The next morning was a frosty one between Grace and Artemida.

Grace slightly begrudged that she couldn't dress herself or start her day without Artemida's help, but she waited impatiently in her bed for the maid to present herself at dawn, and silently stood to attention as she began dressing her. Grace couldn't look at her. She couldn't speak to her. Not after yesterday. The disappointment still burned too brightly. Yet, even if she could stand to lock eyes with Artemida, what would she say? She'd tried arguing her case yesterday when the sound of the flames had reached them. But her arguments hadn't reached Artemida's ears.

So, when she was lifted out for the day, Grace moved silently out of her bedroom and down the tower steps for the morning routines.

She worked silently in the kitchen: kneading the dough for that day's baguettes, fetching the leftover food from last night's dinner from out of the pantry, and churning the fresh milk from the Chateau's cows into butter.

Grace was well-averaged in the rhythms of 1830's life now. It had been a very long and very uneventful six months, waiting for something to happen. Each night, she went to bed praying that tomorrow would be the day that she figured out how to go home, or that perhaps she'd find the Story Teller and demand he work his magic for her. But as weeks bled into months, and early spring blossomed into golden summer, Grace knew that she had to bunker-down to be in Provins for the long-haul.

She learnt how to sew, to salt fish and cheeses, to starch linen, to brush her teeth with a birch twig, to count in centimes and sous and francs, to ride a horse…Her list of achievements was endless, but she had to pretend that she had been born to all of it. Hide just how new and foreign everything was to her from Julius, Jocelyn and the rest of the Chateau. Still, she'd had Artemida to go to, to subtly ask what this thing was used for or where that thing went. If Artemida had ever asked her why she didn't know a seemingly obvious thing, Grace would always fall back on the excuse of "we don't have them in England" or "we do it a different way in Oxford".

Even then, Grace still struggled with the boredom. So, after she'd helped out Artemida in the early morning with the food-distribution, she would meet Julius in the study and he had been endeavouring to teach her Latin. The afternoon would be taken up with a visit to Cosette and Fauchelevent in the convent or Athalia and her children in the Romani camp.

It was the evenings that Grace dreaded the most; Jocelyn had truly committed to her quest to get Grace married-off and the last six months had been full of dinner parties, celebrations, soirées, dances and engagements. The best Grace could hope for was a quiet night in the drawing room where she would be asked to play the piano for Jocelyn and Julius into the early hours of the morning.

So, that morning she bent her head low and quietly got on with the routines of the morning. Artemida worked around her, helping with the tasks, but still they didn't exchange a word. Around six o'clock in the morning, they both heard light crunching on the gravel outside the kitchen door and the chatter of small voices.

They were here.

Grace fetched the baguettes from out of the oven and began assembling the first of the sandwitches. Within a few moments she had a dozen or so, as did Artemida. With a tray full of food, Grace wandered over to the kitchen door and called out to the gathered.

"Right, it's roast beef today, guys and gals!"

The waiting people came forward, hungry eyes and watering mouths and Grace began handing out the food.

She'd come to know all of them, all of the regulars who presented themselves at the Chateau for Julius and Jocelyn's charity. Antoine, who had lost a foot in a farming accident three summers ago. Hermine, whose husband had up and left her and their three children when he'd fallen for an eighteen-year-old seamstress. Jeanne, whose father had tuberculosis and spent every last penny he earned on medicine. Marie-Madeline, whose family had thrown her out at the tender age of ten because of her cleft palate.

There were many more, whose names and stories she had taken into her heart. And despite the boredom and drudgery of middle-class life, she was grateful at least that she'd been put in a position of privilege in this world.

They came forward and accepted their food, one by one, giving her their thanks.

"God bless you."

"Thank you, Mademoiselle."

"God bless you."

"Thank you, Mademoiselle."

"God bless you."

She could feel Artemida's eyes burning into her as she worked. She could feel the roiling emotion in the maid's stomach as she yearned to speak to her. But if Grace was anything, she was stubborn. She kept her eyes staunchly forward and refused to give her even a glance. Especially when a familiar face came shuffling to the front of the crowd.

"Athalia! You made it!" Grace cried out.

Her friend approached the kitchen door, holding her baby close to her chest and trailing young Iosif behind her.

"The caravans stopped burning at around midnight last night." She sighed miserably. "The roof is utterly ruined, but perhaps I can salvage most of our belongings inside."

Artemida turned bright red and cast her eyes to the floor. Grace broke her own self-imposed rule of not looking at her and cast her a glance. The maid embarrassedly wrung her hands and retreated inside the kitchen. Perhaps Grace's words yesterday had reached her after all…

"What about the others in the camp?" Grace asked.

"Many have moved on already." Athalia sighed. "I've heard of another Romani band passing through here in perhaps a week or so. Until then, all I can do is pick through the ash and wait."

"You can come here as often as you like." Grace said, handing Athalia and Iosif a sandwich. "I could ask Jocelyn and Julius if they wouldn't mind offering you a room-"

"No. No." Athalia said firmly. "Us Romani, we aren't designed for stone walls."

"But what will you do until the other band turn up?"

"We have our ways." Athalia added, mustering a small half-smile.

Grace sighed too and dropped her eyes to the sleeping baby in Athalia's arms. At least she was quiet and content. So many times she had sung to baby Zaida when she'd been screaming down Athalia's caravan. Iosif too was happily tucking in to his sandwich, but Grace couldn't help but feel sorry for them all.

"If you need anything, just come back here." Grace said to Athalia. "Anything that's mine to give, you can have it."

"You are kind, Grace. Tis a pity not everyone is like you."

Athalia cast her eyes over her shoulder and Grace followed her gaze. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Artemida flinch and turn herself back to the stove and pretend that she was busy cooking something.

After that, Athalia and her family bade their goodbyes and disappeared from the Chateau's grounds. So did all of the other poor and desperate and the gardens outside fell quiet once more.

Grace untied her apron and finished the last of the tidying-up for that morning. She snacked on a quick breakfast of a few morsels of leftover meat and cheeses, grabbing the heel end of a baguette as she made her way towards the drawing room.

By the time she got there, Julius was up and quietly reading a letter in his armchair. A bag of something powdery and brown sat on the coffee table in front of him, as well as the discarded wrapping paper the parcel had arrived in.

"What's that?" Grace asked, pointing at the powder.

"Chocolat chaud." Julius responded despondently. "My irresponsible wretch of a son has sent it to us as a peace offering. More like a bribery tool, if you ask me."

"Marcelin?" Grace asked, eyebrow raised. "I thought he hadn't written to you for months."

"He hasn't. Which is why I think this so-called present is a prelude to more begging for funds from us."

Grace huffed a laugh and sat down opposite Julius. She poked a finger into the brown powder and the rich aroma of chocolate wafted up into her nostrils. Her mouth was watering in seconds; it felt like eternity since she'd last had a bar of chocolate. God, she would have killed for a Kinder Bueno.

"Would you like a cup? I can have cook make us up a pot?"

"Oh my God, yes." Grace groaned.

Julius laughed at her enthusiasm. He rang a small bell at his side and another maid, not Artemida thankfully, answered the call.

"Constance, have cook make us up some chocolat chaud, if you please." He instructed, handing the bag of cocoa powder to her. "Oh, and a touch of cream to accompany. Perhaps a sprinkle of cinnamon on top too."

"Yes, Monsieur Julius." The maid bobbed, ushering out swiftly.

"You know your hot chocolate, Sir." Grace said with a smile. "Don't suppose you have marshmallows too?"

"Marshmallows? I'm afraid not. Is that another Oxford curiosity?" Julius asked, looking at her peculiarly.

"Yes." Grace said succinctly.

Julius and Jocelyn both had gotten used to her seemingly odd and out-of-place phrases or unknown words. Grace had been careful not to drop too many modern references, but every so often one would just slip out and she'd be at the receiving end of an odd look.

"Are you going to tell Jocelyn?" Grace asked, pointing at the letter in his hands.

The old man sighed, turning it over in his hands.

"I'm not sure. I think that perhaps it's best not to get her hopes up or allow herself to believe that Marcelin might return here."

"Ignorantia est beatus." Grace said with a cheeky smile.

Julius gave her a schoolmaster's look and wagged the folded-up letter at her. "If you're trying to give me the Latin of 'ignorance is bliss', then it's ignorantia sit beatitudo."

"Oh no, I feel another verb-tense exercise coming on." Grace grumbled playfully.

"Alas not." Julius responded solemnly. "I imagine Jocelyn will want your help with a few errands in preparation for tonight. And if I were to indispose you with grammar exercises, she would never forgive me."

"Oh joyful…" Grace grumbled.

Another soiree had been planned for tonight. A great, flamboyant ball which half the gentrified population of the district had been invited to. Jocelyn had been planning this one for going on three weeks now, and Grace was dreading the kind of spectacle she had concocted up.

Javert frequently had bad dreams.

Normally, he was able to keep the memories at bay, pushed down, drowning underneath. But sometimes, they rushed up to greet him.

That night, he'd dreamt of bad times in even more vivid detail than normal.

Thinking on the prison, and his mother, and Monsieur Froid had clearly stirred something inside him. Something he'd thought had settled and sedimented right at the bottom of his heart.

In his dreams, he could hear someone crying…

As he allowed the dream to take him, he realised that it was himself that he could hear crying.

The pitiful cry of a child in torment.

He had been with Monsieur Froid for about a year at this point. Running his errands, maintaining his affairs, learning at his side.

But since the first moment he had entered Froid's household, it had been more a game of survival than life in the prison had been.

Froid was not a caring man. He did not nurture and molly-coddle him. He was left to fetch his own meals, dress and wash himself, even tend to the horses without supervision. Froid had expected him to not just act as his apprentice, but also his valet.

That morning, he'd been crying because he was homesick. Well, he missed his mother. He didn't miss the prison. Still, he had started the day curled up underneath his meagre blanket, lying on a simple wooden cot.

The room he'd been given was spartan. Froid kept an empty household, only furnished with the absolute necessities of living, and no exception had been made for the room of his child-helper. The walls and floor were grey, stark, damp. There was nought else to catch the eye on, save for a small wash bowl and jug perched on top of a set of drawers.

Still, he had dried his face on his sleeve and begun his day with the routinely washing of his face.

That had been one of the first things Froid had done when he'd brought him here: scrubbed and lathered every inch of him to within an inch of his life. His hair had been cut short, down to stubble, and his clothes burnt. Then everyday henceforth it had been drilled within him to wash his face in the harsh carbolic soap Froid had left for him beside the washbowl.

If he didn't wash his face, he would be beaten. And Froid could tell if he hadn't; the harshness of the soap left his skin pink and raw.

There were hundreds of tiny cracks and patches of flaky skin all over his hands as a result. It felt taut and painful to flex his fingers and he dreaded putting moisture anywhere near his hands.

He had much to do before he could sit down to eat. First on his list was to fetch in the day's supply of coal for the furnace. So, when he emerged newly scrubbed from his empty room, he grabbed the tin coal-bucket and ventured outside.

The coal shed was just by the stables and he walked briskly over the ice-covered cobble stones. He hadn't patched up his shoes very well and he could feel the cold bite of winter on his toes. He scooped up handfuls of black lumps, bemoaning the dark smudges on the skin that he had just scrubbed clean. He'd have to wash his hands again before he presented himself to Monsieur Froid. And he jumped with fright when the beast in the stable beside him brayed.

Froid's horse was almost as awful as he was. Except Vendetta was more bad tempered than his master. That was the horse's name. Vendetta. As a young boy he hadn't understood the word. He'd grown up thinking 'vendetta' meant someone vile with a short-fuse and a penchant for kicking thanks to that horse. One of his most hated jobs was when he had to muck out Vendetta's stable. He always walked away from that with a bite or two.

"It's oats and boiled barley for you today." he said to the animal.

He always used to steal the carrots from out of the horse's bucket. They were too valuable to give to an animal, and he was too hungry to leave them for Vendetta.

Still, feeding the horse would come later in the day. First, he had to heave the coal-bucket inside and get the stove working.

Lighting the coals was hard that morning. His fingers were stiff and icy and striking the match to light the scars of newspaper he'd wedged in-between the lumps of coal was proving difficult. Mercifully, he soon managed to light the match and he could begin preparing Froid's breakfast.

To call what Froid had 'breakfast' was an insult to food. His master had a simple cup of hot water and a slice of lemon in the mornings. Perhaps it was why he was so uncomfortably thin. Froid only ate when it was necessary, and meagerly then. He saw food as purely a conduit to fuel his body, taking no enjoyment from it whatsoever.

So, he had learnt to grab food whenever he could, storing it underneath his hard mattress or in the folds of his boots. He had come to think of food as fuel too. And for a growing boy, he dreaded running out of fuel as deeply as he dreaded running out of years.

Even his name, 'Javert', had been a cruel jab at his desperation for food. When he had first met Froid, he had been withholding with his words. And truth be told, he didn't even know what his familial name was; his mother had never told him. But Froid had quickly noticed just how much he coveted his food. How he stared with wide-eyes at children in the streets enjoying their madeleines or drooled with envy at the trays of baked bread coming out of the local boulangerie. So, the old man had taken to calling him "the boy with the green eyes" or "yeux-vert". Somehow, over time, it had been shortened and simplified and "yeux-vert" became "Javert".

The kettle on the hob began to whistle, and the young boy was quick to grab a kitchen rag to avoid getting more burns or blisters on his fingers. He tracked time through the healing of his scalds. But heal he did, and he was left with calloused and scarred fingers full of burning and searing memories.

He put together the hasty morning tray for Froid. His teacup, his lemon slices, the small silver tongs. He hastily checked the back door and there was the day's paper, left there by the newsagent's boy. He had tried to make friends with Javert to begin with, but the boy had found him to sullen and too miserable to converse with. So, he didn't even bother to say hello to him in the mornings now. He preferred it that way; he could get on with the chores Froid had given him rather than wasting his time chatting with children. So, with tray in hand, and the newspaper tucked under his armpit, he ascended the stairs up from the kitchens and made his way to the drawing room.

The kitchen was the warmest place in the house when he got the stove going. But out of the warm pocket of the kitchen, the rest of Froid's house was arctic.

"If you come with me, you never need feel hungry or cold again." Froid had told him.

What a lie that was.

He may not have been fighting for his food, hiding from guards, or freezing to death in his prison cell with his mother, but he was still as hungry and cold as ever. Froid only permitted the fires to be lit after the feast day of St Eligius, on the 1st of December. It was currently late September, and he had a long time to wait.

Then the house would get oppressively hot, and Javert would be working almost around the clock to keep the fires fuelled. It seemed that Froid needed some sort of physical punishment or another. And the boy would find himself dizzy with heat and sweat, standing outside in the cool night for a bit of respite.

The old man was already waiting for him in his seat by the unlit fire when he entered the drawing room. He sat poised, with his fingers steepled together.

"Boy, you are filthy." He said by way of greeting.

Javert almost dropped his tray.

Along his hands he saw the ugly black steaks of coal dust that he'd forgot to wash off before presenting himself to Froid.

"I'm sorry, sir. I-"

"A 'sorry' is meaningless to me, boy." Froid grumbled. "If I were to present myself at a crime scene or a brawl site, would the public find confidence in me, their Inspector, if I were covered in soot?!"

"No, sir."

"Then you will scrub yourself spotless, right here, right now, boy!"

He pointed a bony finger at another wash jug and basin in the corner of the drawing room. That same awful, drying soap at the side of it. He looked down at his chapped hands and grimaced. Yet he dare not disobey Froid.

"Yes, sir."

He began washing himself at the basin. The skin on his hands erupted into sharp pain as he washed the spot from him. Still, it was better than a whipping. Froid was fond of those. In both dishing them out to him, his apprentice, and dishing them out to the constituents in his jurisdiction as punishment for their crimes.

"We are required down by the docks today, boy." Froid said, distracting him from the pain of his siore hands. "A nasty little Pimp and his gang of prostitutes have been robbing patrons blind whilst they're…indisposed with a whore."

"Yes, sir."

"I've seen tricks like this before. Thirty years of tricks, boy! The Pimp lures the customer in. Most likely a sailor, just off the boat and just paid his wages. Tempting him in with the promise of a night with one of his ladies, and whilst his trousers are down and his coat unattended, another whore will turn his pockets inside out and run off with everything he has on him!"

"Yes, sir."

"I've caught them at it many a time. And the Pimps have always tried to bribe me out of prosecution with a free night with one of their whores." Froid paused, glaring at the young Javert with a look of distaste on his face. "That is their mistake, boy, thinking that I, the representative of the Law itself can be swayed by passions of the flesh! And what is it we always say of the Law, boy?"

"The law is reason, free from passion, sir."

"Good. Good."

Froid downed his cup of tea and stood to his feet. He was already striding for the door by the time Javert realised he was leaving.

"We catch them early, boy." He shouted back to him. "Early morning, they're un-busy. Sleeping off the exertions of last night."

Javert rushed after him. If he didn't stay three paces behind Froid at all times then the old man would start shouting for him.

They were out of the house and patrolling the streets in no time. Now was the time for Javert to learn. Froid was in the business of the law, and Javert was his apprentice.

He watched as the beggars and prostitutes and gangmen ran from Froid, scattering like rags from the thud of his boots. Sometimes they would turn and spit at his heels. The spit would land on the back of Javert's legs. It both inspired and frightened him, that a man could have that much of an effect on those around him.

Almost suddenly, he was at the dockyards. Squalid houses balancing on half-rotted wooden beams rose up all around them. The air was still cold with the newness of morning, but he could still smell the stench of last night's tobacco smoke, sweaty rags, stale vomit. All of it a heady and awful mix.

Froid rapped on a door, seemingly one of many in that rat-nest of a place.

"Monsieur du Lac, I am entering!" Froid called out.

What followed was a raucous noise of smashing glass and hushed swearing.

Without warning, Froid kicked down the door with that deceptive strength he had. A woman inside the hovel screamed. And through the darkness, Javert saw the tangle of limbs and aghast faces of the Pimp and his favourite prostitute.

"Froid! You have no right…No right to-"

"Save your breath Monsieur du Lac. I am the designated Inspector of this town, and I am given permission, by the justice of the King himself, to enter any property I see fit. If I believe the inhabitants within are in violation of the Law, that is."

The woman wept and tried to cover herself with the meagre blanket on the bed. Meanwhile the Pimp scrabbled desperately for his trousers, strewn across the floor with a scowl of hatred on his face.

"We haven't done nothing!" The Pimp snarled.

"You were witnessed, last night, entertaining half a dozen guests in your…" he paused as he looked about the hovel. "…abode. All of whom left bloodied, bruised and crying theft."

"That ain't true. They're liars, all of 'em!"

"This woman, she is your wife yes?" Froid asked, pointing a bony finger at the woman still in bed.

She whimpered in fright but neither she nor the man said nothing.

"I know she is, I checked the marriage records of the province." Froid continued. "Does it trouble you, Monsieur, to whore her out so?"

The woman sobbed. Javert watched her with a small stir of pity as she covered her bruised face with the blanket.

"You ain't got any proof…" the Pimp said quietly.

"How many men have you forced her to lay with? A hundred? Two hundred? Five hundred?"

"You ain't got any proof!" He roared.

"Boy, search the room."

Javert sprung to life. He began opening the drawers, flinging out the clothes and tossing them to the floor. When he found nothing but rags and undergarments he searched the other hiding spots in the room.

"You let children do your dirty work now, Froid?" The Pimp growled.

"The Law's work is never dirty, Monsieur du Lac."

The boy tested the floorboards, he tore down the pictures on the walls and as he made his way towards the filthy bed, he heard another noise. He stopped in his tracks, looking to Monsieur Froid with wide eyes.

"Oh, Monsieur du Lac. I was not aware that you had children."

Javert crouched on his hands and there, lying under the bed, was a young girl.

Her skin was dark, her hair a tangled mess, her face was wet with tears. Javert could tell just by looking at her that she wasn't the Pimp's.

"She ain't my daughter!" The Pimp laughed bitterly.

"Please, Monsieur, leave my daughter be." The woman cried.

"Ohh, a consequence of your…many dalliances, Madame?

Javert noticed the girl was cradling a filthy doll to her chest. A creature with a missing arm and a ugly, featureless face. He reached a hand under the bed towards and the girl wailed and hugged it tighter. It made a metallic clanking sound when it pressed against her chest.

Javert's eyes widened and he looked to his master.

"Sir." He said briskly. "The girl's doll."

Froid nodded succinctly at him and within moments, Javert was back on his knees and reaching for the doll.

The girl under the bed screamed and scrubbed away from him. But he dared not disappoint Froid. So, he fought and wrestled the doll from out of her pitiful hands. Gritted his teeth and tugged with all his might as the poor girl wept. He almost tore an arm off it before the girl finally lost her strength and let it go.

It was heavy in his hands, and as he handed the doll to Froid, he heard the tell-tale jangle of coins inside it.

Froid smiled, an awful sight to behold as he looked to the doll, and then to the woman and then to the Pimp.

"It sounds like you took quite the night's takings, Monsieur." He said, enjoying the moment.

"Please, Monsieur." The woman cried. "We'll starve if we have no money."

"Madame, I am not in the business of pity." Froid said coldly. "Tell me again, boy. What is it we say?"

"The law is reason, free from passion, sir."

A knock sounded at his door.

Javert bolted awake and sat up in his bed.

"What?!" He roared.

"Sir, there's a problem…." Came Malloirave's nervous voice.

Javert grumbled and dragged himself out of bed. He hastily pulled on his shirt and donned a pair of breeches. Striding towards the door of his room at the Inn, he steeled himself for the day's new challenges.

"What is it, Malloirave?" He growled, staring back at the nervous face of his Sergeant.

"I'm afraid…it's your horse, Sir."

"My horse?"

"I'm afraid she threw a shoe when she was out on her morning exercises, Sir."

"Well, seek out the blacksmith, man!" He said irritably. He was about to slam the door in his face when Malloirave spoke again.

"But sir…"

Javert halted. He paused, waiting for him to continue.

"The blacksmith… they say he's away. Gone to Calais for his daughter's wedding. He's not due to return for a few days or so."

"So, my horse is to be lame for a week?"

"Yes, sir. I'm sorry sir."

Javert sighed and pushed open the door. Without invitation, he bade Malloirave enter his bedchamber whilst he grumbled and made his way back over to the seat by the fire.

"I am expected at the Préfecture tomorrow, Sergeant!" Javert groaned.

"Yes, sir. I know, sir."

Javert huffed as he lowered himself into the armchair. Malloirave stood awkwardly by the side of his bed, waiting for instruction. The Inspector rubbed at the bridge of his nose whilst he thought. The room was awkwardly silent.

"Are all the other horses fit for travel?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then it's pointless for my misfortune to hold back the whole unit. Sergeant, you are to lead the men on the remainder of the journey to Paris."

Malloirave's eyes doubled in size. "But, sir-"

"Then you can present yourself at the Préfecture and explain why I have been stranded in the provinces."

"But, sir, why not take one of our horses?"

"A man's horse is a reflection of himself, Malloirave. I could no more ride another man's horse than I could wear his britches."

Malloirace smirked. "Is that…something you learned in the army, Sir?"

Javert gave his Sergeant a scowl. He wasn't sure how he had learned of his service as a young man, but he didn't appreciate the probing tone in his voice. Malloirave withered under his stare and dipped his eyes to the floor.

"I shall inform the Innkeeper that you intend to stay here for longer."

"Very good, Sergeant."

Malloirave clicked his heels and left the room without a second glance. Javert was left alone in the silence of solitude again.

He sighed and stood to his feet. Scratching at his face, he realised that he needed a shave. It was the responsibility of all men of the Law to always look presentable and neat. For how could a man who could not keep his personal appearance under control be expected to keep the populace under control?

He wandered over to the dresser, with the bowl and the water jug atop it. He grimaced to himself as he remembered that terrible carbolic soap in Froid's house. It had taken years for the skin in his hands to heal. Even longer for him to look at a lather of soap without wincing.

But his eyes snagged on something beside the washbowl. The invitation. The ball that was happening tonight up at the local Chateau.

It looked like Malloirave had never gotten around to responding with a decline. And with a whole week of potential solitude knocking at his door, now he was to be left alone in this provincial town by himself, perhaps it would fill an empty evening…

And with the past seemingly chasing at his heels recently, a night of distraction might be exactly what he needed to break its hold on him.