His father's house would be sold, along with most of the things in it. The money would pay off his late uncle's debts, he was told; this way, his inheritance would remain intact until he was able to use it. Jean-Claude was allowed, of course, to keep whatever he wished. He did not keep much. He kept a few of his father's books and his journals. His father's handwriting was small and cramped, hard to read. Jean-Claude flipped through the pages; seeing his father's handwriting made tears sting at his eyes, and he couldn't bear to decipher the words just yet. He tucked the journals into the bottom of his trunk. He kept his mother's jewelry; he examined each piece, noting how he had rarely seen her wear any of it. He wrapped it all in the mysterious sampler he'd found. He did not keep any of Katarina's things.
His father's former colleagues had arranged for him to become a blacksmith's apprentice. The thought disgusted him, but he did not voice his opinion on the subject. No one would have listened to him anyway. It was the curse that came with being so young. The idea of becoming a common laborer was an insult; he was well-educated. His father had always told him that he was destined for greatness. Becoming a blacksmith was anything but greatness. Still, he would find a way out of the apprenticeship in time, and he would reach the great, shimmering destiny that his father had told him so much about.
Paris was, after all, filled with opportunity, and he was still young. He had a whole lifetime to reach out and grab it.
~xXx~
The fact that both Phoebus and Esmerelda were alive and well was surely proof of miracles. Clopin wasn't sure what surprised him more, the fact that Phoebus had successfully killed Frollo or the fact that Frollo had lied about Esmerelda's death. Still, he was happy to see the two of them, and he ran to fetch Katarina.
There was really no need for Katarina to continue to pretend that she was a boy, and she'd reluctantly gone back to wearing dresses and skirts. Clopin could tell that she didn't like it. Still, there was no point in disguising her; if the good citizens of Lyon found a girl dressed as a boy, they'd accuse her of being "unnatural" and would punish her for it somehow. Lyon was not a terrible place to live. The guards who patrolled its streets were somewhat kinder than those of Paris, but Clopin still had no desire to cross them. They allowed the Gypsies to camp on the outskirts of the city and let them come and go as they pleased, so long as they broke no laws. It was an arrangement that Clopin could live with.
"Katarina!"
She sensed the urgency in his voice and rushed to him. Her feet were bare and the hem of her skirt spattered with mud. Clopin was sure that Esmerelda would not be upset by this, but still wished that Katarina would at least make an effort to keep clean.
"Come on," he said, "there's…there's someone you need to see."
She followed him, wiping her hands on the front of her skirt. "How on earth did you get so dirty?" he asked.
"Farming," she replied.
"Farming?"
She nodded. "There's a farmer who lets us help him in exchange for a few potatoes." She opened her mouth as if to continue, but stopped suddenly, staring straight ahead. "Mama!" She rushed forward into Esmerelda's waiting arms. Esmerelda was laughing even as tears streamed down her face; she stroked Katarina's short blonde hair. Phoebus watched them, leaning on his crutch, letting them have their moment of reunion. Clopin turned and began to walk away, leaving them their privacy.
If miracles did indeed exist (and now Clopin felt sure that they did), then this was one. Esmerelda and Phoebus were together again, and they would raise Katarina in a proper, loving home. It seemed as though Frollo's death had thrown a great ray of happiness into all the lives he'd worked so hard to destroy. Clopin smiled; the rotten old bastard was probably spinning in his grave, and he deserved to. For once, those who deserved to would be granted happiness, while the wicked suffered.
…END OF PROLOGUE