FOUR YEARS LATER (1505)…

Though Paris was filled with Gypsies, though Arnaud and his groping hands lurked somewhere within its darker corners, he still loved the city. He'd recently been promoted to Captain of the Guard, and Cosette's father was more than impressed. Jean-Claude had overheard people saying that he was probably the youngest soldier ever to receive such a promotion. The praise felt empty when compared with the actual job, though.

It was his duty to oversee the Parisian guards, to make sure that they completed their rounds and arrested the right criminals. Jean-Claude led the marketplace patrols himself, and regularly ventured into the Court of Miracles. The Court had been abandoned by Gypsies for several years, but they'd returned to it like moths to a flame. He enjoyed and loathed it at the same time. It swarmed with Gypsies, all of whom feared and respected him. He would gaze out over the crowds, his eyes scanning the dark, dirty faces for his mother and sister. They were nowhere to be found, of course.

He'd heard whispers of them, however, that they were still alive but no longer in Paris. He was determined to find them, though he couldn't say why exactly. He had no real desire to include them in his life. If Cosette's father knew of his true parentage, that his mother was just a common Gypsy whore who had bewitched his father, he would call off the wedding. Jean-Claude couldn't bear for that to happen. He loved Cosette, and being apart from her would surely drive him mad. No, he did not want to pull his mother and sister back into his life.

He supposed that he wanted answers. He wanted to know why his mother had never come back for him, why she had abandoned him and left him to Arnaud's hands. He wanted to know why Katarina had fled, why she had knowingly destroyed all he had ever loved and known. He wanted answers.

"I want you to answer my question."

"Mercy!" the old Gypsy man strapped to the chair thrashed, twisting as best he could. Jean-Claude stared down at the iron boot he'd fastened to the man's foot. He supposed he could continue to tighten it. It was already tight enough; blood was beginning to drip from the slits in the iron.

"Answer me and I will show you mercy."

"All right, there's a girl who lives in Lyon," gasped the man, shuddering. "I think her name is Katherine. She has fair hair and lives with the Gypsies."

Jean-Claude knelt now, removing the boot. The man groaned with relief. His bare foot had not been completely crushed; it was possible that he'd be able to walk again one day. Jean-Claude cast the boot aside and rose. He left the room, nodding to the guard in the hallway. "Clean him up and throw him in the dungeon for a few days," he said.

"Yes, sir."

He would be leaving for Lyon in a few days anyway. Cosette's grandparents lived there, and they wanted to be the ones to announce the wedding. He did not like the idea of leaving Paris, but he knew that it would not fall apart in his absence. He would return in a week and would resume his work. He would marry Cosette and be happy with her. He would go to Lyon and kill two birds with one stone; he would meet Cosette's grandparents, and he would at least find Katarina. Perhaps she could answer some of his questions.

~xXx~

She knew that she shouldn't worry so much about Marie, but she was couldn't help it. The worrying kept the nightmares at bay, if only for a little while. The nightmares had only grown worse; they came during the day now, while she was awake, and this terrified her. Worrying about Marie distracted her, but she knew that it was only temporary. The nightmares would return when she let her guard down.

She had come to the conclusion that Marie could not be a midwife. She didn't have the stomach for it and was always fainting or vomiting at the sight of blood. Her deafness and Gypsy heritage prevented her from many other occupations. Rosalie secretly feared that her only daughter would be forced to turn to prostitution. She hoped and prayed that someone would marry Marie, preferably someone with an honest job and plenty of money. She hoped that it would not be the Russian boy whose Gypsy clan had arrived a few months ago.

She could never remember the Russian boy's name and she could barely understand him when he talked. He did not know much French, but he had somehow managed to communicate with Marie. They used finger-symbols that they'd made up together, and Rosalie couldn't understand them. This frightened her to no end. She didn't know what this boy was saying to her daughter. She didn't know what her daughter was saying back. She'd asked Pierre to keep an eye on them, to make sure that the boy behaved appropriately, and Pierre assured her that he did. Pierre seemed distracted, though, like his mind was somewhere else, and besides, he couldn't spend every second with his little sister.

The farmers on the outskirts of Lyon were kind to Gypsies. They let them work in their fields in exchange for food or sometimes money. There was one woman who paid Marie to look after her three children on occasion; more often than not, the woman remained in her house while Marie and the Russian boy played outside with the children. The children were small, the oldest couldn't be more than five.

"You are the mother of Marie, da?"

She nodded. "Yes, I am."

The Russian boy was tall and was missing two fingers from his left hand. The wound looked like an old one, but it reminded Rosalie of Pierre's missing finger. She'd told him time and time again to stop stealing, that it was what had gotten his father killed, that it would eventually get him killed as well, but he refused to listen. She hoped that this Russian boy wasn't a thief; Marie deserved better.

"She says I am to fetch you please," said the boy, "there is problem in house."

He led her to the farmhouse. This was the house where Marie watched the children; it was enormous when compared with Rosalie's own dwelling, which was a windowless, one-roomed shack. Marie was sitting outside, watching as the two older children picked daisies. She was holding the third one on her lap. Rosalie bent, bringing her face into Marie's line of vision. "What's the matter?" she asked.

Marie set the child down on the ground beside her and began moving her hands. The woman in the house, the children's mother, had a headache. She couldn't bear to look at the light, and she was weeping from the pain. Rosalie nodded. She knew of a few herbal remedies, and rushed back to her shack for the proper herbs. She found them, crushing them into a fine powder and adding water, creating a thick paste.

The Russian boy was waiting outside for her, and this startled her. She hadn't known that he had followed her. He followed her back to the farmhouse. She ignored him. She let herself inside, momentarily surprised when he didn't follow her there too. The house was dark, the curtains tightly drawn over the windows. Rosalie looked around, slightly jealous of this woman. The house had more than one room, naturally, and good furniture too. There was a tablecloth on the table, along with a small pot filled with wildflowers. Esmerelda had been the only person Rosalie had ever known to own a tablecloth, and it had been turned into a wedding dress for Katarina.

"Who is it?"

Rosalie followed the voice into another room. This was a bedchamber, and it was much darker than the front room she had passed through. The woman in the bed was thin and pale, her body completely hidden beneath blankets. She stared at Rosalie, frowning.

"I'm Marie's mother," said Rosalie, whispering. She sat down beside the woman and began mixing the paste with her fingers. "She came and told me you had a headache."

The woman nodded. "I've had them before," she said, "but this is the worst one. Everything hurts."

"I have a remedy," said Rosalie. She gently rubbed the paste onto the woman's forehead.

"Thank you," said the woman. "I'll give Marie an extra coin if it works."

She closed her eyes, and Rosalie left the room, shutting the door behind her. Marie was still sitting with the youngest child in her lap when she emerged from the house. The Russian boy was standing, leaning against the house by the door. Marie was watching the other two children intently and rose and went over to them. The older one had struck his younger sibling, and the sibling was now sobbing. Marie knelt between the children; she was shaking her finger at the little boy, silently scolding him. Rosalie was surprised to find that the little boy looked ashamed for what he'd done. She'd assumed that the child wouldn't bother with a nanny who couldn't talk to him.

"The lady, is she good?"

She turned to the Russian boy and nodded. "She'll be all right." She looked at the boy. "What's your name?"

He stared at her, shaking his head. "You speak with too fast."

She pointed at him. "Your name. What is it?"

"Dmitri," he said, pointing to himself. "I am called Dmitri."

She nodded, pointing to his hand now. "What happened to your hand?"

"It was accident," he said. He turned, pointing to the field. Rosalie could see Pierre and Giovanni emerging from the wheat field, carrying scythes slung over their shoulders. "My brother, he swing and not see me. It happen years ago." Dmitri turned back to her. "Marie says you are…" he mimed holding a baby in his arms.

"I'm a midwife."

"Da, you to help with the baby?"

She nodded. "Yes."

"Is good thing! My brother's wife – " he pointed to his stomach, "is to have baby soon. You can help, da? If we pay?"

"Yes."

"Is good thing! Here, I take you to meet her." He rushed to Marie, tapping her shoulder. She looked up at him; he was moving his hands now, undoubtedly telling her that he would return shortly. She nodded, smiling at him.

He grabbed Rosalie by the hand now, and though it startled her, she didn't pull away. He was leading her to the Russian Gypsies' camp, towards a large caravan in the middle of it. He entered without knocking, shouting something in Russian. Despite the caravan's largeness, its interior was filled with people and cramped. He brought her towards a narrow bed, where a woman was lying on her back. She was swollen with pregnancy, and Rosalie wondered how she'd been able to travel in her condition. Once the stomach began to swell and the baby to show, it was not wise to move about in a rickety caravan.

Dmitri was talking to the woman now, pointing at Rosalie. Rosalie sat beside her, smiling reassuringly. She touched the woman's stomach and was relieved to feel the baby kick within her. If the baby was still healthy enough to kick, then the trip didn't do that much damage. She ran her hands along the woman's stomach; it felt hard, like she had a moving stone inside of her instead of a baby.

"Three days," said Rosalie, holding up three fingers.

"That is when baby will come?" asked Dmitri.

Rosalie nodded. "Yes."

He turned and spoke to the woman now, holding up three fingers while he did so. The woman said something to him, nodding. "Anja says I am to come to you when the baby is ready," said Dmitri. "She says she is most thanking to you."

"It's fine," said Rosalie, "it's really no trouble."

~xXx~

She loved Lyon. It was such a pretty town, and she enjoyed living on the outskirts of it, near the farms and forests. She did not remember much about Paris; she had dim memories of the Court of Miracles. She preferred Lyon. The Court of Miracles had been underground. It had been dark and damp, and there had been no sky or wind or flowers.

Theresa loved the flowers most of all. She loved their vibrant colors, their delicate petals, their perfumes. She wore them in her hair, letting their sweet scent fill her nostrils as she danced. She knew that her parents did not much care for her dancing, that her father in particular worried about her. He claimed that men looked at her a certain way, and that this made him uncomfortable. Theresa supposed that the men looked at her differently than the women. She had noticed that men tended to throw more coins into her hat. One of the Russian Gypsies who had come to Lyon only recently had shouted something at her in another language; the man's wife had looked absolutely furious, and they had begun to argue.

Besides, dancing meant that she didn't have to spend time playing with Martine or working in the fields with her cousin. She'd been told that the farmers were extremely kind to let her friends and family work for them, but she herself found the manual labor boring and painful. Pulling weeds and minding small children was no fun. She loved dancing, moving and twirling freely.

~xXx~

"I'm coming to Lyon whether you like it or not, Jean-Claude. Someone will have to buy you a drink after Cosette's father announces the engagement."

Though he appeared outwardly annoyed, Rene knew that Jean-Claude was somewhat relieved to have the companionship. He would need someone to celebrate with when Cosette's father made the engagement official; and if the old man went back on his word, Jean-Claude would need someone to commiserate with. Either way, beer was involved, and that suited Rene. Paris would survive without them.

Jean-Claude rolled his eyes. "Fine," he said. "Arguing with you is an exercise in futility anyway."

"That's why you made me your lieutenant."

"I did it to keep you out of trouble, and because you're an excellent interrogator."

Rene shrugged. He wondered if he should really be so proud of being an 'interrogator.' Jean-Claude used fancy words to disguise what really happened in the dungeons of the Palace of Justice. 'Torturer' sounded too crass, too violent. 'Interrogator' had a certain dignity to it, it implied gentleness and sophistication. It certainly did not imply using metallic devices to make people talk.

Jean-Claude did more of the interrogating than Rene. He had a voracious hunger for the truth and would stop at nothing to get it. His victims would crack before he even touched them, and he was appropriately merciful. He harbored an intense hate for Gypsies, though, coming down on them harshly when they broke the law. All Gypsies were liars and thieves, this was true, and Jean-Claude made examples out of the guilty ones he caught. Still, Rene wondered what his mother would say if she saw him there in the cell, strapping prisoners into straight-backed chairs while Jean-Claude prepared to torture them.

"Soldier! Soldier, I ask a favor!"

Rene tugged on his horse's reins, stopping and looking down at the old woman. Her hair was snowy-white and she spoke with a thick Italian accent. She waved up at him, shuffling towards him. "What is it?" he asked.

"Are you going to Lyon, soldier?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Ah, good!" She handed him an envelope. "Can you deliver a letter to my grandson?"

He looked down at the name on the envelope. "Well, I'll try," he said.

"Good boy." She handed him a gold coin. "I don't think he can read."

"I'll read it to him then."

"I thank you, soldier." She saluted them, and Rene found himself laughing as he rode off.

"Why did you do that?" asked Jean-Claude.

"Ah, why not? Besides, she reminded me of my own grandmother."

Jean-Claude shrugged. Rene slipped the envelope into his pocket. Lyon was a small town, and besides, the name on the envelope wasn't a common one. It would not be difficult to find Giovanni Trouillefou.