all they needed.