Mademoiselle Amelié Norbert arrived in the middle of the afternoon. It was (as I had begun to realize) inevitable that she should be accompanied by still more food. This time it was a plateful of muffins, which she said were strawberry-orange. They were a peculiarly flesh-like color, for some reason. There was also a tall pitcher, full of a misty pale liquid and bedewed with condensation.

"It's minty-limeade," she explained. "With ice. Cause it's too warm today for tea. I made it. I made the muffins too."

"Thank you, Mademoiselle Norbert. It will be very refreshing, I'm sure." As Nadir had explained, she did not, would not, enter the cottage.

It was a lovely afternoon, really, and a drowsy one, with the hum of bees in it. Dust motes danced in the ray of sunlight that moved down my wall, more gracefully than ever La Sorelli or Jammes ever could have done.

Amelié Norbert sat on the ground underneath my bedroom window, under a young willow tree. Occasionally, we had to raise our voices or repeat ourselves, but all in all, it was not an unsatisfactory arrangement. "Do you understand why you're here, Mademoiselle?"

"Cause you're sick and listening to folk talk puts your mind off it." she said. "Though I don't see why you'd be wanting to talk to me, sir. I'm just eleven, and I can't think of what to say. I'm nobody important. I'm just my aunt's prentice cook. I could tell you how to make limeade, if you like. Or muffins."

"You could tell me about yourself—about your life, and how you became your aunt's apprentice. I would find that of interest. As for the limeade, I would rather enjoy drinking it than hearing about it. It was very thoughtful of you to bring it. Thank you."

"You're welcome, sir." She was a very polite young creature.

"Now, you are Mademoiselle Amelié Norbert, eleven years old, and an apprentice cook. Where does Mademoiselle Norbert come from?"

"From Alençon, sir."

"Alençon! I thought I recognized your accent! I'm from Normandy, also. I grew up in a town not so far away from there—in Boscherville, in fact. That's closer to Rouen than it is to Alençon, though." It was the very accent in which Sasha's killers had spoken, a lower-class accent, of course. No wonder I disliked it. I had not made the connection until that moment. That was interesting.

"Yes, sir. All of our family come from there. We used to be lace-makers, but now there's machine lace, and there's no call for hand-made, not as once was."

"What a shame. And so you're learning to cook instead?"

"Yes, sir. My aunt picked me out of all the nieces and cousins, to come here with her."

"I'd like to hear about that, but begin at the beginning, if you would be so kind. Mademoiselle Norbert from Alençon has a family and a history before she came here. I would very much like to hear that story."

It took some more coaxing until she would lay aside her reticence, but once the floodgates of conversation were opened, a stream of words poured out of her. She was not the storyteller that Monsieur Hussenot had been, but then he had been talking for at least fifty years longer than she, and was much more practiced as a consequence.

"All right…My Da's name's Robert, and he's the eldest son of our Gran-da, whose name's Robert, too." I had taken a glassful of limeade, out of politeness to her, and I sipped at it while she told me about being the fourth child in her family, with two elder sisters, five younger ones, and only three brothers. The Norberts did tend to produce females—Anne had significantly more sisters than brothers, if I recalled correctly.

I had little knowledge of the lives of girls such as Amelié—or Anne, who at twenty—four years younger than Christine—was barely more than a girl herself.

I could guess at the life of a daughter of the upper classes, but the life of a lace-maker's child was something else again. They had no servants—they themselves were servants. In a large family, child care was a significant part of that work.

So, too, was the endless struggle to make ends meet, making the food budget stretch to feed all the mouths, mending clothes until they were more patches than original cloth, fighting to put just a little aside against illness or death. But there were good things about it as well—never being lonely, or bored. I wondered what that must feel like.

Her pretty little face creased up in seriousness as she recalled her all the significant details of the life she had led—up until she had been chosen by Anne.

"And then our Gram died—our Da's Mam, as was. That was when my Aunt Anne came home, with Erik."

"What was that like?"

"Oh—we all heard about what he looked like, cause of my Aunt Martine—but I ought not to be talking about that."

"Why not? He is a very—unusual looking boy."

"It isn't right. Asides, I was a silly little girl back then, and I'm shamed, a bit, to think on how we welcomed him. And he was so little, too. No more nor two. We—all screamed, and pretended to faint, like. My—my sisters made up stories and rude songs about him, and they—we teased each other, saying that this one or that was too chicken to touch him, or that if she did, her nose would shrivel up and fall off. That was how I came to be playing along of him, cause Addie said as I was too yellow to go and do it."

"So you went and did it, to show her."

"Yes. He had a toy horse and cart, with crates and packages that went in it. It was a grand toy, from a shop, not just a rag baby as my Mam might make. Aunt Anne wasn't there, she was talking about the funeral with my Da and Grand-Da and the others. I went over, and I said, 'Hello, Erik, I'm your cousin Ame, is that your wagon?' He says, 'Yes, I have to go buy everything for the inn. Do you want to help?' So I sat down along of him, and we made believe that we was going all over the town, only some of it was out of fairy-tales, as my aunt had told him, and—All I had to do, to win, was play with him until the clock chimed the quarter hour, but then it was over an hour later, and I still was playing. "

"Did you like playing with him, then?"

"Yes—I mean, it wasn't what I'd meant to do, he was so ugly and all, but—I found, after I'd played with him awhile, as I liked playing with him better nor being mean to him. Cause he was so happy I was there. I'm shamed that ever I thought as being mean to him would be fun.

"That was when my aunt came back and found us. Next night after the burying, she spoke to my Mam and Da, and said as she was willing that I should come along of her to work here, and learn cookery from her. Da said, 'Don't you want our Addie, then? She's three years older nor Ame, and can make boiled beef with carrots. Ame can't cook an egg, as yet.'

"Aunt Anne said, 'If Adele could make ortolans (A/N: an ortolan is a small pigeon-like bird) in champagne sauce, that'd be another story, but I can teach Amelié to cook, where I doubt as I can teach Addie not to make a face as she's smelled somewhat dead when my son's nigh to her, not without giving her the back of my hand a few times.'

"Da said to her, 'You'll catch more flies with honey nor you will with vinegar, Anne.'—meaning she was speaking too sharp of Addie.

My aunt said back to him, 'Flies is drawn to bullshit as well as honey, Rob. Which would you rather I served you with, vinegar or shit?' But she'd said it—humorous like, and my Da laughed, and said as she could take her pick of us."

"And so it was settled among them?" I inquired.

"Oh, no, cause then my Mam asked, 'What'll she have, for her work?'

"My aunt said, "She'll have her room and board—and the best fare on her plate, at that—her clothes will be bought new for her, as she needs them, and if she minds what I teach her, when she's done, she'll be able to name her wages in any kitchen in Europe.'

"Mam said, 'That's all well and good, but what of her wages now?'

"My aunt said, 'Five francs a month, paid at Christmas and Midsummer, when she can have a week off to come and see you. Remember as you'll have the money saved by not having the keeping of her, too. And whatever presents I might give her, into the bargain.'

"Then Da said 'You've always been careful of your money, Anne, but nobody could ever call you mean with it, nor stingy. I'm in hopes as she'll suit you.', and to me he said, 'Mind you be a good girl, and do all your aunt tells you.' My Mam cried a deal, over my leaving, but Addie was the worst, being sore jealous."

"It doesn't seem as though she had much to be jealous about. You work very hard, don't you?"

"Yes—but I amn't afraid of hard work, and my aunt's been powerful good to me. I got my own room, see, and three pairs of shoes, one for Sunday best, and two others for working days, so's if one pair gets wet, I've got dry to put on. And lots of clothes, none of them hand-me-downs, neither. She gives me pocket money on my afternoons off, and last birthday, she gave me a lady-doll, with a porcelain face and hands, and five books. It's never dull about here, neither. Addie'd like to be here in my place, certain."

"I see. You like it here, then?"

"That I do, sir."

"You love your aunt—and your brother Claude?"

"He isn't my brother, sir, he's my uncle. He's Aunt Anne's brother. Yes, I love them, and I love Erik and Sophie and Minna. I don't like Monsieur Hussenot's granddaughters, though. They laugh at me—cause of my teeth, see? I got the Norbert teeth. Theirs is nice and straight. They'd like to make fun of my aunt, too, and Erik, but they don't dare."

"Does Erik have the Norbert teeth, as well?"

"No, he don't—I mean, they'd make fun of him just because of how he looks. My aunt's not one as you want to anger, sir. It's hard to tell just why, but she—isn't."

"Ah, even the loveliest rose has its thorns. It's good that you are among people you love. What about your uncle—that is, your aunt's husband? What is he like?"

"I don't know, sir, seeing as I've never met him."

"Never? Where is he, that he's not here with his family?"

"In America, sir. He's an archer—no, that isn't the word—he builds houses for people. He's building houses for the Vanderbilts, what are as rich as kings, or so they say."

"You mean an architect, then."

"Yes—that's the word. He writes to her, though. She often gets letters from him, one a month, at least. She don't talk about him much."

"I wonder why that should be."

"I'm sure I don't know, sir—Oh, what's the time?"

I was jolted out of my reverie. "Almost four."

"I've got to run! I hope you liked the limeade and muffins, sir—?"

"Yes, very much. Thank you."

"You're welcome. Good bye!" She dashed off, across the garden. "I hopes you feel better!" she called back over her shoulder.

"Before you ask, I refuse to enter the kitchen house in order to steal any of Madame Anne's correspondence." Nadir drawled, "There is never a single hour of the day or night when that building is unoccupied."

"What about Sunday morning, when they are at worship?" I countered.

"I believe you forget the dog." he said, definitively.

"Could it not be circumvented?"

"Nevertheless, I refuse. There would still be too many people about. Committing a crime in full daylight is unwise."

"Must I do it myself, then?"

"I am your friend, Erik, not your servant."

"Yes—yes, you are. Are you certain you did not know about them—Madame Anne and the boy—beforehand, and then brought me here on purpose?"

"If I had known of them, I would have, but I give you my word that I did not."

"And another thing. If his voice and mine are so similar, why has no one here remarked on it?"

"Because you do not sound like yourself at the moment. Your voice is harsh today compared to how you normally sound. I attribute that to your recent indisposition—after all, we did have to gag you."

"I thank you for that friendly service—But Daroga, I wanted to be free from the morphine because I wanted to stop craving things, I wanted to stop needing things—and now I am in danger of acquiring yet more desires. Does it have to be so? Why does it have to be so?"

"There is a difference between wanting that which is bad and destructive to you, and needing what is good. I hope that you may come to realize which of the two these new desires of yours may be."

He left the room, and I could only turn over in my mind all that I had learned, and try to make sense of it. Ultimately, it was like trying to translate a passage from another language, and my understanding of it was not yet great enough.

Minty-Limeade:

(This is entirely my own invention, using a technique I know for making very good lemonade)

Twelve limes

Twelve six-inch (or so) sprigs of fresh mint

Four cups sugar

A 2 quart pitcher

A 1 gallon pitcher

A strainer

A large, strong, long handled spoon

Water

Ice

Begin by washing the limes' skins, and removing the store stickers, if any. Then slice the limes, peel and all, into medium-thin slices. Put them in the 2 quart pitcher. Put the springs of mint in the pitcher with the limes. Pour the sugar in on top of the limes and mint. Take the spoon and mash it all together until all the sugar is dampened. This can take a while, not to mention some strength, and if you have friends or relatives handy in the kitchen, it's nice to take turns mashing and stirring.

Let the mixture sit for one hour, and only one hour. Set a timer. Do not forget it. This recipe is very intense because citrus fruits like limes and lemons have essential oils in their peels, which can become too intense if allowed to sit for too long. It will be too bitter.

After an hour, it will be a gooey mess. Fill the pitcher up the rest of the way with cold water, and stir until the goo is dissolved. Strain the contents of the 2 quart pitcher into the gallon pitcher, and, if there is any sugar left in the bottom of the 2 quart, add more water, stir and strain again.

Throw out the used limes and mint. Fill the rest of the gallon pitcher up with ice and cold water. Makes a gallon. Will keep for a week in the fridge—but in hot weather, it won't last nearly that long.

A/N: I am overwhelmed by the positive responses I am getting to this story. Thank you all so much, especially those of you who go into depth and detail in your reviews.

Erik's Child: I've always liked to cook, myself. Glad you're enjoying the story.

Lucia: Wow, now I have readers on at least 4 continents. I, too, think judging people on what they do for a living, or the background they come from, is a great wrong. Also, I wanted , for a change, to write about a girl who didn't want to be an opera singer—who had her own talent, even genius, and was happy being what she was. Thank you.

Awoman: see you in e-mails!

Allegratree: I'm enjoying your story, and I will have more to say when and as I get the chance. I sent you a couple of e-mails—might AOL have eaten them?

Emily: Here is more, just as requested!

Sat-Isis: Have you just joined up? Welcome aboard! You made a batch of muffins! And you liked them! Virtual hugs!

Lexi: I like your sense of cute, perverted and twisted as it may be…

An Anti-Sheep Cheese Muffin: You know, you're not doing much to reassure me about you…

Lost Schizophrenic: I really don't know what can be said about Madeleine—even her determination, at the end, to mend their relationship is suspect to me. It's way too easy to resolve something like that, and very difficult to break established patterns. Her decision may not have lasted a day.