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Claudine Frollo remembered her mother. She wasn't supposed to. But she did.
She remembered kind, gentle, fearful eyes, and dark hair just like hers.
She remembered soft skin against her cheek as her mother picked her up and cradled her to her neck and chest.
She remembered sobs in the night.
She remembered the smell of her mother's hair-like flowers, almost, but earthier, mixed with other scents she could not name. She didn't know what it was, but if she smelled it again she would know it.
She remembered a big, strong hand sliding out of her grip as someone called her name, dark eyes moving away from her, someone crying. Maybe it was her.
She had dreams of wandering up and down the long hallways of her house, looking for her mother, shying away from shadows, but her mother was always just around the corner, just out of reach, and she was gone by the time Claudine got there.
"Do you remember your mother?" her father asked her, and Claudine looked down and whispered, "No."
It was the only time she ever lied.