A/N: I have been working on this chapter since I last updated, and I wanted to make it longer, but I realized that I was coming to a place where I could plausibly end this chapter with still enough content left to make another chapter after this, so...there it is. :) Also, please keep in mind that this is a crossover. I have tried to keep Rouen as true to the time as possible, but there are some things that must needs be changed to suit the story. Until I wrote this, I didn't quite realize the delicate balance required to mix the elements of an important - politically, historically, and economically, among others - riverside city in France and a little no-name (actually, I think the name quite romantic) town sprung up out of the dust and hard work of the United States's Great Depression (a.k.a. Castlegate, for the people who have not seen Rigoletto).

A couple of people have asked me when Erik will finally enter the story, and for those of you who have asked and/or have contemplated asking, I will say this: in the second chapter after this one, exactly. I'm thinking that the next chapter will not be quite so long either, so there is less time to wait!

Enjoy, mes amis!

(POTO, Rigoletto, and any source quoted are not mine.)

P.S. What do you all think of me posting a playlist of recommended songs for this story?

Chapter Five:

Build This Life With Me

-Christine-

"'You'll come home to two fully functioning chimneys,' [Lionheart promised, 'or I'm going to drown myself in the well…'...

"Lionheart, after her first few encounters…(it was inevitably Lionheart who, flinging herself through the door at speed, had caught a superficial blow of the thorny branches across the forehead…), had wanted to have it and all its fellows out…and had offered herself 'as the blood sacrifice,' she said. 'You can bury my flayed body under the doorstone to bring yourselves luck afterwards.'

"'Having failed to drown yourself in our well a few weeks ago?' enquired Jeweltongue. 'You are such a life profligate. You'll be offering next to hurl yourself off the roof for – for – it escapes me what for, but I'm sure you'll think of something.'"

- Robin McKinley, Rose Daughter

I could not help staring at virtually everything we passed by as we descended down the hill and made our way into the city proper. Save for where it had been built along the river banks, Rouen was surrounded on all sides by gentle, rolling hills. The city itself was not built like Paris, where every single lot had been neatly organized according to its position relative to the main island; rather, it appeared that each building had been placed simply according to the convenience and desire of the builder, organization be forgotten.

As we drew closer to the heart of the city, I noticed too that the streets were much more narrow, and that some of the houses had been built in an older style – "half-timbered", I think my aunt had called them. We passed by the Notre Dame cathedral – the spires of which I had seen very easily from the hillside: unquestionably an extremely beautiful place, but also as tall and narrow as the buildings that surrounded it. I longed to comment on this prevalent design of architecture, and to speculate on whether it reflected the physical traits of this city's inhabitants – but I caught myself when I saw how my uncle's mouth had become set in a grim, determined line, and contented myself with holding my cousin's hand as we walked alongside the wagon.

Thanks to the directions in the letter left by my great-uncle, we were able to find the main square without large incident. It was a cobblestone affair of medium size, with a modest marble fountain that splashed merrily in the center. We were surrounded by shops and stalls, and the people who frequented them stared at us with frank curiosity in their eyes. My cheeks began to feel warm as the sensation of butterflies' wings filled my stomach region; Meg's grip on my hand tightened.

Suddenly, we heard a loud greeting above the noise of the street.

"Bonjour!"

We stopped, then turned as one to see who had hailed us.

At first glance, many would term this man simple. The features of his face were plain and unassuming, his hair was dark blonde in colour and of a medium length, and his small eyes – protected by a pair of spectacles – were dark brown. His body – which was neither fat nor thin, nor was it much taller than I was – was covered in the tawny clothes of a shopkeeper. His pure white apron was spotless.

"Welcome to Rouen!" he called out as he approached us. "If you are in need of a place to stay for the night, we have some wonderful inns here that I'm sure would be happy to accommodate you."

"Thank you, sir," my uncle replied, "but we are in more need of Philippe de Chagny's assistance than that of the local inn."

The man smiled. "Well, you have come to the right place. I am Philippe de Chagny, mayor of this city and owner of the general goods store, which you see behind me." He gestured to the modest building behind him, then turned back to us, his hands clasped. "How may I help you, monsieur…?"

"Giry," my uncle finished. "I am Jules Giry; this is my wife Annette–" placing a hand on her shoulder, "–my daughter Marguerite–" Meg inclined her head, unable to tear her wide eyes away from M. de Chagny's, "–and my niece, Christine Daaé."

I bowed my head, adding a slight bending of the knees for good measure. If M. de Chagny took any notice of my uncle's choice of words, he certainly did not show it, but instead smiled cordially and bowed to us all.

"It truly is a pleasure to meet you! Now, how may I be of assistance?"

My aunt descended from her sitting place next to my uncle at the head of the wagon, the fated letter in hand. "I believe you knew my uncle, the late Jacques Lecroix?"

I thought I detected a faint hint of surprise beneath M. de Chagny's smiling exterior when my aunt – instead of my uncle – had been the one to address him, but surprise quickly changed to delight when she uttered my great-uncle's name.

"Ah, yes! M. Lecroix was a dear, dear friend of mine…"

I felt my attention to the unfolding tableau before me start to falter. The mayor seemed pleasant enough…but there was something about him…he bored me slightly, yet there was something about him that set me on edge…I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but I knew this: something was not quite right with this man.

However, he was being very pleasant and polite, so I took the opportunity to further scrutinize my surroundings.

Not every building around the square held a shop. Most of them did, but I also saw what could only be Rouen's own Palais de Justice. It was built in a similar style to the cathedral, but – despite the crème-coloured stone and the blue slate roofs – an ominous feeling of dread settled over me as I imagined everything that could have happened over the centuries, inside there…I quickly turned away.

There was a curious sort of clock (1) built on an archway that connected two buildings – buildings which guarded one of the streets that fed into the main square. The clock had a square border made of gold; the numbers – Roman numerals, I thought – were placed on a slate blue circle, and the middle was golden, with hands of a dark blue metal. It had intricate, swirling designs carved into its borders, and seemed so cheerful and yet out of place that I almost laughed.

How utterly quaint!

On the one side of it there were more shops, but on the other was –

Oh wonders…

– without a doubt one of the largest libraries I had ever seen.

It looked to be several floors high, and took up more than its fair share of its side of the square, the side across from the general goods store and where my aunt and M. de Chagny were still speaking. It was a very fine place, composed of smooth stone and mortar, with many tall glass windows and intricate carvings around. Engaged pillars had been built in strategic places around its façade, giving the place a look reminiscent of the neoclassical movement that had taken France by storm more than a century ago. I bit my lip – a habit I had picked up when deep in thought, or curious about something – wondering when and how I could ever manage to get inside such a large, magnificent building that was surely overflowing with wonderful books.

Slowly, reluctantly, I turned back to where Aunt Giry and M. de Chagny were still conversing – and thus noticed a new addition to our gathering.

A young man had exited the general goods store and was making his way over to us. If he was my age, then he certainly did not have much more room to grow before he became a man; his limbs seemed a little long and awkward for him, but he maneuvered himself as best he could. He had handsome, boyish features, with hair of a shade not dissimilar from the mayor's, and his eyes were the clearest blue that I had ever seen.

Those eyes fell upon me as he neared M. de Chagny. He stopped for a moment…then a wide grin split his face, and his eyes sparkled.

I felt my heart begin to race as I realized that a handsome young man was smiling directly at me. I was unsure of what to do, but his smile was too contagious; I smiled tentatively back at him until I felt a blush begin to blossom in my cheeks, and then looked down at the cobblestone pavement. I felt flattered…and also annoyed.

I did not like being stared at.

"Of course, Mme. Giry, of course! I will personally see to it that you and your family are left in peace. You have nothing to fear while you live in Rouen."

"Thank you; you are very kind," my aunt murmured back to M. de Chagny. As he handed her up to her place atop the wagon – Uncle Giry frowned slightly – a speculative, almost adventuresome look appeared in the mayor's eyes.

"I say, why don't I show you the way to the Lecroix cottage? It's a little ways out of the city itself – in fact, it's closer to the city's boundaries than anything else – and I would hate for you all to get lost in our winding streets," he added with a rueful smile.

Surreptitiously, I glanced at my aunt and uncle. Judging from the expressions on their faces, they were surprised at the open, straightforward manner of a man who would spontaneously volunteer to guide four complete strangers to their new house…even though he was the mayor of Rouen.

I knew what they were thinking. It was the same thought that had passed through all of our minds ere M. de Chagny had finished speaking: no one in Paris would have so much as glanced at the arrival of a strange new family, let alone have offered to show them to their new home.

And yet, despite all of his kind words, I still felt strangely uncomfortable around our new mayor. Without pausing to reflect upon the ensuing consequences, I asked, none too archly: "But will you be able to leave your shop for so long, monsieur? It would be better that we be allowed to wander through these winding streets – where there will still be people to point us in the right direction – than for you to neglect your customers for our sakes."

I could feel the weight of my guardians' incredulous stares atop my head, and yet I could not blame them. It was not like me to be so bold, especially to a man that I barely knew. However, I continued to look the mayor straight in the eye, trying to silently communicate to him my family's – well, mostly my unwillingness to have him around any longer than necessary…

"She has a point," said the tall, gangly youth at M. de Chagny's side, with a sidelong glance at the man. "Why not allow me," he continued, in the bright tone of one who has hit upon a novel idea, as he placed an eloquent hand against his chest, "to show them the way to the cottage?"

I glanced, startled, at the young man. When I had first spoken, it had not been with the design of taking him in, as some of my former classmates had termed such behavior in shocked tones of voice. I still felt painfully shy of him, of the smile in his eyes; I looked back at the mayor, silently pleading –

"No, Raoul," M. de Chagny said in a slight, stern undertone as he angled his head towards – his friend? His apprentice? His brother? "I need you to oversee the store; Madame Firmin is quite counting on you to help her with her groceries today."

He turned back to me with the same smiling, reassuring look on his face that I was beginning to feel he saved for all those "whom he could assist". "I vastly appreciate your concern, Mademoiselle Daaé, but my younger brother is more than capable of taking my place for a time. You may rest your conscience, for none of my customers shall suffer from neglect."

I gave a slight bow, an automatic reflex. A strange torrent of emotions was building within me, and I could not trust myself to speak at present.

I struggled to disentangle each feeling from the others; it was like naming the notes that made up an aria, or the colors of a painting. I felt a strange sort of attraction towards the boy named Raoul: strange, because I had never felt anything like it before, and so I did not know what to do or how to act. There was also frustration: a handsome young man had stared – was still staring at me, and I was angry at him for doing so, yet also secretly pleased…and then I was angry at myself for feeling pleased. I still felt uneasy around the mayor – almost suspicious! – and I had no notion of why. There was no obvious, outward reason; he was all politeness and warmth, ready and eager to assist – though I was not sure how much of that proceeded from experience as a storekeeper or from the feelings of his own heart. My intuition still whispered to be wary of him…

But why?

I was not used to feeling so complicated. (2)

I shook my head slightly, trying to brush off these confusing and potentially dangerous thoughts. With a civil "If you would follow me", the mayor turned away from Raoul and began leading us out of the main square and to our new home.

I supposed that "a little ways" was a more relative than truthful term.

Philippe de Chagny led us out of the heart of the city – of which the square was the main chamber – and through the winding streets which he had warned us of. They were, predictably, tall and narrow, lined with more half-timbered buildings that loomed above us: sentinels jealously guarding the pathway to a magnificent castle. I felt dizzy and enclosed, as if we were traversing the inscrutable ways of a legendary labyrinth, and it was with a sharp sense of longing that I remembered the broad, tree-lined avenues of Paris …

With the sudden sense of a stretched leather cord snapping in two, we stepped out of that area which I determined to always think of as "the real city". There certainly was a marked difference between the towering buildings out whose shadow we had passed and the open, pastoral sight which now greeted us. Before us stretched humble cottages – several of which bordered small farms – spaced far and wide in between. The rough cobblestone road changed seamlessly into smooth dirt as we continued to follow the mayor. The path curved more directly north, and so we left behind the sight of whitewashed fishermen's boats and wooden piers that clustered along the banks of the Seine, a sight that I found oddly comforting.

I thought I smelled the sea upon the air…

I liked the fact that the people in this area of Rouen did not stare nearly as much as the people in the real city. Several of the residents paused in their work to watch as we passed them by, but then some silent reminder seemed to intrude, and they returned to their various duties.

We were a somewhat subdued group. Conversation was chiefly supplied by M. de Chagny, who spoke above the undercurrent of our steps and the wagon wheels grinding against the ground to tell us of our fellow citizens. Names, relations, dates, and incomes seemed to slide past me in the warm air. I tried to listen, I really did…but I was so tired from our journey, and bewildered by the innumerable similarities and differences between our new home and mine of fourteen years, that I eventually gave up straining to catch the mayor's words. As I trailed my hand along the body of the wagon to steady myself, I daydreamed wistfully of a soft, warm bed and a goose-down pillow to rest my head upon.

Just when it seemed that we would leave Rouen altogether – the approaching hills looked decidedly daunting in our exhausted state – Philippe de Chagny directed us towards a lane that branched off of the main road and veered sharply to the left. With a smooth explanation that he needed to return to the square – his brother probably could not manage the store for much longer – and a wish to not intrude when we first explored the cottage, the man that was our mayor – and landlord, as I later learned with no little dismay, since the property was legally his – finally left us. We trudged down the lane; it curved around the foot of a gentle slope, winding and trailing…

Suddenly, we stopped in front of the Lecroix cottage.

It was a charming, if also a somewhat disheartening, sight. The cottage had two levels, and was made of a smooth, beautiful crème-coloured stone. Glass-paned windows – framed in white and built with beige shutters, most of which were open – peeked out from underneath the eaves of the wooden roof and the tangled branches of ivy that looked as if they had been trimmed back, but only just. A garden of flowers, limited in variety, thrived in its wildness under the ground floor windows – and, in some places, into the windows. The trees that had been placed around the cottage had also grown wild, with innumerable branches reaching hither and yon, and the grass on the lawn threatened to overtake the end of the dirt path entirely.

It was Meg who, squaring her narrow shoulders resolutely, led us inside. I helped my uncle to remove the mare's harness – there was neither barn nor post to tie her to, but judging from the copious amount of vegetation around, she was not likely to wander far – and then followed my family through the cheerfully dirty white door. It was dark inside, and smelled of must and damp wood. In an effort to bring in some light and fresh air, my aunt went around to all the windows and pushed them open – at least, the ones that would open.

I began an inspection of this new home. There was one parlour with peeling and dusty wallpaper, and it felt odd to me how large the room seemed in such a small cottage. However, upon closer inspection of the ground floor, I realized that this was because the other two rooms – the dining room and the kitchen – were smaller in comparison; the kitchen especially gave me the feel of a room that had nearly been forgotten to be created, and so had been tucked away and made almost to disappear.

The stairs creaked and groaned as I traversed them. They were quite narrow, their curve sharp as the blade of a knife. I was almost afraid that the floor of the second level would give way beneath my weight – but after taking a few testing steps with no great incident, I felt safer. This part of the cottage was much more organized; after leaving the staircase, one walked down a short corridor while being faced with four choices of doors to open, two doors on each side. I opened each and peeked curiously inside. There were two small bedrooms, one across from the other, and two considerably smaller wash-rooms, also across from each other.

We would have to share.

"Well, Christine," I heard my uncle say in a light, teasing tone as he approached the top of the stairwell, "I should have guessed that you would have examined this whole house before the rest of us had even a chance to glance at half of it."

I turned to him, chuckling softly, then stopped short at the sound. Though it had only been a few days since disaster had struck, it may as well have been years, and a grim silence had reigned over us all during that time. My laughter, quiet as it had been, rang oddly in my ears, as had my uncle's tone of voice…yet, in this new place, under the spell of this sleepy cottage, sounds which in our strained circumstances should be embarrassing faux pas, now felt easy and natural.

Covering my sudden silence, I hastily informed him of my discovery regarding the number of bedrooms and wash-rooms. "I'm sharing with Christine!" I heard Meg announce authoritatively as she and her mother climbed the stairs to meet us. Aunt Giry shot a quelling look at her daughter, and my uncle's lips seemed to twitch upward as he glanced at the ceiling.

"And what do you think of your new home, niece?"

My uncle had meant to sound light in his inquiry, but despite the smile on his lips, I could see the uncertainty and apprehension in his eyes. Please be happy here, those eyes said.

Please be content; it is all I can do.

I let my eyes roam over one of the bedroom doors, briefly pondering my answer. The garden was wild and overgrown; the cottage was small and needed a thorough washing and scrubbing; there would likely be horrors tomorrow morning: birds in the chimney, mice in the cellar...yet I could not ignore the new feeling growing inside me, almost as if I had returned to a familiar place that I had not visited in years. Despite my unusual surroundings, I felt peaceful. True, I had been uneasy around the mayor and his son, but who was to say that things might not be any better between them and me? I could already imagine how the cottage would look after it had been fixed up, how beautiful and charming our future life here; I remembered the rolling green hills, the calming sight of the fishermen's boats on the waters of the Seine…

A calm smile curved my lips.

"I think it very fine, uncle. I believe that I am going to like it here."

We spent the rest of that August working to make the cottage a livable place.

Since we had been able to bring along some furniture with us from Paris, we all agreed that furnishing the house was not the top priority. Considering that the roof was in excellent condition for an abandoned building – not to mention that we were still in the throes of a warm, dry season, which also helped to air out some of the must smell – my aunt and uncle thought that, aside from our most immediate necessities, our attention needn't be turned on the problems inside just yet, but on the problems outside. After all, it seemed only a matter of time before the many denizens of nature threatened to overtake the cottage entirely.

We spent several days cutting – and in some places, hacking – away the rampant plants: my uncle climbing and twisting in the rowan trees to saw away the extra branches; my aunt and I crouching like old women to vigorously trim the flower bushes and uproot some of the grass; and Meg running from one group to the other, offering to help where she could. It was tough, backbreaking work, yet I found myself looking forward to it. It was much easier to get through each new day when nearly every hour was taken up with hard, absorbing tasks; it was easier to collapse on my makeshift bed each evening and fall instantly asleep from exhaustion, instead of laying awake wondering what the next day would bring, what portents our future life held, what was happening back in Paris…

In the end, it was invariably me who was chosen to accompany my aunt to the real city. We were nearly finished with our work on the outside, but in order to complete the work inside, some trades would have to be made.

After all, there was no stable, and horses were expensive to keep.

Even so, it was with a degree of melancholy fondness that I watched as Aunt Giry bargained with the local horse trader on a price for the middle-aged mare. She had seen us through one of the worst times of our lives, and had hardly so much as nickered in protest against continually sleeping outside, even when we humans had got our own place to sleep in that included four walls and a roof. But it was just as well: we had no use for her, and she would be much happier living with someone who could take care of her properly and give her work.

We then set off for the town square to select and buy our essentials. We were not in need of clothes – our trunks were nearly full of them – but our store of travel-safe food was beginning to dwindle, and we did not have any real beds. However, my aunt and I quickly discovered that, without the use of our recently sold horse-and-cart, such errands could not be completed in one day; indeed, some purchases would even have to be delivered to our new home. That week was taken up with visits to the real city; sometimes I would accompany my uncle, sometimes my aunt – once, I was even sent alone. Meg had once complained of this restriction on her society – "What is the point of moving to a different place if I can't meet new people?" – but the moment that my aunt and I explained to her that the only conversations that we had were with the store clerks, my cousin wrinkled her nose and ran to play outside, and that was the end of that.

During this time, it was inevitable that I and my chosen guardian of the day should enter Philippe de Chagny's general goods store at least once. He seemed to sell anything and everything, and it was very convenient to be sure of finding there whatever items we could not find in other places. He always saw to our business personally – he had even offered to let us buy on partial credit, to be paid off once our finances could be considered ours again – but there were times, when the boy Raoul was also working in the shop, that I watched as his smiling eyes followed mine. Each time, I felt that same flash of irritated pleasure, and wondered what in the world he could possibly want with me?

Not long after our cottage was more or less furnished, and my uncle had got work on the docks as a fisherman – going back to the beginning, as he had put it – we were informed by a kindly neighbor that, as growing young women, Meg and I would be expected to attend the city's school when it re-opened for term in mid-September. This neighbor, Amèlie Firmin by name, was confined to a wheelchair due to a strange internal growth at the base of her spine that made any leg movement both impossible and potentially dangerous. She was a kind, simple woman who, despite her condition – or perhaps because of it – was predisposed to be helpful wherever she could. We thanked her for the information and gift of peach preserves, then, after she left, Aunt Giry turned to my cousin and me with questioning eyes. We had no objections.

We would attend school in the autumn, then.

(1): The Gros Horloge (large clock, respectively), which was originally built in the Middle Ages and placed in Rouen, and has been there ever since. To see a good picture of it, go to http // www . flickr . com / photos / lostintokyo / 56276817 / (remove the spaces), or just pay a visit to your friendly neighborhood search engine.

(2): Quoted directly from Janet Fitch's White Oleander.

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