The air was crisp with winter. Even in the chill of the morning the sun shined brightly giving the day a unique warmth. The middle class life of Paris was busy as usually. Tradesmen were bartering and selling and townsfolk were buying. But not Celeste. She has always been as unique as the absent warmth of the winter sun. Instead of running errands she was listening to a reciting poet and was, as usual, his only audience.

"So here is my latest," the young poet said. He pulled out another piece of parchment from a pile under his arm. He was handsome man with wavy light brown hair and a kind face and a slim but rough nose. His eyes were dark and sparkled with wisdom. Celeste however was the only one who would bother to listen. "An Ode to Juno from Jupiter."

"Hmm, I don't really care for Juno." Celeste criticized.

"You don't like Juno? The Queen of the Gods? She was quite the women, much like yourself. Independent, tough, unique, exquisite." His eyes got wide, "I feel inspired! Celeste, her blue eyes like holy light, locks of brown curls of bark from shavings of dogwood, God's tree. Her olive skin like that of a Roman goddess, Juno in the flesh."

"Needs work Gringore. I hardly find myself worthy of poetry or to be compared to Juno." She grabbed her basket and turned to head back into the market. Gringore joined her at her side.

"I thought you didn't care for Juno."

"I don't."

"Then what goddess shall I compare you to?" Celeste bit her lip with a shy hesitant smile and turned to him. "Diana." She answered. "She's my favorite."

"Ah, I should have known. Goddess of the hunt. I fine girl she was. I fact, she cut her hair to be like a man's. Much like or habit of dressing like one."

"I am wearing my dress and apron today."

"You have hose under don't you?" She paused on the side of the road. She pulled up her dress just above her boot to reveal her dark green pants that her father had wanted to throw out. She smiled. "Indeed, you caught me."

"There she is." A high pitched girl screamed. "I found her Marquel!" A blonde girl with bouncing bangs and bonnet pulled herself out of the crowd with a young slim French boy holding her hand. They ran up to Celeste and Gringore. "Gabriella, don't draw so much attention to yourself."

"Sorry Celeste. Marquel and I were just out for a walk and happen to be talking about you, then speak of the devil here you are with Gringore."

"Nice to see you again lady Gabriella." Gringore bowed. She curtsied. "And Marquel, my good sir, you look nobler then ever. Must be the lady at your side." Marquel and Gabriella blushed.

"I would like to agree." Marquel was a tall slim handsome boy with dark straight hair and a long face. Both Gabriella and him were from fishing families and were Celeste's only other friends since the day her family moved to Paris from Italy when she was eleven. Seven years later she still missed it.

The mumbles of people and sounds of carts and market business was joined by the sound of the afternoon bells. It was now noon. Celeste gasped and turned to her friends. "Mama and Papa expect me home soon, and I haven't even picked up one thing from the market."

"Some wife you'll make," Gringore mumbled. Celeste hit him with her empty basket.

"You're lucky we are in the public market Pierre Gringore. I hear poets are rather dainty fighters. I could beat you within the ring of bell from Notre Dame."

"I conquer. I am a lover, not a fighter. And I do thank my lucky stars that you cared to spare me this afternoon."

"Celeste," Marquel said. She turned to him, still holding Gabriella's hands. "Wasn't there something you were about to do?" It only took a second for her to remember.

"Jesus Mary and Joseph!"

"Celeste!" Gabriella exclaimed.

"I was praying! Gotta run know. Take care friends. Thanks Marquel. Au revoir!" They waved her good bye as she began her rushed shopping trip.

Several factors made Celeste very unique. The most obvious was her foreign looks. She shared her mother's Italian genes. She had darker skin and her French was still not as good as a native to Pairs, like her father. Astor Orvelle was a member of the royal guard and had been sent to Tuscany where he met and married his wife, Rosabell. When Celeste was eleven he was called back to Paris and she had to leave her beloved home. It still had not fully grown on her, but she knew she was a big enough disappointment to her family already and tried to adapt as best she could.

It was also true she rather dress in pants and loose tunics like men. She found them more comfortable. Her parents claimed to understand her, but they never really did. They wanted her to be a proper lady and marry a fine man and take care of him. But home was not where she wished to spend her days. She found herself to be a city girl. She did miss the hills of Tuscany, but the streets of Paris, although so much different, were just as exciting.

They last major part that made Celeste one of a kind was her love for the arts. She loved to read plays and poetry and watch performances. She only wished she had the talent as well. It was this small passion that lead to her friendship with Pierre Gringore who taught her all the art she had been deprived off. Her parents took at as just and interest to entertain her and suggested she marry a duke or price so he may take her to shows, but they didn't know of her deep passion.

Celeste was indeed a rare beauty and her parents would wonder why she didn't yet have a husband. But she was only 18 and still had time. If she would bother to dress nicer and brush her hair instead of tie it loosely back allowing some to hang in her face she could be very beautiful. But no one would ever know if it were true. Her strange hobbies, foreign looks, and her lack of interest in a normal girl's life seemed to drive people away, labeling her as an outcast.

In record time she gathered all supplies she needed from the market and would make it home when expected. Celeste heaved a sigh of relief after checking too make sure she had gotten all she needed and started walking home. Her bohemian eyes caught the sound of minstrels playing. On the side of the street a gypsy band with a flute, drum, and tambourine was playing, and naturally everyone was avoiding them. Celeste loved music and was very caring, but not clueless. She knew from experience gypsies could not be trusted. Her parents also never neglected to remined her. But she felt more respect for them when they earned their money. She searched her apron and found some extra pennies and tossed them in a hat in front of the gypsy band. They smiled and nodded at her. She returned a smile and walked away.

Even if Celeste was unhappy, she could not be ungrateful for her home. It was what her parents referred to as 'upper middle class.' It had two stories and was more then big enough for her small family. Her father made more then a decent living being a respected member of the guard. Back in Tuscany her mother was a candle maker and still made a side living with it there.

She opened the door and entered her home to she her mother in the kitchen. She was beautiful and as foreign looking as Celeste but she seemed to fit in better. Her dark brown hair like Celesteâ–“s was pulled back in a low tight bun and she was dressed in her dark house dress and apron ready to make dinner. Celeste was as tall as her. Next to her mother stood a small girl with her father's wavy black hair and an innocent mien. She was standing on the top of her toes to reach the counter to help her mother.

"Ah, there you are Celeste," her mother said. "I was concerned your 7 year old sister would be of more help then you."

"Celeste!" the high pitched voiced girl sang. She ran up to her older sister.

"Afternoon Ninette. How was your morning?"

"I helped Mama. Like you do Celeste." There was nothing else in all the world that Celeste adored more then her younger sister. And she knew Ninette thought the same of her.

"I am certain you were more useful then I am." Her mother made no comment.

Celeste placed the basket from the market on the counter. "Here is everything you wanted Mama."

"Merci darling. Will you assist me so dinner may to ready for your father's return home? Your sister has done her fair share."

"Oui Mama."

"I want to help my sister." Ninette said.

"You can keep me company." Celeste suggested and the little girl smirked.

Astor came home on time as usual and dinner was prepared. Half way through was an uncomfortable but sadly familiar silence. The two siblings sat across from each other and the parents sat across from each other. The head of the family finally spoke. "Antoine tells me he saw you talking to that Gringore again." he said without even looking at Celeste but clearing talking to her. He was a noble man. Astor was strong looking with an aging face, large nose and a black mustache. Without showing any expression his tone was always understood, a typical father.

Her mother's utensils clattered on the plate. "Not that strange poet." This was nothing new to Celeste. They never would approve of his company and she had given up trying to convince them otherwise. "I am telling you Celeste, nothing good will come from being in the company of that... gypsy!"

"He is far from a gypsy Mama. He has morals and is well educated. Just another struggling artist."

"Just as well, he is as bad as a gypsy."

"I understand Mama." She did not feel like arguing tonight.

"Speaking of gypsies," her father wiped his mouth with his cloth showing he was finished with his super. "Tomorrow is that bloody Festival of Fools. My regiment and I must supervise. Who knows what those gypsies can do when they are let loose. If they aren't bad enough alone and in hiding, they are worse when there are many legally allowed to freely perform such foolery."

"Let the poor souls have their fun dear. Its about all they have." Her mother began to stand and take plates meaning Celeste had to do the same. Astor began to stand as well.

"Rosabell darling, you look tired. I will help Celeste. Go help Ninette prepare for bed."

"Thank you darling." They gave each other a quick kiss and the two went up the stairs.

Celeste and her father cleared the table and began washing the plates. She had been working up the courage all day to ask him something, and now seemed like the perfect time. "Papa, you are going to the festival tomorrow right?" He glanced at her with curiosity for a moment but quickly returned to drying down dishes with a cloth.

"I am dear."

"Well, I wish to go with you." He smiled with disbelief.

"What an absurd request Celeste. You most certainly may not go. Its a festival for scoundrels. A future lady such as yourself should not be around such filth."

"But Papa, if I stay with you I'll be fine. I just want to see the shows. I know they are gypsies, but you and Mama admitted the have the most talent. Please Papa, please." He turned to her sternly and waged his finger at her with a rag in his hand.

"Absolutely not. I am starting to get very concerned about your interests. I wonder if I should blame that damned poet. It was fine when it was just an interest, but you are starting to give this family a bad name. You are setting a bad example for Ninette. There is only so much I will allow. I am very lenient, but you have pushed me to my limit. No is my answer, and I do not want to any more about it." He reached to put plates away in a cabinet. Celeste lowered her head in shame and defeat. "Yes Papa." The night ended without it being mentioned again.