Hello once again! Here is the latest chapter, in all of it's non-glory. As always, thanks for the wonderful, marvelous reviews, and I'll try to live up to them! Anyway, on with the show!

If Azelma was a stupid girl, she would have been euphoric. She would have been singing Ma'am Hucheloup's praises from dusk 'till dawn; she might even be weeping with joy.

Yet Azelma was not euphoric. She was merely confused.

Azelma knew some things: she knew she was not cold, she knew she was not hungry, and she knew that she no longer lived in a shack.

But that was all she knew. The rest was a blur, a haze of events so strange they all ran together.

Was it normal for serving girls to call their mistresses "mother," like the proprietress had asked –no, demanded- of her?

Did all proprietresses weep when a customer left?

And if she was a serving girl, as the proprietress and her father had agreed, why wasn't she serving?

These questions presented themselves to Azelma again and again, each one fading away, answerless, only to pop up again just when she had thought she had forgotten them.

Azelma had dim memories of servant's quarters, as her parents had hired a serving girl after the departure of the Lark. The serving girl's dingy little hole-in-the-wall, although better than the Lark's bundle of rags, was nothing like the glorious suite Azelma was set up in now.

The bed and the windows were covered in what looked to be bolts and bolts of lace, in different colors; pink and white seemed to spar for control of the room.

Azelma herself was changed; burned were her street rags, and in their stead was a wardrobe stuffed with out-of-style dresses that Azelma had suspected had been around for a very long time. So bulbous were these dresses of the past that Azelma could barely walk, let alone wait on customers.

Azelma had a strange feeling she wasn't a serving girl.

Mumbled secrets hidden behind walls, and now this? Azelma scooted up against the headboard.

This place was curious. Too curious.

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Downstairs, The Ogress was bellowing. Was it joy, or only sorrow?

Matelote paused.

She ignored Grantaire's wine-laden advances, for a moment, and racked her brain trying to figure out why the woman was so woe-struck. She knew she couldn't ask. When Mistress cried, one never asked the reason.

Ah. 'Twas April 17th. The day the ashes had been returned, all those years ago.

Matelote clicked her tounge. That Mademoiselle Hucheloup. Such a silly little creature she had been!

Still, you couldn't keep one like her for long. So headstrong! So fiery!

Fiery.

Where would a girl ever get the idea of setting herself aflame?

Matelote clicked her tounge again, louder this time.

That Josephine. Such a crazy creature she had been.

Forgive me if the plot elements are getting repetitive but I was almost fond of this one. I seem to have caught the opposite of writers block, so the next chapter could be up as early as tomorrow (or, since I pretend to have a life, it might be later than that). Anyway, if you'd like, drop a review; other than that, thanks for reading!