A kinsman? Joscelin raises an eyebrow at that. "Not unless your family was in Rouen during the fourteenth century. But if you mean 'am I French,' the answer is half. My mother was born in Normandy. Met my father in Calais the year before I was born." She'd been a teenage prostitute, but a pretty one. Enough to attract the eye of a certain priest whose vows of celibacy were more of a suggestion than an actual rule. And it had gotten her a cushy place in a nunnery once Joss was weaned, so he supposes she came out all right in the end.

"Eponine--" he's not going to call her by the nickname, sorry "--stop. Don't call me sir. Joscelin or Joss will do. As far as the humans are concerned, we are children. It draws attention to us if you are heard to be calling a younger boy 'sir.'" And attention is what he wants to avoid right now.

Joscelin gives her an evil smile that shows he himself is no stranger to ruthlessness. "He can be ruthless when he wants to be. Cut off the previous leader's head. That was an excellent fight."