Disclaimer: The world of the hunchback belongs primarily to Victor Hugo and his novel, written and published in 1831. Other rights go to Disney, who created some of the scenes I used in this piece.

Author's Note: There are a few things to note about this story:

1: Frollo is the Archdeacon of Notre-Dame as in Hugo's book, not a judge as Disney would have it.

2: Phoebus is an arrogant womanizer and a coward, much as he is portrayed in the original.

3: The characters of Fleur de Lis, her mother, and Louis Beaumont, the Bishop of Paris, are taken from Hugo's work.

4: I am not now, nor have I ever been, Catholic. The religious views and thoughts expressed in this piece are intended to portray the thoughts of the characters having them, and may or may not have anything to do with my own. I apologize for any mistakes in rituals, beliefs or theology that I may have made. I intend no disrespect to the Church.

This story is a full 180-degree turn from my other piece for this pairing. It was inspired by a pair of videos on youtube, "Frollo and Esmeralda: A Love Story" Parts 1 & 2, made by "Lookattheview90" for a Disney's villain-heroine role-reversal contest. Further inspiration was provided by a passage from The Hunchback of Notre-Dame, one of many describing Frollo's obsessive and torturous thoughts about Esmeralda:

"And when he strove to picture to himself the happiness that he might have found on earth if she had not been a gypsy, and if he had not been a priest, if Phoebus had not existed, and if she had loved him; when he considered that a life of serenity and affection might have been possible for him, too, even for him; that, at that very moment, there were here and there on the earth happy couples lost in long conversations under orange groves, on the banks of murmuring streams, in the presence of a setting sun, or of a starry sky, and that, if God had willed it, he might have formed with her one of those blessed couples, his heart dissolved in tenderness and despair."

The following is a story in which God so wills it…

Part One: Falling

"Father?"

Archdeacon Frollo paused in his unhurried stride under the vaulting arches of Notre-Dame's aisles, turning to kindly hush the woman bold enough to call aloud, her voice cutting across the soft murmur of his parishioners' prayers.

The calm words died aborning when he saw who it was. It was her. Slim, raven-haired, barefoot. Even devoid of her tambourine and treading quietly on the dark stone, music seemed to permeate the air around her and dance tinged her footsteps.

Beautiful. And in a very dangerous way.

A man met many women, especially a man of his stature and position in Paris. He presided over their births, their christenings, their weddings and their funerals. He heard their confessions, soothed their wounds over a husband's betrayal, and guided them back to the Light if they strayed.

Never, in thirty years of devout service, since he was a babe and beginning to form memories, had a woman impressed Frollo so strongly, or disturbed him so deeply. His mind offered her image to him at the strangest of moments, presenting her dancing, singing, flirting with her ever-present audience, always visible from the balconies of the cathedral he called home. And now she stood before him, breathless, the hungry light in her eyes as she searched his face a warning that she saw the man in the archdeacon's apparel, not the Church or the sanctity of its priesthood.

He should not speak to her. There was a wealth of information in her glance, and all of it opened doors he dared not enter. He had consecrated himself to Notre-Dame, to Christ, to the Church herself, when he was a boy. His life belonged to the people of Paris – and to her, as one of them, but never to himself, or to her, as more than one of a multitude.

But decades of service had conditioned his tongue, and he found himself asking, "What can I do for you, my child?"

She moved closer to him, mindless of the many scattered amongst the pews that might witness their discussion and misconstrue it. Watching her warily, he began to back away, towards one of the deserted side-chapels. He did not trust the fire in her green eyes, and whatever she had to say, best it be done in private, where whispers could not be spread.

She seemed to realize what he was doing, and quickened her step, speeding them to their destination. He swallowed as they ducked beneath the small arch that cut the chapel off from the rest of the cathedral, searching for some way to stop her before she began, before she sent them careening down a path that could only hurt them both—

"I love you."

He froze, his head bowed over clasped hands. This was what he feared. This claim, this…invitation…to share in her desire.

He did not lift his head to answer in his low voice. "I know you do." Thank God his voice did not tremble in addressing this test.

He felt the weight of her hand on his sleeve, gentle in entreaty, asking a question. He folded his arms and took a step away from her, refusing contact.

Esmeralda waited. She knew she had taken a terrible risk, coming to him here, approaching him in his domain. But his time in the street was always marked by a flock those seeking words of comfort, reassurance or forgiveness. There was no way to speak to him about what she wanted in the midst of a crowd…and she had thought of little else other than ways to catch a glimpse of him, to find herself in his presence, for months.

She remembered – with the stunning clarity of those in love – the day she had seen the austere face she had grown to adore for the first time.

It was sunset. An afternoon of dancing had failed make her feet sore for years, but she knew that she had been on display for a large part of the day and was eager to see the sun sink below the horizon, that they might leave.

It had been a busy afternoon, but as Paris faded into twilight, it became quiet and peaceful. Her partner, Pierre, who played both drums and flute, had ducked to the market to buy something to eat, and now only she and Djali were dancing to the shimmering of her tambourine.

In a pause, a low, intent voice reached her ears. Esmeralda glanced about curiously, but their nook of this side-street to Notre-Dame's square was deserted. Still, the voice continued, seeming almost to flow over her… She lifted her head to see a slender, older man watching the sunset, eyes focused on the horizon as if it held all the beautiful secrets of creation. The words that streamed from his lips had the foreign-and-familiar cadence of a Latin chant, a prayer he offered to the dying sun.

The soul simmering in his sky-blue eyes as he spoke to the Creator he served (for there was no doubt in her mind that he belonged to the cathedral – everyday people just didn't pray like that) captivated her. What would it be like to feel the full weight of that regard?

And then, perhaps sensing her gaze on him, he turned his face downward to meet her wide green eyes. Devotion burned fiercely there, a deep emotion that made it possible to die for one's love, and the gypsy found her hands reaching for the wall, clutching stone to keep herself upright.

His glance gentled, becoming the eyes of a priest, and she knew that the moment that had weakened her knees was no more than an echo, a rebounded look from his evening prayer, not meant for her to witness. He inclined his head and smiled faintly in greeting, raised his hand in a blessing, and departed.

That was all it had taken.

Ever since she had blossomed into her adult beauty at fifteen years old, Esmeralda had been aware of the sidelong glances of admiration, the outright stares of lust as she walked, danced, even cooked in her niche at the Cour des Miracles. She had been hearing lewd remarks ever since, mixed occasionally with beautiful protestations of love and affection that left her indifferent.

But she had never had a glance of worship turned on her, and Esmeralda promised herself as the priest disappeared from sight, that she would discover who he was, and find a way to make him look at her like that again.

She had immediately begun coming to mass every Sunday, seeking him. She had quickly learned that not only was Claude Frollo a priest, but he occupied the position of Archdeacon of Notre-Dame, responsible for the cathedral and everyone in it, and answerable only to the Bishop of Paris. He led mass, smiled at the elderly, spoke to the children, took confession and in general, served anyone who asked anything of him, however big or small.

However, the Sunday service was not the way to gain his attention. She had spent months trying to figure out how, feeling stymied at every turn. It had brought her to this – a full confession, though of a rather different nature than those he was accustomed to handling, in the hopes that whatever she glimpsed in his eyes when he looked at her meant she was someone to him.

As the young woman in front of him waited, Frollo was also rapidly traversing memory lane. He had perfect recall of the first instant he'd noticed her, while praying at the end of the day, right before the evening bells rang in the night. He had been savoring a quiet moment on his one selfishness – the private balcony that he kept the sole key for, a space that he might have the chance to commune with the Lord without being asked to intercede on behalf of another.

The sun's dying effulgence was always magnificent here, the orb appearing to sink into the river, lending the Seine a molten cast, as if gold were flowing with the water. The brilliant rays of the sunset struck his cathedral, turning white stone into a panorama of dazzling color, a painting no man could capture on canvas.

Frollo had often wondered whether in the flurry and furor of making lame men walk and blind men see, of walking on water and wrestling with Satan, mankind had not over-looked the far greater and more complex miracle their Lord had bestowed upon them: that of the astonishing beauty of their own existence.

Eyes fixed on the sparkling water, he heard himself chanting the Latin before he realized it, and let the simplicity of prayer carry him forward, praising God for his day, supplicating for His forgiveness…

A pair of eyes impinged on his solitude. Not eyes from behind, for the balcony was off-limits to all others, but eyes from below. Without consciously thinking about it, Frollo took his glance from the Seine and followed the feeling until he ended up staring into the struck gaze of a young gypsy woman.

She was uncommonly pretty, her eyes an arresting shade of green he had never seen before, but it was the way she watched him that marked her as different…as if her prayers had been answered.

And perhaps they had been. Kind as he was to them along with all others, the Archdeacon did not approve of the gypsy way of life. They were not baptized, did notattend mass or, indeed, worship God in any way that he could understand. They also seemed concerned mostly with entertainment – palm readers, card tricks, displays of "magic", singing, dancing – instead of real crafts or professions. Though he would not join most of his fellow priests in decrying such stories and illusions as witchcraft, he did not think that such transitory things could lead them to Heaven.

Perhaps something in his prayer had struck a chord in her. Frollo firmly believed that the gypsies were not God-less, just untrained, like rather large and boisterous children. And if his moment of peace had impacted her soul, it was as God intended.

He smiled down at her, made the sign of the cross over her in blessing, and returned to his duties.

He hadn't given her another thought until he saw her at mass that Sunday. She stood very near the back, as if nervous and uncertain whether she was welcome. He deliberately kept track of her throughout the service, and though she seemed ill at ease, she stayed. When communion had been taken and it was time to speak to the people of Paris, he approached her first, before she could bolt away from the unfamiliar setting and crowd.

"I am pleased that you came, my child," he told her. She seemed to be waiting for something from him, her jade-green eyes bright as they fixed on his face. "If you wish to take communion next week," he continued, remembering that she had not approached for the sacrament, "one of the priests can take your confession."

This was, it appeared, not the right thing to say. Her face remained neutral, but her eyes dimmed considerably, and he wondered why, briefly, before the next parishioner stepped forward to claim his attention.

He had continued to see her at mass, always at the back, always uncertain, never taking communion, but he could feel her eyes on him from the instant she entered until she exited quietly at the end. There seemed to be some terrible struggle going on behind her intelligent, mobile features, but he discovered that she had not unburdened herself to anyone in the church.

"The gypsy?" one of his younger priests asked in surprise when Frollo broached the subject. "Why are you asking, Father?" He then blushed faintly, and the Archdeacon frowned.

"What is it?" The girl was beautiful and an anomaly, but he would not have one of his brethren disgracing the priesthood and Notre-Dame by lusting for her.

"Well…" His friend, another of Frollo's charges who had only recently taken his vows, was sweeping out the pews next to them. He glanced up, took pity on the stumbling priest the Archdeacon was interrogating, and announced bluntly:

"It's clear she's here for you, sir." Frollo whipped around so quickly he nearly lost his balance, gripping a bench to steady himself as he stared at the other man.

"What?"

Shifting nervously from foot to foot, the second priest found the courage to continue. "The way she looks at you, Archdeacon…she comes to see you, specifically." A long silence, in which Frollo glowered at his underling, awaiting further explanation. "She fancies you," he finally said baldly, when it was clear the Archdeacon was not taking his hints.

The idea staggered him. It infuriated him that one of his own would dismiss the girl in such a way. Anger welled up at the insolence of such a suggestion and for the first time in his life, the Archdeacon came very close to dismissing a priest without just cause.

But in the intervening weeks, Frollo had watched her carefully, become convinced (in spite of himself) that his young priest was correct, and had been both bewildered and – treacherously – flattered. She was dazzling, radiant, brimming with life, overflowing with the wild joy that only youth can possess…and he was old, at least twice her age, a celibate man living a contained life.

And now she stood before him, asking him a question he had to deny, making an offer he must refuse.

"I cannot," he finally managed. He lifted his head to look her directly in the eye, allowing some of his frustration to bleed into their interaction for the first time. How dare she put him in such a compromising position?

Her face fell, and anger flashed there alongside despair. "You're rejecting me?"

"It cannot be helped," he replied, and allowed his voice to turn frigid. "As…tempting…as the offer may be… I am the Archdeacon. Notre-Dame is my world." He tilted his head at her in dismissal and brushed past her, back into the main sanctuary, back to the peace of confession and absolution that formed his daily life.

As he left, he tried to ignore the raw pain that twisted her face.

888

Esmeralda sank to the floor of the tiny side-chapel, burying her face in her knees. As…tempting…as the offer may be…he had turned it into an insult, a sneer playing about the mouth that had always been so kind before…

I did put him in a difficult position, she acknowledged wryly. He was a man of the Church. Everyone knew that Rome forbade her priests to marry. To touch women at all.

And she was a gypsy. A young, foolish gypsy who could offer him nothing as compensation for her love.

"How could I be so stupid, Djali?" she asked her goat as he butted against her. "Thinking that a man like him could have any kind of feeling for a girl like me?"

Djali bleated, warm brown eyes seeming to tell her that it wasn't really so bad.

She stroked his soft hair, gathered up the pluck that had led her to this mortification in the first place, and started home.

888

She had thought to put her heart to peace with her failed attempt. Esmeralda knew she was beautiful, and had no lack of men, both gypsy and French, telling her so. Something about Frollo's gaze had made her certain that the Archdeacon thought so, too. The difference was that for him, it didn't matter what he, personally, thought of her. He had married the great stone effigies of the Holy Virgin and her Blessed Son, and was no freer to seek her out or call enticements to her while she danced than the Pope.

Not that she wanted him to, she reflected ruefully as she shook her tambourine, her feet nimbly skipping over the ground. She was dancing for such a crowd now, and their crude suggestions and mocking yells left her disgusted, unmoved. She thought it entirely possible that her whole fascination with the Archdeacon was due to the very fact that he did not involve himself in such antics.

She refused to cross the threshold of the cathedral after her dismissal, feeling it would be not only pointless, but hypocritical. He knew, now, that her interest had never been in his religion, but in him, and it would be cruel, after his mild, heartfelt attentions to her soul, to throw that in his face.

And so she thought her unruly heart might be forced to discipline with time, and the only remedy between now and that day – however far off it may be – was to continue living, pretending what she did not feel until it could once again be forged into genuine emotion.

Until she looked up from dancing not a month after he had turned her away, to see him on his balcony. This time, it was not the Seine that had captured his glance. He was watching her.

Frollo caught her eye as she raised her head, and summoned every ounce of self-control he possessed to keep himself from breaking her glance or retreating like a naughty altar-boy caught in the sweets box.

Her raised eyebrows over lively green eyes asked the same question he had been contemplating himself. Why was he here? What was he doing, watching this young woman he had turned away? What had prompted him to find a way to pass the clear, mullioned windows once daily in his circuits of Notre-Dame, to see the obsidian waterfall of her hair tossing as she performed?

At this last self-recrimination, his restraint broke, and he did back away from the balcony edge, retreating to the wooden bench that served as the balcony's sole furnishing, his view of the street blocked by the elaborate stone railing.

The bells began to toll. Six. It would soon be time for vespers. But until then…he rose swiftly from his seat. Until then, he could take refuge in the bell tower, and allow the clanging of the great instruments to cleanse him of thought, drive out the confusion of feelings besieging him.

As he emerged from the stairwell to the balcony, he found himself face-to-face with the greatest test God had ever sent him. Before she could speak, he held up a hand, keeping his gaze fixed past her. "Please, excuse me," and continued on without waiting for her reply.

Footsteps echoed behind him, and he made for the spiral stair that would lead him to the tower, praying that he might reach the second door in time to turn the key and lock her out…

He did, and it was with remorse he turned the iron in its lock, but he did not know if he could withstand another assault from her now. Now he needed the tower, the sound of the bells singing in his ears, wiping his mind clean of perplexions…

His charge found him in deep contemplation some minutes later, seated at the wooden table, eyes closed as the pealing sound of clappers on metal faded into the gathering night.

"Father?" Quasimodo hobbled up to him. "What do you need?" he asked eagerly.

It was a shame that such a purity of soul should be trapped in so hideous a body, Frollo thought as he opened his eyes to the enthusiastic expression of his foster-son, abandoned at the door to the cathedral some twenty years ago. Quasimodo's humble acceptance of his fate lent him a wisdom many would benefit from, but his distorted features prevented others from seeing the beauty of the soul inside, and so the bells had become the hunchback's constant companions.

Frollo had advised him to stay in the tower after a particularly vicious bout of teasing from some of the divinity students when Quasimodo had been but a boy. The heartbreak of understanding how very different he was than everyone else, how unacceptable to their society, had led to months of moroseness, and the Archdeacon had taken steps to ensure it would never be repeated. The adopted bell ringer had a delicacy of hand and a flare for the artistic that Frollo had encouraged, purchasing paints, wood, knives and glass for Quasimodo to use, indicating that craft could take the place of people in the boy's world.

The result was on display on the table before him: a spectacular rendition of Paris in miniature, encompassing an ever-expanding ring of buildings and people as far as the eye could see from the top of Notre-Dame's great towers.

"I seek only a little rest, my boy," Frollo replied tiredly, a hand on Quasimodo's lumpy shoulder. "You need not attend me. Go about your business."

"Yes, Father." And he loped away with the peculiar, easy grace he had developed despite his bowed legs.

Frollo closed his eyes again and sought for the peace in his soul, a peace he had not – until recently – been having trouble finding. He stilled his mind, shoved thoughts of the girl to one side, and sighed with relief when calm inundated him, Latin pouring from his lips as he focused body as well as soul on his prayer—

It was almost immediately disrupted.

"Father—"

"Quasimodo, please—"

"Archdeacon Frollo?" The second voice cut him off and he rose violently in dismay, staring at the vision now come to torment him in in the flesh.

"How did you—?" He stopped when he saw the key clutched in Quasimodo's big fist. He glared at the hunchback in a rare display of ire.

"Sorry, Master," the bell ringer stammered, placing the offending key down on the table. "She was just outside…and she said she had business with you…" He backed away quickly, retreating to the dark corners of his tower.

Leaving him alone with the girl who had begun to prey on his mind even before her confession, and had twisted him up in savage knots ever since.

"You were watching me." She said it in a voice that was half wonder, half triumph.

He could deny it, but that would be a lie, and she would see it for what it was. "So I was."

"Why?"

Why? He could not explain it, not even to himself. He did not want her, not in the way the base men he tried to counsel wisely wanted her. He did not fantasize about her. But he was…aware of her. Aware in a way that he had never been of anyone else who lived outside of Notre-Dame's high walls. It was this…feeling…a tenacious wish to know where she was, how she was faring, that had drawn him to the windows and the balcony.

She reached out and gently brushed her fingers over the back of the hand he'd laid on the table. He started, jumping backwards.

"I don't bite, Father," she teased, smiling.

"We shall see," he replied solemnly. "I believe I have already made my wishes known to you. Yet, you are…persistent."

"My brother once told me that nothing good comes easy," she replied boldly, taking another step towards him. He fought his urge to retreat, not wishing to engage in her parody of dance.

"And I am 'something good'? A man twice your age or more? A man of the cloth? Spare me," he snorted dismissively, turning away. "For one of your youth and bohemian beauty to profess love for a man such as I…is so unlikely as to be absurd. You are a test, a temptation."

It was her turn to recoil. "You truly believe that?" He was shocked to hear pity lacing the indignation in her voice. "You think that's all this is?"

"It is all it can be," he said firmly, unsettled by the intensity of her dismay. He started towards the stairs, resolving to leave her and purge his thoughts before taking command of his priests once more. "Charming as you are, it is a test I intend to pass."

He descended without another word, and did not hear Quasimodo sidle up to the beautiful woman standing in tears.

"You love him?" he seemed genuinely confused by the concept.

"I really do," she whispered, her knuckles whitening on the table as she gripped it.

"But priests don't have wives," Quasimodo said slowly, as if that should be the end of it. "My father…he would never…"

"I know," she breathed heavily, banishing the water in her eyes and dashing it fiercely from her cheeks. "He has told me as much twice, now."

Shy as he was, unskilled in personal relationships as he was, Quasimodo had, nevertheless, spent a lifetime learning to observe. And one of the things he was absorbing now was a surprising truth about the straight-backed man who had just left them. He reached up and awkwardly patted her shoulder. "If he could, he would," he said. Her head whipped round to look at him. He blushed, and removed his hand. "Love you, I mean."

"Really?" The smile that touched her mouth transformed her face, making her breathtaking.

"Oh yes. You're very beautiful, you know." He said it so matter-of-factly that she laughed.

"Thank you, Quasimodo." She made her way towards the stairs, feeling a bit lighter. "If he could, he would."

But he can't. So what will I do now?

888

"Ah, ma petite seour!" Clopin announced as he settled himself beside her at her fire, watching as she stirred rice and beans in an old but well-kept pot in her corner of the Cour des Miracles.

"Hello, Clopin," she flashed him a quick, empty smile.

"Something is wrong," he said, tilting his head curiously. "What is it?"

"It's nothing," she shook her head. She felt his long fingers close over her elbow, preventing her from reaching her spoon. "Clopin! If I don't stir it, it will burn!"

"You are troubled," he ignored her distress over the beans. "Why? Did someone disturb you?" His expression darkened, and she felt a rush of gratitude at his protectiveness. They had both been orphaned at a young age – a plight common in gypsy families – and had swiftly adopted each other. He was her adored older brother, she his cherished younger sister, and as they had grown, and she had become a young woman half the Court lusted after, he had guarded her resolutely from those who would think to tame her indomitable spirit.

"No," she denied. But he did not let her go.

"Don't lie to me, little sister. Who has dimmed your radiance? If he is here, I will take out his tongue. Or break his arms, whichever you prefer."

"No!" Her shout brought curious heads up from other fires. Esmeralda and Clopin were known for their closeness – an argument was surely fodder for gossip.

"Esme!" he hissed furiously, aware of the ears around them. He was startled to see the gloss of tears brightening her eyes. "Little sister…"

"It is nothing. You will think me stupid," she murmured, wrenching away from his weakened grip.

"It's the Archdeacon, isn't it?" Her head snapped up in astonishment to see a wise, contemplative expression on his face, replacing the anger of a few moments ago and the mischief that so often graced their conversation.

"How did you know?"

"I observe for a living, dearest Esme. It's been clear for months you've been after him." He shivered. "Although I don't know why. Paris is crawling with handsome men of every profession who would gladly lay down their lives for the thought of warming your bed, and you have to chase one of the oldest men in the city?"

"He's not old," she answered crisply, recovering her aplomb. "He's only in his thirties. He's dignified. And he doesn't crawl, like those puling boys you mentioned."

"You know how the Church is about its priests."

She sighed. "Yes. I know. He knows, too."

"So what will you do?" Clopin asked. "How can I help you?" He laughed at her amazed glance. "He is not my type, ma chérie, but if you want him—" He stopped as she shook her head.

"Thank you, brother, but it is time I put him out of my mind. He will have nothing to do with me. He is a priest, and I, a gypsy."

He shrugged. "As you wish. But," he ducked his head to whisper against her ear, "the Feast of Fools is coming. You always dance. He always comes." He withdrew and winked lazily. "Make an impression he can't forget."

888

The Feast of Fools.

The Archdeacon sighed. The populous, this fickle crowd that formed the mob of Paris, loved it. They loved the dancing, the drinking, the morality plays, the drinking, the acrobats, the drinking – and the day's crowning achievement, the election of the King of Fools. And the drinking.

He viewed it as part of his duties to not only to attend, but to send his priests out as well and open the main sanctuary of Notre-Dame as a safe haven for those who invariably drank too much, or had the better part of their money and, possibly, wardrobe, stolen by the dishonest, or who broke a bone by dancing too vigorously or falling off the various stages that had already been erected in the main square. Father Maurice, who had always had a kind hand and manner as well as a knack for the human body, was in charge of medicine, and was already in full flow this morning, arranging bandages, tonics, washing solutions and rosaries in one of the cathedral's many vestibules. Frollo regarded most illnesses as sickness of the soul, but he, too, had studied medicine as a young man, and there was no denying that having a group of priests and brothers well-trained in setting bones and wrapping wounds was a boon to Paris and a service they were glad to offer.

Nevertheless, no matter their wealth of preparations, it remained a day he heartily dreaded the arrival of every year, and was always grateful, when the last of the revelers had collapsed in the early hours of the morning, that he had survived yet another sixth of January.

Today he found himself so apprehensive he could not stand still. He paced incessantly as the morning bells rang out their joyful sound, as he curtly dispatched the younger priests to their obligations, as he waited.

For he knew he was waiting, and damned himself for it, but he could not help it. Every year, the gypsies outshone themselves as this festival. They orchestrated a large part of the entertainment – song and dance, fortune-telling, palm-reading, animal acrobatics. This was the one day of the calendar year that they were neither reviled nor mistrusted, but welcomed in the city by all.

There was no chance, none at all, that she would fail to appear.

Frollo shook his head, despairing. "You think that's all this is?" The passionate burst of her speech, the gentle touch of her fingertips grazing his…

He had forced himself not to approach the windows, not to use his balcony until full night had descended and she was guaranteed to be gone. This sense of restless sorrow, of discontent for closing the door on a world half-glimpsed by her offer, would fade if he but let it. He had been blessed his whole life. That such a test should come now was the chance to prove his sincerity, the depth of his belief. He would conquer himself.

The whooping of the crowd outside penetrated his brooding. The Parade of Fools had begun, with its bizarre costumes and grotesque masks. Steeling himself, Frollo exited the cathedral and took his chair at a moderate distance from the stage.

"You are the Archdeacon?" a tumbler in an outrageous, purple-blue-and-yellow checked costume queried, popping up on one side as he seated himself. Frollo nodded, frowning. The man's smile was a shade too knowing for his liking. "You will like her today," he announced from the priest's other side, vanishing and reappearing. "She is always beautiful – but it is like Heaven itself when she is dancing for you."

He disappeared before Frollo could do more than gape at him. He wondered darkly if he should stay. What had the girl planned if this comrade of hers knew about it? Dancing for him?

His debate ended when the first entertainer – Esmeralda's harbinger – vaulted onto the stage and went up in gunpowder-induced smoke. It was she who replaced him. Frollo swallowed hard as she immediately found him in his seat above the crowd and smiled, the red of her dress twirling as she delightedly pranced around the stage, her grin a summons to join her.

Then she was leaping towards him, nimbly making her way over the heads of the crowd, delicate feet finding purchase on this shoulder, on that head, until she came to a halt on the arm of his chair.

She was flushed with her exertions, breathless both at his nearness and her dance as she ran her silk scarf around his neck, dark fingers fluttering over the planes of his face as she drew him upwards, until the only thing in his sight were her vivid green eyes, the straight, fine point of her nose, the full, red lips, the masses of raven hair tickling his face—

Would she kiss him here, when she held him at her mercy in front of all Paris? And the damning thought that managed to wedge itself through the closed-and-locked doors of the Archdeacon's mind sang out, Let her!

No. She would not. The scarf brought him so close he could feel the rapid whispers of her exhales across his mouth, only to have her abruptly release him, cavorting back to her stage.

He wanted to sag back in his chair, to thank God for his reprieve, but he knew the crowd was now watching them both, and he could not afford to show them how deeply she affected him. He deliberately folded his arms and looked away disdainfully, the very image of pious disapproval.

Shortly after her dance, when the mob was busy booing those foolish enough to unmask themselves and make hideous faces, hoping to be selected as the King of Fools for the day, one of his charges materialized at his side.

"Sir, there's been an accident—" the altar boy stammered.

"Take me." Frollo quit his chair with no small amount of relief. At last, something useful to do. Anything to take his mind off the girl.

Anything but this, he amended, appalled, when they reached the scene. He closed his eyes briefly in empathy. Three carts lay overturned in the road, and though it was clear that most of the drivers and passengers had been able to avoid it, one man lay crushed under the wheel of the bread wagon. The priest had hoped to help – but here, there was nothing to be done.

"You have done well," Frollo told the altar boy, sending him on his way with a squeeze to his shoulder. The unfortunate victim had death written on his wracking frame. There was no need to make the child witness it.

"Father…" the man wheezed, bubbles of blood bursting at the corners of his mouth as Frollo knelt in the frozen mud next to him.

"I am here, my son," he replied.

"I…no time…last confess—" he coughed, and sent his body into spasms as it grated against his broken ribs and punctured lungs.

"May your soul reside with our Father Who art in Heaven," the Archdeacon said solemnly, crossing the man in benediction. The cart driver nodded painfully, heaved a last, racking breath, and lay still.

Frollo rose slowly, his eye catching the simple iron band on the man's fourth finger. Married then, leaving a widow that would need care, and probably children as well. If the family was in luck, there would be sons close enough to working age to help.

"Find out who his family is," he instructed Father Maurice, who was supervising a young nun bandaging the scraped knee of one of the women. "And what they will need in the coming months."

"Yes, Archdeacon," his boyhood friend agreed. Frollo began his walk back towards the main festival, all thoughts of Esmeralda, of the effect of her nearness and the way he had wanted, just for a moment, to give into her, driven from his mind. He had attended deaths by the dozens, perhaps by the hundreds, and heard the last confessions of many souls.

He always mourned the young and the accidental the most.

888

Clopin frowned as he scanned the area. The Archdeacon had been there – he'd spoken to the man himself, teasing him about Esmeralda and her appearance for the day, but now, when the hunchback had been crowned King of Fools, he was nowhere to be found.

The gypsy's mouth twisted crossly. How could he carry out the next stage of his plan if the priest had decided to depart?

There! He could see the dark robes of a church man cutting towards him through the high-spirited crowd. He was nearing the tents they were using as prop storage…and changing rooms.

Clopin's frowned turned into a broad grin. He couldn't have staged a better set-up if he'd tried. Frollo also appeared to be completely lost in thought, which could only be to his advantage.

A few more steps and Frollo would be there, all it took was a clumsy stride—

Clopin slipped on a patch of ice and went careening into the Archdeacon, who in turn tumbled into a tent. Lying in the cold mud on the street, the gypsy simply smiled at the baffled passersby as they crowded round to help him up.

888

Esmeralda was preparing dispiritedly to dress for her next act. She had seen the Archdeacon's expression when she had danced for him. When she had been sitting on his chair, his pupils had dilated, blue eyes fastened on her mouth, his breathing as ragged as hers. Begging to be kissed.

Not that she would embarrass him so in front of a crowd. But then he had turned away, scorn radiating from him, and was gone by the time she had been able to look round for him again after the crowning of Quasimodo.

Damn Clopin and his everlasting capacity for hope! she thought savagely as she reached for her next dress. She was finished with this. Frollo would never have her, so—

She heard the rip of fabric, saw a long hand grasp desperately at the privacy curtain, heard it tear from its moorings, and the whole thing crashed down. She quickly belted her dressing gown, turning irritably.

"Hey—!"

It was him, wrapped in a heap of cloth on her floor. Her furious diatribe was cut off at its source. He glanced up, saw her, flushed bright red, and averted his gaze. "I'm sorry, I wouldn't…I never—"

Frollo closed his eyes in shame at blushing and stammering like a novice. To have tumbled into this tent…any would have been bad, but none could be worse. She would surely press her case this time, and he could not, in full honesty, protest his innocence. His hauteur for her dance had been his own part in the performance for the crowd, but she had witnessed the reality of his reaction – it was her mercy alone that had kept him from disgrace.

"I know you wouldn't." Her voice was so soft he dared to look at her again. She was completely and modestly covered, her hand extended to help him up. "Are you all right?" she asked when he didn't move.

He shook himself. "Of course. Thank you." After a beat of hesitation, he took her proffered hand.

It was the first time he had touched her voluntarily. A faint shock travelled from where her fingers wrapped around his to the center of his being, arresting his movement, anchoring him to the ground.

One corner of her mouth curled upward as he recovered and stood, but he knew, as he released her hand, that she, too, had felt it – and that she knew he had.

Still, she said nothing. No attack was forthcoming, though he had not spared her his tongue when the positions were reversed and she had made herself vulnerable to him.

"I…enjoyed your performance," he allowed by way of apology and confession as she moved the tent-flap aside to let him out discreetly.

She beamed, and Frollo had the same realization Quasimodo had come to several weeks ago. Her face was beautiful in repose. When she genuinely smiled, the air suddenly seemed too thin to breathe. "Thank you…Claude."

The sweet caress her voice gave his given name was an apt revenge, robbing him of the little breath he had left. It left him staring after her as the curtain fell, wondering if there was any path open to him that did not involve getting snared in her net.

8888888888

A/N: Let me know what you think! "Ma petit seour" and "ma cheré" are French for "my little sister" and "my dear". This piece is complete in three parts and an epilogue, all written, which will be updated weekly.