She awoke to a thud followed by a shrill woman's voice screaming obscenities. The neighbor's cat had been at the cream again, she realized as she closed her eyes again. This was not how she typically woke in the morning (afternoon?), but it was far from unusual. Marie had been waging war with that cat for the last three months, swearing she would poison the thing each time she found the cream spoiled, but the cat still came round at least once a week, and if Marie was trying to poison it, it either cleverly avoided the poison or had used up a good many of it's lives.

Breathing deeply, she tried to return to sleep. It had been a pleasant dream she remembered, but couldn't recall all the details, just that Percy was there and that the scene was very intimate. She was embarrassed to think of how much she'd been thinking about him, since his return to England, and wondered when she would be graced with his presence again.

"You'll wake up the entire house with that noise!" Madeleine scolded someone just outside Marguerite's door, in her none too quiet voice. Marguerite opened her eyes again and exhaled in exasperation. If this was how the morning was going to be played out, then she might as well get up.

Pulling her wrap around her, Marguerite paced from the bed to the door, which she pulled open. The women who had been arguing stopped mid-sentence at Marguerite's appearance, looking guiltily at one another. "If we are all up, might I suggest you start breakfast, Marie," she stated in hushed tones. "And let's try not to wake Armand if he is not already awake." With this Marguerite retreated to her boudoir, followed by Madeleine, who closed the door behind her. Marguerite stood before her dressing table, and performed her necessary toilette, while her maid set out her clothes. Half an hour later, she emerged washed, dressed, and brushed and rested to face the remainder of the day. Madeleine scurried to the kitchen to fetch her mistress a cup of coffee, while Marguerite took a seat in the large, squashy chair in the corner, and began to read a copy of le Moniteur, which Madeleine had gone out to fetch first thing in the morning.

Marguerite gave her brother a smile. Then she returned to the paper, engrossed in a counter-piece by a proclaimed royalist, the arguments of which Marguerite mentally picked to pieces. Perhaps she should invite him to one of her salons, and see how he fared with someone not easily intimidated by big words. "My dearest Marguerite?" She looked up at Armand, arching a quizzical brow. "Say, what has become of Percy? Has he wandered off again? He seems to like doing that...How long has he been gone now, my dear?"

This was a change. Marguerite never recalled her brother inquiring about where Percy might be, unless it was to ask if he were there. "I imagine he's returned to his business in England ," Marguerite replied. "At least that was the reason he left two week ago... Besides, his home is in England ... there's little reason for him to be away any more than he has to." It sounded callous to her own ears, but it was that very argument that she turned to, on those nights, when thoughts of him would not leave her head, and he was so far away.

Armand continued on, as if reading her thoughts, "Do...do you ever miss him, Marguerite? Wonder if he's OK? Do you ever...think of him?" It was almost eerie how intuitive he was. But then he knew her better than anyone.

"I suppose, I do," she admitted, folding up her paper and setting it aside. But that was an understatement. The longer he was away, the more she thought of him, and the more she thought of him, the more she missed him, and the more miserable she was. "I suppose he's grown very dear to me since we met. He's not like other aristocrats... or men for that matter. He's noble and kind... not without his flaws of course... but I can see that he has the potential to be so much more. Sometimes..." She was about to mention her worries that there were times that Percy might never return, but it was a thought she didn't like to admit, even to herself. "Why do you ask?"

Marguerite was startled by these little revelations of Armand�s. She�d been under the impression that her brother cared very little for her lover. Perhaps she was wrong� or that Armand�s opinion changed, since Percy had rescued him from the men Saint-Cyr sent to teach him a lesson. She had heard such experiences changed men, and this might be such a case.

"And if you're wondering what it is I couldn't stand...it's that demmed snore of his!� Armand laughed, making light of it.

�Snore?� Marguerite looked at him puzzled. Did Percy snore? She could never recall having heard it, but then Armand was a sensitive sleeper.

�He could wake the dead with that sound! And I still can't stand it!� Armand apparently stunned that she didn�t know what he was talking about. Her brother had exaggerated it as he had a few other things he�d said.

�Armand, I�m happy you finally can see why he is so special to me,� Marguerite began, deciding to let the topic of snoring die. �As fond as I am of Percy, it�s not love � not yet. You know my feeling on love� it always ends badly. You�ve also seen that, how horribly those in love are hurt by it. � Their mother might have survived the illness that killed her, if she had not be so heart-broken that over it taking her husband. �I think by now I�ve shut my heart to it, for my own safety� while I admire that you still keep your heart open, I�m not as brave as you there� I sometimes feel guilty that Percy cares so deeply for me, and yet I may never be able to return it.� It was strange speaking like this. She�d had a similar conversation with him when he�d turned his affections onto little Angele Saint-Cyr, but did not want to bring that up � he�d already suffered enough on that account. �Do you think it cruel to carry on like this? Allowing him to hope for something that might never be?�

Marguerite was torn between jumping to the defensive, and comforting her deflated brother. "It's not so simple as all of that," she began. "The arrangement we have works well enough, we see each other while he is in Paris, but have not obligations to one another. I did not want the role of a typical mistress, because I enjoy my freedom to choose, which is given up when a man pays for his lover's accommodations. Each of us has requested an exclusive relationship... there nothing more to be asked for. Perhaps it is best that I don't love him, for I doubt I will be happy to share him with a wife when he marries.

"I do believe that he cares for me deeply, and that he makes me happy... but I don't think I will be hurt. I've turned my back on love before it's had a chance to strike me... it is his heart I am more likely to worry about. I have warned him of the risks, but still he plunges on... what more can be done?"

�What would you have me do, Armand?� Marguerite asked quite plainly. While Armand, at times, seemed to read her like a book, at times Marguerite couldn�t understand him at all. �Would you have me marry him? Even Percy knows that such an idea is absolute nonsense! His reputation would be ruined. Where does this line of questioning come from?�

�Yes, he is,� Marguerite smiled. It was good that Armand was expanding his horizons, developing admiration for someone other than Chauvelin or Robespierre� brilliant minds, but dangerous each in their own way. She worried that such men figured so largely in their lives, worried about the danger and, while she couldn�t image Armand learning anything from Percy, he was safer. �I know he has some bad habits, but then everyone has some flaws. I would have never imaged that he would come to your rescue� but there he was�� Speaking of him made her yearn for his return.

Marguerite watched her brother move to the door, grab his coat off the hook beside the door, and his portfolio off the table beneath it, before opening the door.� He gave her one last sentimental glance and a sad smile before he closed the door behind him.� They rarely discussed love and Armand, so full of these ideals of equality of men, could not see that some things aren't meant to be.� It was true that things had changed, but men were still not equal.� A proposal from Percy was as likely as an acceptance from Angel� - dear lord, hopefully he wasn't still entertaining designs on her!� Marguerite rose from her seat and walked to the window facing the street, just in time to see Armand emerge from the door below and scamper away.

In many ways Armand was still a boy, a boy thrust by life into the roll of a man.� Perhaps the change was harder for him having been deprived of a strong male role-model, perhaps that is why he latched onto Chauvelin... and why he was beginning to look to Percy.� Marguerite looked at the portrait of the woman with the yellow dog, beside the window - her mother.� Her mother had been the first.� In her last days, she was no longer the beauty in this picture, the pox had ravadged her so that she was scarcely recognizable as the woman who modeled for this picture.� Beside this was a painting, that might well be Armand in fifteen years, a thick black moustache over his lips.� Marguerite always believed that it was for love of her mother that their father gave up resisting the disease and finally succumbed to it.� A romantic thought - but was his love for his children not strong enough for him to fight on?

She remembered so vividly that a shudder passed through her.� The shock, the protests, the absolute�denial that she would never see them again, until reality finally sank in.

They're gone.

Marguerite stood in the doorway to her parent�s room, one hand gripping the handle, as she stared at the linen sheet on the bed, the ridgid shapes beneath it.� She knew what was under that drape, her uncle had shown her when she demanded to see her parents, then refused to believe.� It took a while for the reality to creep in.� They are not coming back.

Fritz lay dutifully at the foot of the bed, his chin rested on his paws.� Dejected and forgotten. Armand had seen to him at times, by the dog was still loyal to his mistress.� Perhaps he did not understand that she would not be coming back.� Waited for her to wake and scratch him under his chin... or perhaps he knew.� Marguerite patted her leg and the dog rose, nails clicking softly as he approached with his head lowered penitently.� She stooped down and held a hand out to him which he sniffed and licked gratefully.� She scratched him under his chin and the top of his head, and watched the dog's tail wag wearily.� It had been a trying ordeal for him, too.� She stood again, and patted her leg as she turned to go, indicating for the dog to follow.� The dog took a last look back and trotted on after her.

The house seemed darker now, quieter than she'd ever known.� So quiet that she could hear her uncle's exasperated tones in the rooms below.� "... they've been up there long enough!� The whole place is ripe with the smell..."� Marguerite crept closer to the staircase, listening.� She took a seat on the top-most step and Fritz lay down beside her.

"... and the children?"

"I've been landed with them, but my wife doesn't want them under her feet..."� Marguerite wrinkled her nose.� It appeared their aunt and uncle had as much love for her and Armand as Marguerite had for them.� But it was Armand she worried about - so sensitive and trusting.� She didn't want him around such spiteful, mean-spirited people.� Poor Armand!� She'd been so overwhelmed with her world turning upside down that she hadn't taken much time to see how he was coping.� Marguerite stood and tip-toed away, the dog following without being asked.� She stole down the hall to the bedroom she shared with Armand, edged the door open, and found him sitting in the middle of the bed with his knees drawn up under his chin, staring at the portraits on the wall facing their beds.� One of her father, the other of her mother and the dog that even now stood beside her.� She crossed the room and sat down on the bed side him.� "Armand...?"

Marguerite slid onto the bed beside her brother and lay a comforting arm around his thin shoulders. She had to convince him of a fact that she did not want to admit to herself. "Our uncle will be taking us in," Marguerite said evasively. "I heard him say so... and I will always be with you." She caught a glimpse of the pictures on the wall and fought back the tears they inspired. If she started to cry, Armand would do likewise.

Marguerite held fast to her brother and stroked his fine hair, feeling him shuddered against her. Silently she bit back her on tears, what good were tears now? "We'll be alright, Armand," she whispered. "Papa and Maman will watch over us from heaven and it will be very much like they are still with us."

It was hard for Marguerite to explain a thing that she did not truly understand herself. Mother had always said that the spirits of those who had passed would always be watching over those who still walked the earth, but then she also said that the lord protected those who were good and honest. If that was the case why had he struck down their mother and father?

"I am certain they can see and hear us," was she certain? "Mother says their were angels watching over us and I think that they are both angels now. While we can't see them with our eyes or hear them with our ear, we can feel them with our hearts. Mother always said that everything that happens is for the best because the lord made this the best of all possible worlds and that everything that happens on it must be for the best." She felt hot tears on her neck.

"I miss them already, Margot. Don't you?"

"Of course I do," she chided. "I miss them as much as you do... but there isn't anything we can do to change what has happened. We must now save our strength for what lies ahead of us..." What did lie ahead? Who was to say... if their uncle's attitude was any indication then there were hard times ahead.