A/N- I haven't read the Brick in a few years and all my copies are about twelve hours away, plus I wrote this really quickly to see if I could shock rrueplumet, so I'm VERY SORRY for all errors. Also, I highly doubt any of you have any idea what this fic is even about, but that's my fault, not yours.

Cosette frowned at the clothes she had laid out across her chair for tomorrow. No, this didn't quite seem right, but she couldn't put her finger on the problem.

Until recently she had been content to put on the cleanest thing in her wardrobe, but trends worn by the ladies who passed her bench in the Jardin du Luxembourg were finally beginning to sink in. She glanced at her reflection in the looking glass again, suppressing a smile when she found the image pleasing. How had she never noticed this before? She turned her head slightly to either side, reminding herself not to be proud of her own features. How long would she have gone on in the awful old dresses her father bought her had she not overheard that voice in the street the other day?

An uncomfortably cool breeze rustled through the curtains, sending a chill across Cosette's shoulders when it moved through the thin fabric of her nightdress. She turned with the intention of closing the shutters and stifled a scream.

A man was standing in her room, just by the window. In the flickering light of her candle he looked like a death's-head: his skin was pale, his hair was light and stuck up in every direction, and there were impossibly dark shadows around his eyes. He lifted a finger to his lips, holding his other hand out as a gesture of peace.

"Who are you?" Cosette hissed angrily. "I shall scream for my father!"

The stranger shook his head. "I don't mean any harm. I was passing by and caught a glimpse of you through the window, and I just wanted to—"

"Caught a glimpse through the window?" Cosette repeated. "But my room is on the second floor! How did you get in here?"

The man sighed. "I wasn't exactly walking. Listen, dear, I saw you and couldn't help—"

"And what on earth possessed you to go out dressed in this way?" Cosette interrupted. Indeed, the man's suit was threadbare and dirty, torn at the cuffs and severely outdated.

Cosette stepped forward and brought the candle closer to his face. With the help of the light, she understood that his lids were smeared heavily with kohl, creating the skull-like illusion that had initially startled her. Now it was the eyes themselves that gave her pause: one of his irises was completely white and the other a deep brown. "Who are you?"

To her surprise, the stranger dipped into a low, graceful bow. "Sorci, at your service."

"That isn't a real name," she objected. "Who are you really?"

"Who I was before I became Sorci no longer matters," said the stranger. "What does matter is the outfit I saw you setting aside for tomorrow. That dress with your coloring?" he demanded, pointing at the offending garment. He drew back his lips in disdain; Cosette recoiled at the sight of his long, sharp incisors.

"Who are you?" she asked again. "What are you?"

"A concerned citizen," he said dismissively. "Now, haven't you a dress in a pastel? I know pastel is out of fashion at the moment, but it would look excellent with your complexion."

"You broke into my room in the middle of the night to give me fashion advice?"

Sorci shrugged. "Well, suit yourself," he said, turning on his heel. He launched himself out of the window.

Cosette gasped, hurrying after him and peering over the ledge. She hardly dared look, expecting to see his broken body in the Rue de l'Homme Armé, but there was no one in sight. She shuttered and closed the window firmly, even indignantly, then, after a moment of thought, laid out her light pink dress before going to bed.