Prologue

He runs into the night, black mask fixed on his face and eyes gleaming as he leaps on the ship's mast with all the grace a feline possessed. A smirk played on his lips as he looked up at the sky. Bright stars shined upon his pale face, its light a soft glow against the darkness.

Freedom, he thinks, is something a lot of people take for granted.

"The ship is ready to leave, captain. Where are we headed?"

Chat Noir pushed himself off the mast, his feet barely making a sound as he landed on the wooden floor. The first mate bowed dutifully upon his captain's descent. The waves lapped angrily at the edges of the ship, but both men did not falter.

"We're going home."

Marinette swept a hand over her forehead. Sweat lined the ridges of her brow and she groaned silently, trying to ignore the heat emanating from the oven. The afternoon had certainly not been kind to her family. The sun blazed angrily—the hotter it was, the more agitated their customers became.

"Is the bread nearly done, darling?" Sabine whispered. Tom shook his head, harshly kneading the dough underneath his expert fingertips.

"There's a first batch here, Maman," Marinette called, grabbing a piece of cloth and opening the oven door. She took the peel and shoved it inside the oven. She took the loaves out with practiced ease.

"Thank you, Marinette. Let the bread cool for a short while." Marinette nodded. "Could you take these tarts out for me, will you? These are specially made for Madame Cesaire."

Marinette smiled instantly as she wiped her hands on her apron and quickly took the tray from her mother. Madame Cesaire was the duchess consort from the North, in a region called Normandy. Her visits in Paris to attend balls arranged by the king brought excitement to the people because she brought with her the finest of delicacies. She also showed an unwavering love for the Dupains' bakery, particularly its tarts.

Her kindness was extended to her first daughter, a damsel called Alya. Marinette pushed the kitchen door open, causing many heads to turn in her direction. She searched through the of customers, until her eyes finally settled to a girl dressed in magnificent cloths.

"Miss Alya!" she called, her voice laced with excitement. The girl turned, her reddish hair swishing behind her back.

Alya grinned. "Marinette!" She stood up and met the girl halfway, taking the paper bag filled with tarts out of Marinette's hands. "What have I told you about addressing me as 'Miss Alya? Just Alya would suffice!" The blunette blushed, and Alya shook her head, dismissing the matter. "Oh, it's fine dear. Have you heard the news?"

Marinette raised an eyebrow. "What news?"

"They say Chat Noir is arriving here, in Paris!"

"Chat Noir?"

Alya nodded vehemently. "They say he's nearing the harbor as we speak!"

Marinette fixed her bandana placidly, trying to picture a face along with the name (or title?) Chat Noir. "I'm really sorry, Alya," murmured Marinette apologetically, "but I don't know who Chat Noir is."

"Oh. Oh!" Alya exclaimed. She adjusted her spectacles, her eyes twinkling in a haughtiness that told the daughter of the duchess was conspiring with mischief. Alya possessed the kind of wit that made men scurry, for they had no idea how to handle the lass whose brain possessed far greater intellect than theirs. It was her constant craving to learn that awed Marinette into some form of stupor. It was as if Alya had ears all over the city! She had all kinds of different tales about foreigners and trade and princesses and princes in disguise and—oh, how Marinette could listen to her talk all day long.

Alya grinned. "Chat Noir is a pirate."

"A pirate!" Marinette said in surprise, and she covered her mouth automatically with her hand.

"Yes! According to different sources, he is the kind of man who has instilled fear among those who have encountered him. He's quick, and actually quite smart, for he has been able to steal riches from people of government who are said to be corrupt in one way or the other." Alya pulled Marinette closer to her, whispering conspiratorially, "Some say he is a bastard son seeking revenge. Others claim that he is a poor man craving fame." Marinette's eyes widened slightly. Alya continued, "But whoever he is, I believe him to be a person who people can trust."

"Why?" Marinette murmured.

"Those who have received great misfortune, those who lack shelter and have no material possessions aside from the garments attached to their frail bodies—they receive supplies." Marinette raised an eyebrow in curiosity but did not speak. "Every time Chat Noir conducts a robbery, the people who have fallen to poverty receive blankets, clothes, food; everything they need to be able to survive for at least a few months."

"Then that means," Marinette paused, tapping her chin with her index finger in thought, "the money goes back to the people," Marinette exclaimed in awe.

Alya nodded. "To be precise, yes."

"Do you believe that he is a good person?" the blunette asked.

Alya looked behind her, checking to see if anyone of importance was there to witness her confession. "Honestly Marinette, I really do. His deeds remind me of Ladybug's. It makes me wonder if they know each other."

Marinette flinched at the name, before smiling graciously. "Unfortunately, that information seemed to have eluded me—as does everything that goes around in this time. However, it would be wonderful if they do know each other. They could work together."

"They would certainly forge an excellent partnership."

Silence fell on the two ladies. Marinette glanced at the bakery, checking to see whether her mother was in dire need of her assistance. Alya looked down at her tarts, before taking one and sampling it.

"These are truly heavenly, Marinette. My mother's finest cooks—no, even my mother herself would never be able to conjure something this wonderful."

"Thank you, we—"

Marinette had opened her mouth to reply, however, a shout from outside interrupted her.

"Monsieur Bourgeois! You must get inside quickly!"

Alya, ever curious, had already pushed past the customers to get to the doorway. A loud crash was heard the moment she opened the door as a grand carriage fell over the pavement. Its horse whinnied as loud as it could, struggling to be free.

Marinette followed Alya immediately, ready to reprimand the girl for her careless behavior. She placed her hand on Alya's shoulder, shaking her lightly, telling her to "come inside, it's safer there," but the girl remained in her place.

Alya's eyes went wide in its sockets, and her mouth fell agape. Marinette followed her gaze—which landed to a man dressed in black with a thick mask over his eyes.

Chat Noir is in Paris.