Cold Angels, Chapter 2
A/N: I'll still update The Garden of Evil tomorrow, I just couldn't stay away from the Javertness.
Cosette was awoken by a sharp rap at her door, and the terse call of “Breakfast,” before she heard her veritable captor’s footsteps descend the stairs. When she opened her eyes, the light that diffused into her room was bitter and grey; it was scarcely dawn.
She decided she had best be quick about dressing, given the temperament of her subjugator, and instinctively crossed to the armoire. Opening it, she saw that in the night, all of her clothes had been brought over. A lump rose in her throat as it occurred to her that she may never see her home again.
She chose the least cheerful dress she had, a dark blue taffeta that was somewhat over-nice for breakfast, but would remind him who she was. Taking but a moment to touch up her hair, she saw herself in the mirror, and pronounced herself as ready as she would ever be.
“There you are,” was his sole greeting from his place at the head of the table, looking a combination of regal and utterly alone, though his face showed no emotion. He wore a black waistcoat, and over that, a dark blue banyan.
A quick survey of the comparatively small table revealed that she had little choice but to sit at his right, in the name of propriety.
The man did have one servant, a stern and silent woman who brought to them plates of egg, bread, and an irregular chunk of cheese. Cosette looked down at the decidedly utilitarian meal and winced.
“If it isn’t to your standards,” he said, voice tinged in the subdued cousin to injure, “You needn’t eat it.”
“It’s fine,” she whispered, taking a bite of the cheese. It was delicious, just as fine as anything she would have at home…it was merely presented without ceremony. A bite of the bread revealed that it, too, was of excellent quality. Her puzzlement must have shown on her face.
“Just because I don’t serve off of china doesn’t mean I feed my guests swill.”
“I…I’m sorry. Thank you.”
He made a small “Hm,” noise, and his upper lip curled, revealing more of its fullness.
For some reason, the hair on the back of her neck stood, and she looked down at her plate quickly, deciding to try the eggs.
“With all of this insurgency, I am needed at the barricades,” he said after a long silence, “You may have the run of the house, but do not leave. If you require anything, Mme. Jules will fetch it for you.”
She should have thanked him, but found all she could do was nod.
He sighed and set his napkin down, standing, “When I return this evening, we will discuss your future.” He turned rigidly on his heel, and was gone upstairs to change his coat.
Once he had left for good, Mme. Jules returned to the dining room.
“May I speak, Ma’m’selle?” she asked as she lifted the Inspector’s plate, but it was not a question.
Cosette nodded.
“You do the Inspector a grave disservice with your rudeness.”
“You call me rude?” she glared, “It was he who dragged my Papa from our home, who killed the man I love. And then he forced me here. Where is the honor is what he has done?”
Mme. Jules shook her head. “He could have put you out on the street, Ma’m’selle. By all accounts you are none of his concern.” She bowed curtly and exited through the pantry.
Cosette chewed her bottom lip nervously, for the time being refusing to admit there was any truth to the woman’s words.
Cosette was awoken by a sharp rap at her door, and the terse call of “Breakfast,” before she heard her veritable captor’s footsteps descend the stairs. When she opened her eyes, the light that diffused into her room was bitter and grey; it was scarcely dawn.
She decided she had best be quick about dressing, given the temperament of her subjugator, and instinctively crossed to the armoire. Opening it, she saw that in the night, all of her clothes had been brought over. A lump rose in her throat as it occurred to her that she may never see her home again.
She chose the least cheerful dress she had, a dark blue taffeta that was somewhat over-nice for breakfast, but would remind him who she was. Taking but a moment to touch up her hair, she saw herself in the mirror, and pronounced herself as ready as she would ever be.
“There you are,” was his sole greeting from his place at the head of the table, looking a combination of regal and utterly alone, though his face showed no emotion. He wore a black waistcoat, and over that, a dark blue banyan.
A quick survey of the comparatively small table revealed that she had little choice but to sit at his right, in the name of propriety.
The man did have one servant, a stern and silent woman who brought to them plates of egg, bread, and an irregular chunk of cheese. Cosette looked down at the decidedly utilitarian meal and winced.
“If it isn’t to your standards,” he said, voice tinged in the subdued cousin to injure, “You needn’t eat it.”
“It’s fine,” she whispered, taking a bite of the cheese. It was delicious, just as fine as anything she would have at home…it was merely presented without ceremony. A bite of the bread revealed that it, too, was of excellent quality. Her puzzlement must have shown on her face.
“Just because I don’t serve off of china doesn’t mean I feed my guests swill.”
“I…I’m sorry. Thank you.”
He made a small “Hm,” noise, and his upper lip curled, revealing more of its fullness.
For some reason, the hair on the back of her neck stood, and she looked down at her plate quickly, deciding to try the eggs.
“With all of this insurgency, I am needed at the barricades,” he said after a long silence, “You may have the run of the house, but do not leave. If you require anything, Mme. Jules will fetch it for you.”
She should have thanked him, but found all she could do was nod.
He sighed and set his napkin down, standing, “When I return this evening, we will discuss your future.” He turned rigidly on his heel, and was gone upstairs to change his coat.
Once he had left for good, Mme. Jules returned to the dining room.
“May I speak, Ma’m’selle?” she asked as she lifted the Inspector’s plate, but it was not a question.
Cosette nodded.
“You do the Inspector a grave disservice with your rudeness.”
“You call me rude?” she glared, “It was he who dragged my Papa from our home, who killed the man I love. And then he forced me here. Where is the honor is what he has done?”
Mme. Jules shook her head. “He could have put you out on the street, Ma’m’selle. By all accounts you are none of his concern.” She bowed curtly and exited through the pantry.
Cosette chewed her bottom lip nervously, for the time being refusing to admit there was any truth to the woman’s words.