The Princess and the Phantom

Chapter 1: The French Gentleman

It was one of London's cold, foggy nights, when the pleasant warmth of an early autumn day had slipped into to a chill that warned of cold months to come.

In the gloom that enveloped the square, a dark, slender figure hurried along, unnoticed by those more comfortable in their cozy houses and warm carriages.

Sara Crewe was tired, more tired than she had been in a long time. She was recovering from an attack of influenza, and though still not completely well, she had been rousted from her sickbed to return to her duties in the schoolroom and kitchen.

As she made her way through the darkness, hugging her thin shoulders against the cold, damp air, she glanced up at the golden, light-filled windows of the Large Family. She tried to smile, but her face hurt too much to muster more than a shadow of a tender look. She tried to focus on stepping around the piles of dirt in the street as she crossed the square, but her mind was feeling oddly light and dizzy. Waves of uncomfortable heat rolled through her body, making the they left behind even more pronounced.

Unable to decide if she felt too hot or too cold, Sara leaned for a moment against the gate of the house that had once belonged to the mysterious Indian Gentleman, the one who had passed away not long after coming to live in the square. For many years, it had stood empty, like a sad sentinel. Just a few months ago, though, a new man had taken up residence. She had heard that he was originally from France, and in her head, she called him the French Gentleman. But for all that he was seen or that any sign of life showed in the house, it might as well still be empty.

Sara fought back a wave of nausea, and in her moment of physical weakness, she found herself marveling that it was nearly ten years ago that her father had died on her eleventh birthday. She had not cried for him then, not when Miss Minchin had been waiting to pounce and scold her. She would not cry now, alone but in public.

"I am a princess," she thought to herself, her thin hands clutching at the black iron grille for support. "A princess does not show weakness to the world."

Her body protested that princesses would have doctors and nurses to help her back to health instead of being forced to run errands in the cold and dark while still sick.

Sara's eyes closed without her realizing it and slumped against the gate. She was so close to Miss Minchin's Seminary, really just a few steps more. But a violent wave of dizziness prevented her from moving.

"Are you ill?"

Sara's eyes flew open, and she gasped, struggling to stand straight to address the man who had spoken to her.

"N-no, sir," she replied. Then, in her quiet, quaint way, she dropped him a curtsey, keeping her eyes fixed respectfully on the ground.

"You are the servant from the Seminary?"

The man's voice was low and soft, though not warm or kind. There was a compelling ring to it that made Sara look up.

The man was very tall, and in the darkness, he seemed to loom over her, almost over-powering in his presence, with his broad shoulders and black clothes. Half his face was in shadows, but the half that showed was very handsome. He wore a hat pulled low over his face, as if to help the shadows along.

"I am, sir," Sara replied, studying him with her great grey-green eyes. Though the years of privation and hard living had left her far too thin, with a complexion that lacked the brilliance of those more well-nourished, there was still a clarity to her eyes, a spirit that shone out from them.

The man seemed to study her with an equal, though more guarded, interest.

"If you are not ill, then why do you linger at my gate?" he asked, and Sara noticed a hard, suspicious edge to his voice. Instead of feeling afraid or angry, Sara instantly pitied the man for whatever had happened to make him so terribly bitter and harsh.