Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonour others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.

St. Paul's 13th Letter to the Corinthians (4-8).

La Esmerelda is uncertain.

The Archdeacon's house is huge. When did he acquire such a property? Why did the man of the church bury himself in books, Latin and incense, but had this acrimonious looking house?

The thoughts heightened her anxiety.

Just everything about him made her uneasy. She was confused about her feelings of attraction towards the mysterious man but the underlying fear of him still consumed her. Once Frollo had her alone in his home… what would happen then? Would he change towards her, break her so she capitulated to be his prisoner inside his home? Or would he want some sort of payment for her release from the depths of the prison.

Walking steadily towards the benign housekeeper … Mrs Benoit she heard the Archdeacon call her. She was plump women, middle – aged with a kindly countenance which made her think of the grandmothers in the gypsy camp. A wash of homesickness filled her, maybe Mrs Benoit would be nice to her. Maybe they could get along. But wouldn't the Archdeacon have control over his staff, what if he commanded them never to talk to her. The thought made her stomach roll unpleasantly, especially the horrifying thought of isolation. Mrs Benoit curtseyed to Esmerelda, as she would the mistress of the house;

"Welcome to tourments de l'enfer, Miss. You must be tired after your long journey." With these words of greeting a small smile graced the older women's lips.

Unfortunately, Esmerelda unused to the formalities of a nobleman's household took a step backward crashing into the Archdeacon's chest. She caught her breath as he steadied her against him and left what she hoped was a reassuring arm on her shoulder. The heat and power radiating from him was immense, and again she was close to panic, she closed her eyes trying to regain some sort of composure and hide the feelings of fright from the older man.

"Thank you, Mrs Benoit. If you please, we would both like to refresh ourselves and some sustenance would be welcome." His menacing baritone cut across her stupidity. Cynically she thought, he led her with a firm grip on her shoulder through the door of the mansion which was to be her new prison.

Esmerelda's fear did not lessen even when they entered the house, Frollo's had had tightened on her shoulder to a painful degree to the point of bruising.

"I will see you in an hour, do not be late.", the Archdeacon whispered in her ear.

He left her with robes swishing around him in the foyer of the grand house, trying to calm the panic that gathered in her chest which coiled menacingly, so she could hardly breathe. She hardly took notice of her surroundings but followed the maid that was sent to assist with helping her.

The maid took her up a flight of stairs that seemed endless combined with the winding maze of corridors which made her feel dizzy. They finally stopped outside a large oak door;

"This is to be your room, Miss."

"T-Thank you." She replied.

"I will help you to dress in something suitable, the Missus left some of her old clothes inside. She was as petite as you."

The maid's chatter made her relax a little, at least the maid was willing to talk to her. Which was something to be recommended amongst the staff, even if she was only a gypsy. Although they probably presumed that she was Frollo's guest not an unwilling prisoner. Esmerelda's mind drew upon one aspect of the maid's chatter, what Missus was the maid talking about, Frollo had never married due to stringent Catholic doctrine. The mystery surrounding the man she was cooped up here with thickened to an opaque black.

Frollo tapped his long fingers impatiently on the wooden table.

She was late.

He hated waiting.

After fifteen minutes had passed, he was set on finding her and dragging her down to the table.

He didn't have to.

His heart rate sped up to an unbearable pace.

His mouth turned as dry as the desert.

She was ... breath taking.

Nothing that he dreamt compared to seeing her in the clothes he possessed along with the house. The scarlet red dress hugged her curves, the bold, lustful colour accented her black hair and cat – like emerald eyes which eyed him warily.

He throbbed in his tight pants.

As she approached the table, a footman held her chair for her. She sat gracefully, even with the incident with the housekeeper outside, the finery seemed to mould her into a gentlewoman. Trying to disguise his reaction to her, he gripped his cutlery in tight fists. And tried to focus his thoughts on the plate in front of him.

For the first time in his life, Claude Frollo had no idea on what to say. What did one say to someone that he had rescued from certain death and then rode miles to his childhood home, which he detested. And had an unbearable lust for. Life did seem unfair sometimes.

His train of thought was interrupted by their supper, which was a lump of bread, a selection of cheese and some Port. Mrs Benoit had also sent up some biscuits and a tea try.

As he placed things on his plate, he glanced up at Esmerelda to see she was not eating;

"Don't stand on ceremony, my dear. Please eat. The food will go to waste.".

She did not seem to hear his attempt of conversation but surprised him with a comment of her own, the first thing he heard her say to him;

"What are you going to do with me?" she said loudly across the table.

He distracted himself by eating a sliver of cheese;

"You must really taste the cheese its…"

"Answer me." She fairly demanded, her eyes glittering with defiance.

"Fine. I will keep you here as recompense for saving your life from the authorities."

That answer did not seem to satisfy the impudent gypsy;

"But what about Phoebus, does he know where I am? He was to make me his mistress. He said I would be safe."

Frollo's eyes flashed dangerously, her little head was still bothered about that infantile, drunk, crude Capitaine. He refused to answer her.

"Please, tell me what happened to Phoebus." She pleaded with him, her beautiful eyes glittering with tears of frustration.

His control snapped.

"ENOUGH." Frollo yelled.

"I do not want to hear anymore about that foolish Capitaine. Who saved you from the authorities? who rescued you at my own cost? And yet you still insist on talking about that dammed, idiot PHOEBUS. I do not want to hear his name in my hearing. Now GET OUT."

The tears that had been threating to fall by mentioning Phoebus, flowed freely down Esmerelda's bronzed cheeks. However, instead of eliciting sympathy, it inflamed Frollo's fury even further. His fist connected loudly with the table, imagining the Capitaine's smug face.

This seemed to be spark some movement in Esmerelda and she flew from the room.

Frollo's last thought before collapsing in a chair, was that ingratiating himself in Esmerelda's affections was going to be more difficult than he thought .