Clopin turned the puppet over in his hands, frowning as he slid his hand in and his thumb caught on a hole that was just big enough to slip the tip of his finger through. It was the very first puppet he had ever made, the two of them had done many shows together, but the only thing holding the faithful marionette together now was hope.

Plucking a needle from his hat, he pulled up his knee and propped the puppet on top so he could get a better view of the tear. Thankfully, this time it was only a ripped seam, an easy repair. "You need to stop falling apart on me," he said chidingly, sticking his tongue between his teeth as he held the end of a thread to the light. "Or I'm going to have to chuck you into the fireplace where all useless rubbish goes."

The puppet didn't deign to respond, but Clopin long ago got used to speaking without really expecting an answer.

A shadow passed over his head as he poked the needle through the rough fabric. Biting back a curse just in case it was a young child curious as to when the next show would be, he said without really glancing up, "Move to your left, please, before you ask any questions."

Obligingly, the shadow drifted to the left. "I hate to be a bother," the voice, quite smooth and masculine, was definitely not younger than ten. "But … you are speaking to your puppet."

"I am," Clopin looked up, annoyed. The rest of the retort stuck in his throat at the sight of the garishly clad figure standing before him. Because he was standing directly against the sunlight, not much was clear to Clopin's already poor strained eyes. All he was able to make out was a blur of color, bright red and gold, and a rather large hat that shrouded the stranger's features in shadow. "I don't know if you knew this," Clopin smirked. "But … the Feast of Fools isn't for a few months."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," the stranger possessed a strong Southern French accent. "However, if you are referring to my attire, I would take a good look in a mirror."

"There is nothing wrong with my outfit," Clopin snapped, suddenly on the defense.

"But of course, if purple were actually in season."

"Who CARES if it's in season?" Clopin felt the heat rise to his face.

"When paired with red and yellow? Whoever is not colorblind. Not to mention…" he pinched Clopin's hat between his fingers, and lifted it off the man's head. "This sorry excuse for a chapeau. What kind of statement are you trying to make? And those boots…" he clucked his tongue. "Such a sorry condition for them to be in. Is that any way to treat them?"

"They are inanimate objects," Clopin struggled for calm. "They don't feel a damned thing. And if you don't stop bothering me, I will sic the Minister of Justice on you."

The stranger blinked, as if uncomprehending. "The Minister of Justice…?"

Before Clopin could conjure up an explanation, all hell broke loose towards the end of the street. Women gathered up their children and men rushed to save their carts all in a panic, everyone screaming and calling at once that it all melted into one white noise. Although Clopin was sure that somewhere in there he heard someone call out, "JUDGE CLAUDE FROLLO!"

"DAMN!" he cursed, leaping up from his stool, his puppet clutched in his hand. The crowded street split itself right down the middle and scattered as a large black horse came crashing down the street. Its hooves, Clopin swore, striking sparks as they pounded against the cobblestones.

Clopin didn't know what it was that brought the Minister down that street, but he wished it had waited for when he had his hands less full. All he knew was that death was coming rapidly his way and he couldn't move out of the way fast enough to avoid it.

Something slammed into him – not hooves – but a body. A large white feather did its best to suffocate him by shoving itself down his throat and gagging him. The Minister of Justice went by moments later, completely unaware of his surroundings, focused entirely on his prey – whatever his prey was.

"Sweet Maria!" the stranger panted. "What was that?"

"That was the Minister of Justice. Get off me!"

Ever-obliging, the stranger stood, snatching his hat back and frowning in disapproval at the drooping feather. Uncovered, Clopin noticed the sunlight gleaming off short, tight golden curls and a face that looked like it belonged on a boy, not a man. The stranger looked up, and cornflower blue eyes gazed into the distance, a delighted smile on his lips.

"Well, there's a man who knows how to dress!" he whistled, appreciatively. Clopin could only wearily assume that he was speaking of the Minister.

"Well, if you ever tell him such, he might stab your throat." He carefully pulled out his crumpled puppet and checked for any lasting damage. Never mind the blood running down his cheek from where he had gashed it on a stone during the fall. "However, I believe you just saved my life."

"Think nothing of it," the stranger waved his hand dismissively, as if he did that sort of thing all the time.

"Well, it's worth a pint at the tavern, at least." Clopin replied. Satisfied his puppet was not hurt past the still unrepaired seam tear, he stuffed it in his pocket.

"I will not argue with you, there." The stranger flashed him an uncanny smile. "It would be my pleasure to accompany you."

"I thought it might be," Clopin said. "Well, what do they call you, wherever you're from?"

"I was born in Paris, but I have spent the last few years of my life in Auvergne and I just now returned. My mother lives there, you see, and I have no father. My name is Jean-Francis Troillefou."

"I'm Clop – wait, what? Say that again, I don't think I heard you correctly." It was the accent, he reasoned.

"I was born in –"

"No, no, not that part!" he wasn't eager to hear the run-down on the man's life again. "Your last name, you said it was…?"

"Ah, pardonnez-moi, my last name is Troillefou."

Clopin narrowed his eyes. "Clopin Troillefou. You share my last name, but I've never met you before in my life. Are we related somehow, monsieur?"

"I wouldn't know," Jean-Francis shook his head. "Unless you knew my father, his name was Fronsac."

Clopin rubbed his eyes, searching for anyone with the name of 'Fronsac' that rang a bell. Nothing was springing to mind, and he already had a headache.

"I'm sure it will come to me," he said dryly. "However, at this moment I have a headache bigger than that hat you're wearing, and I need something strong to get my thoughts back on track."

"Then by all means, lead the way!" Jean-Francis threw his caplet over his shoulder in the most pompous manner imaginable, and Clopin wondered how he ended up owing his life to such a prick.

Grumbling something about fate, and 'why me?' he began to make a beeline for the tavern.