The Gypsy

She danced.

Twirling skirts and hips to the shake of a tambourine, her legs weaved the floor, her arms caressed the air. She spun, leapt and flew upon the stage, trinkets, bracelets shimmering an angel's gold in the sun. Bare feet striking the ground to the beat, her raven hair swept free with every movement, swooping wild across her skin as the gliding feathers of a bird. Twisting, turning, she arched her back impossibly to the tightly packed crowd, tongues lolling out of open mouths, all of them with the exception of one.

He watched her; mouth firmly closed, yet eyes on fire.

She was beyond beautiful.

She was a Goddess.

Her dance climaxed, one leg raised near vertical, green skirts slipping back to reveal the smooth, dark skin of her thigh. The crowd whooped. His breath left his lungs in a shudder. Leg still raised high, she froze in position; the only movement her hand as it made an agonizingly slow descent from her ankle down, the sight begetting over enthusiastic wolf whistles from the crowd. He bit down hard on his bottom lip. As the hand reached her knee, she bent forward, her leg to slice the air as she began the dance again, feet pounding the beat with an animal ferocity.

Lowering his head to avert his eyes, the priest's collar a strangulation around his neck, he breathed out then in before quickly twisting his head back for the chance glance beneath her skirts. Another swirling leap, a flash of flesh, and his gaze snapped to the sky above. Looking up, he saw something that resembled the shadow of a bat bent over the roof of a tall building. Head falling once again to be level with the square - the bat-shadow didn't keep his gaze for long - he found the crowds had dissolved into nothingness. The square was empty.

Empty except for the gypsy girl.

Their eyes locked.

Bewitchment was branded upon his soul.

Performing only for him, she twisted a full circle, hands coiling in and out above her head, body gyrating through her hips. Finally, her circle complete, she leaned forward over the wooden stage to extend one snaking hand towards him.

It beckoned him closer with a finger.

His heart leapt into his mouth. He bit down hard upon it for all of Paris to dissolve into hot white light, his soul burning a branded black, seared with the form of the still twirling gypsy, last of the scene to melt into a vacuum canvas of nothingness…

A moment later and Claude found himself alone in a dormitory. The sounds of the crowd, the goat and the tambourine gone to be replaced with an early morning silence only to be broken by the slurpy snores of sleeping Grégoire.

Claude blinked, adjusting to the new reality. The dream, whatever it was, had evaporated.

He was seated at his desk, his head resting on its side, slumped, like it had many times before, into an open book. A second and a low, sleepy groan later, and Claude attempted to sit up… to find his cheek stickily glued to the page with ink.

Claude swore in Greek

It seemed that during his sleep he had managed to knock over his - unfortunately placed - inkwell, spilling the last of his ink all over his book and face. Slowly, carefully, he peeled the book from his cheek, wincing at the sound of every rip. After inspecting the damage – tragic, the book was on chemistry – Claude moved on to check his bottle of ink.

Empty.

Claude flicked the glass bottle in irritation. The past week had swirled by in a daze of academic reverie. Indiscernible days of books, lectures and writing, their existence only proved by the increased depths of Claude's mind; the time spent never left memories, only knowledge. Claude was happy. The dream of complete comprehension of all came closer with each book he read. Greek Mathematical Principles was long since devoured, volumes two and three quickly following it in Claude's gluttonous diet of science. Saturday had turned to Sunday, Sunday had turned to Monday and Monday had turned to Tuesday; more days, more books, more study, all swirling past, until it was Saturday again, and once more Claude was to find himself short of the dratted, and all too necessary, substance of ink.

Without wasting any more time, Claude reached into his pouch: This time he had the coins ready and waiting to pay for a new bottle. Grabbing a book on chemical elements that wasn't newly decorated in ink, Claude strode out of his dormitory to walk the familiar route to the corner shop, ignoring Paris as usual. Reaching the wooden shop door, he was about to push it open when he stopped frozen to the spot.

Branded bewitchment of the soul…

In the very deepest corner of his stomach, something stirred. An unexplained, tangled fluttering, almost like the sensation of anticipation he got when about to embark on a new book. Almost, but not quite.

Whatever it was, Claude suppressed it. Unchecked emotions only served to be a distraction but, with each passing year, he was getting more and more adept at smothering them. He entered the shop and stood at the back of the thronging queue, flipping to page seventy eight as he did so.

"Book boy! You're back!"

The coarse voice penetrated Claude's otherwise impenetrable concentration, the tangled fluttering in the pit of his stomach returning with a squeeze. He didn't look up, didn't even move except for his knitting eyebrows, yet any doubt of who the voice belonged to was removed when he felt his arm being poked.

It was her again.

He slowly looked up from his book to find her grubby, smiling face before him that he had assumed - hoped - he would never see again. The tangled fluttering promptly left to be replaced by irritation mixed with a premature expectation of humiliation.

"What have you done to yer face?"

Claude rolled his eyes; the humiliation had arrived quicker then expected.

"You've got blue all over it, book boy, on one side and bits of paper too," she reached out a hand for further examination, which Claude immediately swatted away. The passing of a week, however quick, clearly hadn't made her any less annoying.

"It is just ink," ink that a small part of him was wishing he'd taken the time to wash off.

"Shouldn't you know by now, that ink ain't for drinking?"

Claude's teeth ground together at her mocking tone, "I did not drink it… it just spilled."

"Of course, it did," she replied, the mocking tone still all too present. Claude's omnipresent scowl deepened. The girl, however, was not to be put off, no matter how unwanted her presence.

"Y'know, you keep frowning like that, and the wind'll change and your face will get stuck like that."

Claude continued to scowl. He went back to looking at his book, but nevertheless replied, "That is ridiculous."

"It ain't. My Dad says it all the time, and he knows things."

"Obviously, your father knows nothing," Claude responded bluntly, causing the girl to let out a sound of indignation as his remark caused offence. Finally, he had managed it.

"You haven't met him. How'd you know?" she challenged, "He knows how to beat me and my brother's black 'n' blue with a shoe."

"That has no relation to whether the wind has an effect on one's face, which it does not," Claude scoffed, head in his book, refusing to look at her.

"That's just what you think. When your face gets stuck, I'm goin' to be the first to laugh."

The line appeared on Claude's forehead, but he did not respond. It was pointless to argue with a simpleton, and especially pointless to argue with this girl.

"You have any brothers or sisters, book boy?" she asked.

"No."

"It shows. I'm the second oldest in my family," she said proudly, "My Dad wanted me to be a boy, and got so depressed when I wasn't that my Mum squeezed out six baby brother's to make it up to him. She did such a good job of makin' it up to him that she died in the process. My Dad was so happy; he now spends every night at the tavern tellin' everyone just how happy he is," she finished, all the time using a tone of voice as if she was commenting on the pleasantness of the weather. Claude looked up from his book.

For a moment, neither said anything. The moment did not last long.

"What's your Dad like?" she asked.

Claude thought for a moment, "He does not like taverns." It was one of the few things he knew about his father. He had barely spoken to the man after spending almost all his years away from home for his education.

"Doesn't like taverns? Ain't he happy?"

Claude didn't reply. This time, not because he didn't want to speak, but because he didn't know an answer. Not knowing an answer to something did not sit well with Claude, especially considering the subject matter, and he fell into gloomy reflection, facial features again arranging themselves into a scowl.

Away from his reality, deep in his thoughts, the girl leant forward and whispered loudly and conspiratorially into his ear, "Watch out for that wind!"

He jumped. A furious blush appeared on his cheeks, her unexpected closeness causing him to take an abrupt step backwards. The proximity of both her and her voice had given the tangled fluttering a sudden reign over his stomach as the girl burst into laughter at his surprised reaction. Claude's frown deepened with the red flush: He hated to be laughed at.

Soul seared white…

"What exactly are you doing in here?" he growled angrily at her while she continued to laugh.

"What am I doing?" the girl spoke between giggles, wiping a tear from her eye, "What're you doing? You ain't queuing to buy stuff as far as I can see."

Cheeks still flushed, Claude looked around to find that people had again been taking advantage of his obliviousness to push in front of him in the queue. He looked down briefly at his book. He hadn't been reading it, and yet he had still been distracted from his surroundings…

Claude's gaze moved up to glower at the giggling girl in front of him.

"Tell me, why are you here?"

"Book boy, I work here," she stated plainly as if this was obvious, pointing to an abandoned broom in a previously unseen corner of the shop.

He regarded her through narrowed eyes, "No, you do not."

"Yep, I do."

"Then why are you not working?"

She smiled craftily, "Cause the shop owner ain't here. He spends all his time out flirtin' with the flower seller in the square. While he ain't here, I can do what I like. Old Joe," she pointed to the wispy, white haired man behind the counter, "don't care."

Claude let out a sound of exasperation at her blatant disregard for language rules, "Were you never taught how to speak properly?"

"I'm using words, ain't I?"

"Am I not," he corrected.

"Ain't I."

Claude rolled his eyes at her non-conforming ignorance before realising that he was finally face to face with "Old Joe" at the front of the queue.

"Young maître, what 'ave you done to your face?"

Peasants, Claude thought, were all the same.

While purchasing his ink and parchment, it didn't pass Claude's notice that Old Joe, hunched, aged and possessing a liver spot for each of his many wrinkles, was directing a reproachful look somewhere behind Claude. To say that Old Joe didn't care about the lazy working habits of his fellow shop workers was obviously not quite true.

Claude watched out of the corner of his eye as the girl stuck her tongue out at the wispy man's reprimanding gaze, Old Joe responding with a phlegmy grumbling at the back of his sagging throat. Whoever the manager was, he clearly had bad taste in employees – one, incapable of keeping younger workers in check, the other, incapable of working. Not to mention lazy, uncouth and insufferable.

Beckoned closer…

After making his purchase, Claude turned around to find the insufferable still present, peering curiously at him, "So what do you do? Do you work someplace?"

"No, I study at the University."

"At the University? You a rich kid, book boy?"

Claude felt the few remaining coins that resided alone in his pouch, "No."

The girl scrutinised him for a moment, no doubt taking in his well worn jerkin and boots, "No," she agreed, "You're just a book boy."

"Better a book boy, then a shop girl."

She laughed, "That ain't right. I work and get paid money. You go to school and get nothing."

"I receive knowledge. That is worth more then the world itself," at the mention of his beloved sister of science, his only sibling, Claude realised that he was voluntarily wasting time talking to a girl instead of engaging in his quest for absolute learning. The realisation that distraction was causing him to turn away from life's true purpose, however briefly, caused the bottom to drop out of Claude's stomach, and yet that unexplainable, inexplicable tangled flutter persisted to churn…

"Knowledge ain't worth shite. You can't eat it, can't wear it, can't live in it. With money, you can have all three," Claude was no longer listening to her - what he would no doubt consider - sacrilegious remarks. His mind preoccupied with disciplining itself for this momentary, unheard of blip in focus, his eyes, glaring icy daggers at what he perceived to be the cause of it.

"I have to go," he said abruptly, taking a step back from the girl.

"You do? Why?"

He didn't reply, face furrowed, striding away towards the door. Just as it was about to close, he heard her voice call out, "See you later, book boy!"

Not if he could help it, Claude thought, rapidly putting as much space as he could between himself and the ink shop, in order to make it back to the safety of his dormitory, room and book shelf.

Frollo tossed in his sleep.