Hi everyone! I give you chapter three! It's not been beta'd so I hope there's no major mistakes. I'm sure people will tell me if there are. Thanks to all my reviewers :)

The tavern was silent as the man entered, seeking shelter from the bitter cold that had recently descended on the village. He slammed the door behind him, and was dismayed to find the tavern colder still. The image of his breath in front of his eyes acted as confirmation. Nonetheless, he was determined. He simply wrapped his cloak tighter around his shivering body and walked slowly towards the bar.

The barman stool behind, polishing a pewter tankard with a rag and staring into space. He could have stood there all evening repeating the same action for all the man knew, and he probably had done, for the tavern was empty. Chairs were pulled tightly into tables. The tables themselves were bare, long since cleared of cigar butts, water rings and any other signs of life. The floors were swept, the glasses rinsed-everywhere was clean. The man didn't like it. It was too sterile, too barren. The entire place was shrouded in darkness. The lantern in the mans hand only seemed to emphasise this fact. His eyes reluctantly turned to the darkest corner and an icy chill suddenly made him wrap his cloak tighter still.

"Good evening, Lefou," said the barman, trying to manage the welcoming smile he had once made his trademark. "What brings you here?"

"Good evening, Jean," said Lefou, unable to tear his eyes away from the corner, and especially not from the chair that stood there. "Business is slow?"

"Yes." Jean nodded. "The worst it has ever been. I am starting to wonder how much longer I can stay open. Marie and the children…it has been difficult."

He sighed, never ceasing the ritual of cleaning the tankard in his hands.

Lefou fished a few coins out of his pocket and put them on the counter.

"I'd best have a beer now then, please"

As Jean slid the coins towards him, checked them carefully and then moved towards the barrels behind him, Lefou found himself walking towards the chair and the corner it sat in. There was a fireplace nearby beyond it, but it was as dark and cold as the rest of the building. Jean was trying to save on fuel.

The chair loomed out of the shadows. It was a magnificent chair, almost as much as the man who once owned it. Finest oak, hand-crafted, and decorated with animal skin. A horn sat at each top corner. One could almost imagine it was still a living beast. On closer inspection, Lefou could see a fine layer of dust covering every surface. It was as suspected; the chair had not been touched for over a year, as was also the case with the heads that adorned the wall, cobwebs strewn between the antlers. The wall was dominated by a large painting. Lefou knew it well. He had been there when it was commissioned, a celebration of a particularly successful hunting trip. He had watched when its subject had posed for hours, musket in hand, one foot on a fallen tree and demanding the painter do him justice. Now it seemed dull and faded, barely recognisable from any other painting of any other man.

Dare he sit in the chair? It was so close now. If he had done so just months earlier, he would have no doubt received a clout round the ear for his trouble. All those times he had stood near listening to his rages, his tempers, his sorrows. The chair had come alive then; at one with its occupant, content to be part of a life-force that filled every room it entered. One that was feared and admired in equal measure. He had brought vivacity and exuberance to this chair. Without him, it was just nicely-carved wood with a carcass slung across it. Everything was nothing without him. Lefou was nothing without him. He was gone, and with him had gone the spirit of Molyneaux, and seemingly every inhabitant within it.

Lefou reluctantly returned to the bar. His beer was rapidly going flat. He didn't much care. It was all so hopeless.

"It's just not the same is it? Since he died, I mean."

Darn right thought Lefou as he downed the beer in one go, and then immediately felt ill. He had never quite managed to master that trick. Gaston had made it seem effortless.

"Anything else for you today, friend?"

Lefou shook his head.

"That so? I heard you were…looking for something…or someone."

"You heard wrong," replied Lefou, a little too bluntly. He thought for a moment. "What if I was?"

The barman leant forwards to whisper, his apron crumpling as it met the counter. Lefou immediately thought it a ridiculous action. After all, it wasn't as if anyone was in earshot. Nevertheless, it appeared to be in keeping with the atmosphere, or lack of it. He listened intently to every word, to rumours he had dismissed, to ideas that he thought could not possibly lurk in his brain, to the seeds of the solution to fill the void inside of him.

Justice…and revenge.

Lefou left the tavern that night, feeling lighter than he had done in months. He had a plan, surprising as he had never really been the plotting type. He basically had to do what needed to be done, and if it meant delving into the unknown, so be it. Gaston would not have died in vain. He held the lapels of his cloak as he fought against the blizzard and made his way to the mausoleum. Time to inform his friend of his plans. As he trudged through the show, looking very much like a lost child, a figure was watching him from an alleyway. The shadow where its mouth should have been grinned, revealing crooked teeth that glinted in the moonlight. The little man would be perfect. Just perfect. Unseen by anyone, it slunk into the tavern to pay Jean for his trouble.