#((i think she'd still ask philippe if he wanted to do this; if he was sure he wanted to be a pace))

[theheadlessgroom]

@beatingheart-bride

This humble answer made Susannah blink rather owlishly at him, tilting her head a little as she mulled over his response with a small sigh, trying to work out this puzzle in her mind, the riddle of why he would help her: There was no glory in rescuing someone like her, of course...and there was nothing that she could possibly offer him, if he were fishing for some kind of favor for him coming to her aid...

...could it really be that...he was being genuine when he said that he had only helped her because...it was the right thing to do? That he did it not for praise or to get something out of her, but just because...he saw a woman in distress and came to her aid?

It was a hard pill to swallow, but she did her best to do so, to will herself to believe in a selfless desire to help someone, class or race be damned, as she gave the tiniest of smiles at his comment about the awful morning awaiting her attacker come daybreak. It was true, that man would no doubt wake up feeling as if he'd been beaten over the head with a sledgehammer...

Still, the idea that he would selflessly risk his well-being for her sake sat on her stomach like a stone, and in an effort to ignore it, to put it out of her mind, she asked softly, "H-How are you feeling? Y-You don't hurt too much, d-do you...?" She had some salve and some painkillers in the first aid kit here somewhere, if need be...

[bleezebrew-writes]

The wedding ceremony was beautiful—as well it should be when the bishop's body and bookkeeping both revealed his evil. Isabeau's fortunes were returned to her, and no one dared tell Navarre that he ought to join the latest crusade. At the first hint of it, he would arch a brow and say, "I have had my fill of adventure." Those who dared to challenge him on that regretted it soon. Their life was peaceful, and it was good. Neither of them would give that up willingly.

The first time Navarre had to hold her back from stabbing a man, she was mortified. The feeling of threat had driven her, instincts honed under moonlight leading her immediately to violent action at the implications in his words. The man remained a threat—she wouldn't have regretted succeeding in her attempt—but the way people watched her, watched them...she was humiliated.

The fifth time it happened, she was furious.

The offensive man blustered, shouting "control your woman!" to her husband as he fled.

"It's like they think I'll just sit there and simper at them even when they threaten such awful things—!"

Navarre smiled at her gently, rubbing her shoulder. He didn't try to take her dagger from her; he knew better even if no one else did. "Isabeau," he said, an amused tilt to his expression. "You've the heart of a hawk. They're expecting a simple dove. Can you blame them for being afraid of you?"

She growled low, pressing her face into his chest. He enfolded her in his arms, running his fingers through her still-short hair. "I know I've made a fool of us both," she muttered.

"Oh, whatever shall we do?" her husband said dryly.

"Does it bother you?" she asked, gripping his cloak.

He smiled with a little sorrow, without showing teeth. He never did anymore, not around strangers. Not unless he needed to. "Like calls to like."

She met his gaze and had to smile back at him, at the intensity in his eyes. He had the heart of a wolf, after all, no matter how practiced he might be at playing the role of a dog.

~

They moved away from Aquila, away from the politics of the new bishop, closer to the abandoned mountain abbey where Imperious yet lived. From there, the funds they had received as recompense from the church were put to good use paying for the labour to construct a home for them, with a connected stable for Goliath, on an unclaimed plot of land.

It felt right to act as hunters once more. Navarre took down bucks and birds with his crossbow bolts while she set snares and caught rabbits. Their furs and leathers were far more practical than the finery they had left behind, and the farmers in the valley were eager to trade with them. Isabeau kept her hair cut short; she didn't want it to get caught in her lines.

"Does it bother you?" she asked, staring into a bucket as she studied her reflection. A woods woman now, far from her refined court of long ago—she'd never truly returned to it after the curse.

Navarre paused in chopping wood to look at her. "It looks fierce," he said after a moment, nothing but approval in his voice.

She smiled at him, and he smiled back with white teeth. She felt a curl of fire in her stomach at the expression. "You're so handsome when you smile," she told him, setting down the bucket.

He set down his axe, smiling wider. "Oh, really?"

She tipped her head, eyes sharp.

"You're beauty incarnate right before you strike," he told her, hungry.

They did make it to the bed...eventually.

~

Philippe found them three years after the curse was broken, in the middle of summer. Isabeau came back to their cottage home with a basket full of wild berries, only to hear the sound of him and Navarre talking long before they came into view.

"—and when I was coming back through Naples, I realized that I'd climbed over an entire mountain twice just to see a lot of water and I regretted the entire trip," he chattered.

"None of that tells me why you're here, Philippe Gaston. Couldn't you have bothered the priest instead?"

"Oh, I did already," he said glibly. "He held out quite admirably, Captain. A whole week before he gave you up."

She could see her husband then, if not Philippe. She saw the way his lips twitched upwards, but he managed to catch himself and give Philippe a stern look.

"As I was saying," Philippe said breezily.

Navarre huffed, rolling his eyes, and continued to brush Goliath.

Isabeau walked with silent steps, going around their cottage. She hoped to catch Philippe off-guard, difficult though that may be.

"As I was saying, I toured all the great Roman cities. Venice—you know about the canals, I'm sure. It's a paradise. Good wine, good women, but not quite right for—"

"Philippe," she said from behind the thief, setting her basket down.

He spun on one heel, eyes wide. "Isabeau!"

He'd grown into himself. Not taller so much as more lithe, his movements somehow even more fluid, and his jaw perhaps a little sharper. But his smile was just as bright, just as sweet. He hugged as well as she remembered.

"You've grown up," she said, drawing back to smile at him.

He glanced down, rubbing the back of his neck with a goofy smile. Still flustered by her, evidently. "W-well," he stammered. "I've gotten older at least."

"Stay with us for supper, won't you?"

"If you don't mind—"

"We don't," Navarre said, smiling at them both.

He rallied and grinned back. "How could I possibly refuse?"

~

Philippe did not leave after supper, or the next day. He had story upon story to share with them from his travels; it seemed every single moment he'd spent abroad had been an adventure all its own.

"Did I tell you about the relics in Rome?" he asked, perched on the roof. He'd insisted on helping her repair it.

"No, I don't think you did," she said, knowing as she did that she was encouraging a story. Navarre sighed, giving her a look from where he was fletching new bolts. She raised an eyebrow in response.

"I saw the nails that went through Christ's palms.”

She blinked up at him. "What? Shouldn't those be protected?"

He dropped down from the roof, brushing off his hands. "You would think so, wouldn't you? No, they're on display for every wandering pilgrim to see."

"What's the catch?" Navarre asked.

Philippe glanced at him and bit his lip on a smile. "Oh, no catch."

He set aside the shaft he was fletching. "Really."

Philippe rubbed his chin. "Wait, did I say any pilgrim? I meant any pilgrim who could afford the offering. It was funny, too, how many nails there were through all of Rome. I would have expected three altogether—certainly no more than a dozen."

"A dozen?" she repeated, incredulous.

Navarre's brow furrowed. "How many were there?"

"I saw thirty-two. There may have been more, though." Philippe held up a finger. "I have a theological opinion about them. I think it's not dissimilar from the sacrament."

"How is this like the sacrament?" Isabeau asked, instantly regretting the question.

"I think the nails have a sort of transitive property. God knows that not everyone can see the real ones, so he gives them a chance to see different ones. Only, since you obviously wouldn't find false relics in the Holy City itself, God made each nail equally real."

"Is this how you broke Imperious?" Navarre asked.

Philippe laughed.

~

"Why are you still here?" Navarre asked their guest one night, while Isabeau pretended to sleep.

"Do you want me to leave, Captain?" Philippe teased, though there was an edge of real concern in his voice.

"I didn't say that."

The embers crackled faintly.

Philippe sighed, characteristically dramatic. "Do you know how hard it was to see all that wealth and not steal anything?"

"I did give you a reward. Was it not enough—?"

"I—you did. It wasn't necessary, but thank you all the same. That's not the point."

"Then what is?"

His chair scraped across the floor. "I really have interfered enough. I don't know why you haven't kicked me out yet—"

"Philippe."

"You have a beautiful life here with Isabeau. I wish I could be as happy, but I can't. I should stop—"

Isabeau sat up. "Philippe, please stay," she said quietly.

He jumped, then paled. "M-my Lady, I'm so sorry I woke you—"

"She wasn't asleep," Navarre interrupted. At her glance, he shrugged. "You never fall asleep this soon after sunset."

She sighed. He wasn't wrong. "Philippe," she repeated, stepping forward to catch hold of his hands. "You're a dear friend to us. We enjoy your company; we'd never turn you away. Not after everything you've done for us."

"You don't owe me anything."

"That's not the only reason we've welcomed you," Navarre added, getting to his feet. He smiled, setting a hand on his shoulder. "I've missed your company, little thief."

"But I promised Imperious," he said. "I'm supposed to lead a normal, boring life, get a wife, work a field, pay taxes—"

"Is that what you want to do?" she asked.

"No!"

"Philippe, why do you think we left Aquila?" Navarre asked him.

The thief paused, blinking at him. "Uh...I don't...."

Navarre gave an amused huff and kissed his forehead. "Go to sleep, you little fool. You'll feel better in the morning."

Philippe sputtered. "Captain, the least you could do is give me a little respect!"

Her husband's look was fond. "I respect you more than you could know, Philippe Gaston."

"Then kiss me like you mean it!"

The instant he realized what he had said, Philippe turned bright red. He would have covered his face, but Isabeau kept hold of his hands; after a moment he straightened and raised his chin, cheeks still aflame.

She glanced at Navarre sidelong, not hiding her smile. He grinned back at her, then cradled Philippe's face in his hands and leaned down to do as he'd asked, treating him oh so gently. Isabeau let Philippe's hands slip loose as he reached up, wrapping his arms around her husband. She knew the feeling well.

"Like that?" Navarre asked a few moments later.

Philippe made an agreeable sound, holding himself up against Navarre.

"My turn," Isabeau said, pinning Philippe between them and swooping in.

The next morning, Philippe stretched like a cat and sighed contentedly, snuggled between the two of them. "I don't what I was thinking," he said, drowsy. "I'm never leav—mmh?"

"Too early to talk," Isabeau ordered between kisses. Navarre laughed at them both.

~

Philippe sighed, stretched out on the hay they’d traded for furs. “I have been so incredibly bored."

Isabeau looked up from the dressage training she was putting Goliath through. "Even while touring Italy?"

"Especially then."

Isabeau watched him. After a moment, Philippe turned his head to watch her back.

Navarre knew Philippe better than she did. She was sure he would know how to tease out what the thief was trying to say. But Navarre was off fishing at the lake. "Well," she said, choosing her words with care. "If you were to get bored, we wouldn't force you to stay, though we would miss you."

He held up a hand. "Aha. If. If."

"Then you're not bored."

"My Lady, I haven't been bored since Imperious told me where to find you."

Goliath nickered, and she patted his neck absentmindedly. "Philippe, you're not doing anything."

"I know," he said, sounding baffled. "It makes no sense!"

Isabeau smiled. "If that changes, let me know," she said. "I'm sure Navarre and I can fix that for you."

He turned bright red. "Isabeau, that's...that sounds wonderful," he admitted.

Isabeau laughed at him.

~

They stocked up for winter, trading for what they couldn't get themselves in town. Their cottage was in good shape, Navarre had split plenty of wood, and her trap lines were ready. Philippe helped where he could, and learned quickly. It looked to be a good year for them all.

Soon enough, a winter storm made the way into town impassable. This would be the true test of their ability to live together, Isabeau was sure. She and Navarre had weathered last winter with ill-grace and coldness between them that had taken awhile to thaw. They'd survived it, but it felt too much like the days of the curse—one of them always away from the other.

She prayed that it would not happen again.

Things started out alright, as they had last time. Though she checked her lines often, it was a reprieve for her. Isabeau felt confined by their cottage instead of enjoying it. With how often Navarre took to hunting every day, she knew he felt the same. Their home was warm, comfortable, and increasingly tense. Isabeau tugged at her short hair. During their time of wandering, cursed, she'd responded to the crushing, trapped feeling by cutting her hair. She hadn't had that option since, and was scared of what she might do instead.

It took her weeks before she realized what Philippe was doing.

Things hadn't necessarily been calm, but they had been more stable than she'd expected. She had gone out to check her traps and come back with nothing but chilled appendages to show for it, cold and listless and dreading returning to their small cottage. Once inside, her feelings heavy, she'd tried to warm up. Then the fire had been guttering in its hearth and the vent blocked with snow. She could feel the rage like a living thing inside her. She wanted to claw at the walls, she wanted to get out go anywhere else—

"My Lady? What's wrong?" Philippe asked from the bed, half asleep.

"Why haven't you been tending the fire?" she snapped, turning to glare at him. "It's not as if you're doing anything worthwhile with your time."

Philippe winced, then nodded slowly. "You're right. I've been clearing it every hour or so, what with the way the wind's shifted, but I could have kept a closer eye on it. You wait here, Ladyhawke, I'll fix it."

She couldn’t move as he pulled on his coat and went outside. She'd been caught wrong-footed by his response; he hadn't fought her. Even...even if he should have. Her words had been cruel and undeserved.

The fire grew in height, the smoke in the cottage slowly beginning to clear. She swallowed back tears, staring at the hearth.

The door opened behind her, then creaked closed. "Isabeau?" Philippe asked, kind, concerned.

"How long have you been taking our anger?"

He didn't answer.

Isabeau buried her face in her hands. "Philippe I—I shouldn't have—"

"It's alright."

"It's not."

Philippe sighed in fond exasperation, walking over to Goliath to check on him. Given how often he complained about "getting crushed by the gigantic creature," Isabeau was shocked out of her tears by it. Goliath bumped him with a quiet nicker, and he patted his neck. "I know, I know," he said. "It's cold enough to freeze the air in your lungs, big guy. Maybe it'll be warmer tomorrow, and the Captain will take you with him."

Goliath sighed as he ran his hands over the horse, checking his temperature. "It's the same with you and the Captain, My Lady," Philippe explained. "I have no problem with staying nice and warm here, but the two of you...you feel trapped."

"That's no excuse."

His mouth flattened. "Well. Better that you take it out on me than on each other. I know how to defuse the situation."

Thinking back...yes, he'd started interceding after she and Navarre had first snapped at each other. She'd wondered why it hadn't gotten worse. "Philippe, I—"

"Isabeau, it's okay."

"It isn't." She shook her head. "It isn't."

"Isabeau—"

"Does Navarre treat you as harshly as I just did?"

Philippe hesitated. "Well...not really, no. Not for the reason you think!" he hastened to add.

"And what do I think?"

"It's because of the ice. When the wolf fell through the ice." He kept speaking quickly, as if she would interrupt, even as her heart was choking her. "The wolf scratched me. When Imperious and I told him that his father's sword was lost, he didn't take it well. I said—it doesn't matter. He got mad and shoved me out of his way, and when he saw the scratches, he—" Philippe paused for breath, rubbing his chest. "That's...that's why."

Isabeau ran a hand over her face, taking a deep breath. It hitched. "We should talk about this. With him."

Philippe walked towards her. "My Lady, please. There's no need to—"

She pulled him into a fierce hug and squeezed. "Yes, there is," she murmured, tucking his head tight to her shoulder.

He relaxed into her hold with a sigh.

~

Things got better after they talked. Still tense and miserable, but they were better able to catch themselves and catch each other before things went too far. It was a good thing, too; a month later, they were still snowed in. They had food and firewood enough, and good company. It promised to be a good winter for them.

It was not a good winter for the wolves.

Navarre had seen the signs early—footprints too close, dangerously lean animals out during the day, scouting. "What can we do?" Isabeau asked. She did not want to kill a wolf.

Navarre sighed. He didn't want to, either. "The cottage is safe," he said. "We can keep Goliath inside easily enough, though he won't enjoy it. We can wait it out."

"But?" Philippe asked.

"But I'd like to do something to guard our door, bring the firewood closer." He glanced at her. "You won't be able to check your traps."

"That's fine."

"Isabeau," he said. "My crossbow?"

She nodded slowly. Much as she didn't want to, she would not let them come to harm.

"I could do it," Philippe said.

Navarre gave him a look. "I've seen your aim. Come on, I need your help to carry things."

Philippe groaned theatrically but pulled on his coat.

It was hard, difficult work, preparing to block off their door. Isabeau sat on the roof, the cold wind biting at her face. She kept her eyes open, her focus on the woods around them while they worked. Navarre had his short sword with him, but his hands were full more often than not. Philippe's dagger wouldn't be much use against a hungry wolf even if it wasn't buried under his coat.

Daylight began to fade as they continued working, and sounds filtered out from the woods. Isabeau adjusted her grip on the crossbow. "Navarre?"

He grunted. "Can you hold them off?"

Isabeau sighted a shadow in the woods and loosed an arrow, hearing a yelp in response. The answering snarls came from all around them, sending a chill up her spine.

"I'll keep working, Captain," Philippe said hurriedly.

She heard him draw his sword. "Stay behind me."

Philippe gave a slightly hysterical laugh. "You don't have to tell me twice."

Isabeau was careful in the dark to know what she was aiming at. She could hear Navarre driving off the hungry wolves, but kept her focus on keeping the pack from flanking him instead of succumbing to her fears.

When she heard Philippe cry out, she spun, aimed, fired. The wolf tumbled off him, letting Navarre get to him and pull him up. "Inside," he called up to her, holding tight to Philippe's arm.

She slid down off the roof, keeping an eye on the woods. The number of injured or dead wolves seemed to have given the pack pause—they made it to the door, next to two precarious towers of wood.

"I finished," Philippe said, seeming giddy.

"You did," Navarre said proudly, clapping an arm over his shoulders. Isabeau opened the door, letting Navarre pass Philippe to her. He hung back, checking their work.

A snarl cut through the darkness. Isabeau clutched Philippe closer. "Navarre—"

He stabbed out into the night and retreated quickly. When he closed the door, it was with a concerning thud and a clatter. Isabeau eyed her husband. "Will we be able to get back out come spring?"

He nodded. "It will take a while, though."

"You know, after falling through the ice I swore to myself that I'd never stay somewhere cold again," Philippe said, conversational.

Navarre winced. "Here, come to the fire," he said, guilt heavy in his voice.

"Ooh, fire." Philippe tugged at the furs around his shoulders with fingers made clumsy with cold. Isabeau stepped forward with Navarre to help him.

"I'm sorry," Navarre said, voice low.

Philippe laughed breathlessly. "Are you kidding? I'm the warmest I've ever been in my life."

He pressed a frigid kiss to each of their cheeks, then nearly collapsed. They caught him before he could fall. "Are you?" Navarre asked, holding him close.

"To be clear," he said, teeth chattering. "That was a m-metaphor. Captain, I am freezing."

The fire was warm, she would see sunlight tomorrow, and tonight Isabeau held her family in her arms. What better life was there than this?

~

"You know, 'Mouse' doesn't suit you."

Philippe paused with his hands in her hair, turning to stare at Navarre. "I have no idea what you're talking about, Captain," he said frankly before continuing to play with her short strands.

Isabeau glanced at Navarre, curious where he was going with his train of thought.

"Mice are timid creatures," he explained. "They're prey."

"And that doesn't suit me?"

"No, it doesn't."

Philippe scoffed. "Oh, please. I scurry about stealing, I'll never be as brave as you—"

"Braver," Navarre interrupted. "Or why else would you jump into freezing water with a wolf bigger than you?"

Philippe slowly stroked her hair again. The movement felt thoughtful. "If you're so set on complimenting me, Captain, who am I to stop you?"

"Clever as well. Too clever for your own good, sometimes. Mice aren't known for their cleverness, either." Navarre saw her watching him and winked. "Which is why I think a stoat fits you much better."

Philippe sputtered. "Did—did you just call me a weasel?"

Navarre was holding back laughter. "Not at all."

"Well! Of all the back-handed—if you're just going to insult me like this, I'll—"

"I did nothing of the sort."

"Stoats are quite noble, in their winter coat," Isabeau mused aloud. Really, she could see it. Philippe was quick and bold and could make his way anywhere he pleased.

Philippe paused to consider her point. "Besides which," he said, sounding careless about it. "'Philippe the Mouse' has a kind of ring to it. You can't ask a man to just throw away his reputation."

"Of course not," Navarre said, his smile indulgent. "Just a passing thought."

"Philippe the Ferret!" the thief exclaimed. "No, wait, forget it."

"Of course, Philippe," she said, patting his knee.

And if they both caught him smiling to himself, mouthing his new moniker, they didn't say a word.

fin

A hawk, a wolf, and a mouse decide how to live in a world of dogs and doves.

Rated Teen, set post movie. Starts with Isabeau/Navarre and becomes an OT3 with Philippe Gaston. Very much a recovery story; the curse changed them.

[apinchofm]

Writing Prompt: Since Mathew didn’t approve of Marcus choosing a human as a mate. Marcus turns to Baldwin to ask for help about proposing to Phoebe.

(Mathew behaviour to Marcus in the tv show and the books really annoyed me. The blatant favouritism towards Jack and that he barley praised or thanked Marcus for all he did during the second season/books. Marcus definitely needs more love).

Matthew needs to read a few parenting books and see a good therapist because he fully traumatised his eldest child lol. Baldwin reluctantly has to take care of his nephew.

"Uncle?" Marcus popped his head in Baldwin's office.

"What?" Baldwin asked, not looking up from his work.

He clapped his hands, whilst leaning back and forth on his heels, and Baldwin finally looked up, sensing his impatience and hesitation.

"I need your help." Marcus finally said.

"Dear God, what have you done now?"

"Must you always think the worst of me?" Marcus frowned.

"Over 200 years of history leads me to."

"Well, I want to ask Phoebe to marry me. Officially." Baldwin looked surprised as he absorbed, "You weren't expecting that, were you?"

He always was the wildcard.

"Frankly, no. Wow." Baldwin put down his pen and looked at his nephew. He had met Miss Taylor a few times. She was brave for a human surrounded by creatures. An intelligent and diligent historian and researcher, knowledgeable in the art. A worthy addition to the family.

Even Philippe would've tried to turn her. Depending on when she had been born, of course.

"Why do you need help?" Baldwin asked curiously, "And why are you asking me?"

"Well, I am not sure exactly how to do it." Marcus said, "And well, you are the head of the family."

"I've never mated. Your father just got married." Baldwin pointed out.

"To a witch. Not exactly a traditional vampire relationship." Marcus retorted, then took a seat, "Help? Please?"

"What were you thinking?"

"I mean, doing the whole brooding, devotional thing that we traditionally do, I don't think will work."

"That is how vampires love," Baldwin said.

"Yes, but Phoebe isn't a vampire yet. And she's a 21st Century woman. I doubt she wants a speech about how I want to possess her for eternity." Marcus said.

"No." Baldwin agreed. Considering she seemed to think most vampire relationship customs, such as not shaking the hand of other vampires were strange, he doubted that would work.

"Why not be honest with her? Most humans do that, just tell her that you love her. She's agreed, for some reason to change for you. So be honest."

.....

"Why do we keep all of this?" Marcus asked as he led him to a room full of de Clermont artefacts from over the centuries.

"Some of its of value, most of it sentimental," Baldwin said.

"Phoebe would have a field day in here," Marcus mused, picking up a dusty powdered wig, "I remember this wig! My first."

Baldwin huffed what one might call a laugh, before opening one of the safes. He pulled out a few boxes and placed them on a small table.

"Oh, I remember this," Marcus said, looking over the lot with interest. "It was part of a prize I won in a card game." It was at a gentlemen's club. London, from what he can remember. He emptied a small velvet bag. Emeralds, still worth a small fortune.

"Yes, I think she'll love it." Marcus smiled, holding the gems in his palm.

"I know a jeweller we can take it to. They did a lot of the jewellery Philippe had made for Ysabeau." Baldwin said, "You may also get a necklace, some earrings out of it."

"She hates me spending a lot of money on her, " Marcus said.

"So don't tell her." Baldwin shrugged, "And you own the stones, so it isn't as extravagant as she fears."

"Oh, Marcus?" Baldwin handed him a jewellery box, "For Phoebe." He opened it curiously.

"Those were set aside for when you found your mate, by Philippe. Phoebe can pick and choose which ones she'd like to keep, though I suspect she may find more interest in the box than the contents."

"Philippe set these aside for me?" Baldwin nodded. Marcus was confused. When Philippe was alive, he was a notorious lothario, the opposite of his restrained father. He didn't think Philippe believed he would mate.

"Of course he did." Baldwin said gently, "He was optimistic about all of us, even if he didn't show it."

"Thank you, uncle," Marcus said sincerely, with a small smile.

"Don't thank me yet. Miss Taylor may come to her senses and agree not to marry you." Baldwin replied with a faint smile.

[theheadlessgroom]

@beatingheart-bride

"We...we were."

Susannah was very surprised to hear he was envious of her friendship with Doreen growing up: In many ways, she expected he'd have a host of friends by his side, that he'd never been lonely a day in his life, unlike her...to hear that that wasn't the case, that he'd never had as close a friendship, a bond as she did with Doreen...it was so strange to think about. Frankly, she couldn't understand why-even in just this short time she'd spent in his presence, she really was enjoying his company! It seemed just...odd to think someone so warm could be so lonely, in some ways.

For a moment, she felt herself relax, and for the briefest of moments, she toyed with asking if he'd be interested in being friends with her...

...only to discard that notion as quickly as it came. Sure, he was being nice tonight, he was being polite now, but would he feel the same way in the daylight hours? Would he want to be seen with the likes of her? Not likely. No one else did; why should he be any different?

She tried to ignore that nasty feeling swirling around in her gut as she fidgeted with her fingers for a moment, a little unsure of what to say now. A part of her was greatly curious to know more about him, to get to know him further, but she also resisted out of shyness. Instead, she replied, "I'm...I'm just glad to hear Doreen is doing well. I-Is Belle, the head maid, i-is she still working for the Gracey's?" She was always very maternal towards Susannah, just as much as she was Doreen...