Tuesday, January 22nd

Captain Phoebus drew a deep breath. The mansion was as grand as ever. Even while dormant under a dusting of snow, the gardens accented the beauty of the tall, intimidating walls. He looked to the steps and released the air he'd been holding. This wouldn't be easy. Looking to the letter in his hand, he remembered why he was here.

Composing himself for a moment, he ascended the steps. A servant swiftly guided him through the large, ornate doors, broad halls and into the brightly-lit office of Charles de Gondelaurier.

"Dearest uncle, I've come asking for a favor."

"Captain Phoebus, nephew. I've only been in Paris three days. First, you break my daughters heart. Now you have the nerve to ask for help?"

"Uncle, it is a matter of honour. Those homes, and this place, were left unburned. Your staff were permitted evacuation when the first fires were lit. All while you and your daughter remained miles from Paris, safe in your summer home."

"I understand, Phoebus. Fleur is still upset. She had her heart set on marrying you."

"I'm but a soldier. We last met when she was three years old. What does she know of the life I lead?" Phoebus shook his head. "Fleur-de-Lys' heart has grander dreams than I may ever provide her. She is also a child. I'm ten years her elder!"

"She will be seventeen on October 5th." Monsieur de Gondelaurier frowned. "Fleur should be married by now, or engaged."

"If you remember, uncle, it is your daughter that broke our engagement, not I."

"Touché. She was angry when you were dishonorably discharged." Charles drew his finger to lips. "Are you not engaged to another?"

"My position has also been restored, uncle. " Phoebus nodded. "Esmeralda and I are truly happy."

"What is it that you ask of me, if not to beg for my daughters' hand?"

"I've a friend who requires guidance in managing a fief." Phoebus pulled the letter from his pocket. "The property is newly inherited, and he has limited knowledge. I was hoping that you would hold to your word to provide help, should I ever require it."

Monsieur de Gondelaurier unrolled the letter, thinking aloud as he scanned the contents.

"How did you come to know the Frollos?" Charles tapped the paper with his fingers, shaking his head. "This fief, it is small and worth very little. Dare I even ask why you bring this trifle to my attention?"

"My friend..." Phoebus stumbled on his words. "He is educated, yet knows little of the world. Were he to manage this alone, it would be lost."

"Claude Frollo never married. Jehan the scoundrel is back, then? Cut ties before he seduces Semerella and steals everything you care about. He robbed my wife, you know. He walked through these halls as if he owned the place, while his brother was in this very office. You'd be a fool to think that I'd waste valuable time helping a useless, thieving..." He continued to read the paper. His words faded into mumbling.

Phoebus stood patiently, his hands at his sides. Charles' lips suddenly ceased movement. His eyes grew wide, his lips sealed. Phoebus watched as his uncle's eyes re-read the page. He held out the paper, tapping the name on the bottom of the page.

"This, who it this?"

"My friend." Phoebus stated flatly.

"The boy has outlasted his Master." Charles looked at the page again, nodding approvingly. "Good for him. Most unfortunate that he's saddled with two bad names." Charles mumbled.

Phoebus shifted nervously at the sound of excited footsteps on the other side of the door. The two men exchanged glances as there was a scuffle and surprised yelp, followed by a scolding female voice. Charles shook his head and sighed.

"Can the man read?" Charles asked sharply.

"Most certainly." Phoebus nodded. "I know it's much to ask, uncle. Any counsel you provide would be greatly appreciated, even an afternoon would help him greatly. Without help, I fear he's doomed to fail."

"Fine, fine." Charles rolled the paper, then pointed it at Phoebus. "One meeting. If this Quasimodo fellow is able to learn, I'll teach him what he needs to know."

"Your kindness is much appreciated, uncle."

"Spare the formality, Phoebus. We both know there is another reason for your request."

Phoebus remained still for a moment. His eyes shifted out the window, toward Notre Dame.

"He saved Esmeraldas' life, as well as mine." Phoebus' eyes remained fixed on Notre Dame, on the north bell-tower. "Possibly hundreds of others, as well. He's asked for nothing in return. He's a good man, uncle."

"I see. I will help your friend." Monsieur de Gondelaurier rolled and re-rolled the paper in his hands, before placing it in his pocket. "Where do I find him, this 'Quasimodo Frollo'?"

"He would likely prefer that you meet him in Notre Dame, after mass. Your help is much appreciated, uncle." Phoebus bowed slightly. "I should advise you that while Quasimodo is clever, he's also rather..."

"He's a homely fellow." Charles laughed. "I remember him. He was crowned at the Festival of Fools, the poor bastard."

Phoebus nodded, his lips sealed tight.

"Anything for my favourite nephew." Charles straightened his sleeves. "I assume you have important duties to attend. I shall see you tomorrow morning, in Notre Dame."

Phoebus stepped out, quickly making his way to the stairs and out of the mansion.

Charles stood alone at the entrance to his office. The Frollo fief was small. His father had once helped his friend, Henri Frollo, manage the property. That was over thirty years ago, when his own parents were alive. When he was a child. Before the black death had swept the land.

Charles wandered aimlessly through the halls, his mind racing. He imagined the frightened eyes of the bell-ringer, confusion wrought into his twisted face. Phoebus would never lie to him, Phoebus had never lied to him. He would keep to his word, he would meet with the bell-ringer and attempt to teach him. The Festival of Fools was chaotic, surely not a suitable environment to judge one's character. Charles closed his eyes, imagining Quasimodo's face and stunned expression.

"What have I agreed to?" Charles mumbled.

As the words left his lips, he felt another collide with him. He placed his hand on his chest before looking to the scribe that stood before him, in shock. The young man bore a large box of parchment and supplies. Quills and papers littered the floor.

"Watch where you're going, Pierre."

"Of course, Monsieur de Gondelaurier."

Pierre grasped at the quills and pages. He hastily placed them atop the crate.

"Get those to my office. I shall return by afternoon."

"Yes, Monsieur de Gondelaurier."

Both men deserted the hall.

A large white feather rested on the floor, it's brightness nearly glowing upon the grey marble floor. Fleur-de-Lys stooped down, lifting the perfect white feather into her hands. She ran her fingers along the vanes, appreciating the delicate softness. Suddenly, another object caught her eye.

A letter lay on the floor. She unrolled the parchment to see scratchy writing. Scanning the letter, Fleur struggle to read the words. The word "fief" stood out to her.

Fleur struggled to read the letter, her ability to interpret letters strained. Footsteps echoed in the hall. She rolled the letter, placing it back on the floor. Quietly, she stepped away, in thought. She held the angel feather in her hands. It was a sign, a gift that could only come from heaven. Truly, there was no other way for such a miracle.

Fleur placed the feather in her bosom and began to dance down the hall. She twirled her skirts with each step, her toes lightly sweeping over the floor. As she danced she curtseyed to each servant, as if meeting them at a royal ball.

Once in her quarters, Fleur closed the door behind her. She held the feather to her heart, the softness of it brushing over her breast. She looked up to the painted ceiling of her room, then closed her eyes. A smile forced its way across her face, tears forming in her eyes.

"Thank you for sending him to me, dear Angel. Whomever he is."