AN: Still posting my old stuff. Btw, thanks to the people who reviewed.
"Second Chances"
by EsmeAmelia
Chapter 9
Later on that day, Esmeralda was elbowing her way through the crowds at the Gypsy camp to see what else the caravan might have brought. It had brought her fiance's sister, but it was also supposed to bring her own sister - or at least the closest thing she had to a sister. She rose up on her toes in an attempt to see above people's heads, but to no avail. At last, the black streak of a long braid swiftly passed in front of her eyes. Esmeralda grinned at the sight.
"Melenie!"
The black braid ceased its movement and slowly turned to face Esmeralda, revealing Melenie's sharp brown eyes.
"Esmeralda!"
The two women raced up to each other and collapsed into a tight embrace. "Oh Melenie," Esmeralda murmured, "I've missed you so much." She ran her fingers down Melenie's braid, smiling at the bumpy texture. At the same moment, Melenie was feeling her way through Esmeralda's thick mane.
After at least forty-five seconds of nearly smothering each other, the two women finally separated.
"So, what events have I missed?" Melenie asked.
Suddenly it hit Esmeralda that Melenie didn't know about her engagement. All the months she had to prepare for this moment were gone, and she still had not the slightest notion how to explain it. She remembered the concern in her friend's eyes from the winter before, the worry that she would abandon her people. Suddenly she felt ashamed.
"Melenie..." she said softly and hesitantly, "I have some...important news."
Melenie lowered her eyelids, showing her thin eyelashes. "I know what you want to tell me," she whispered.
Esmeralda's eyes bulged. "What?"
"News like this travels fast among the gypsies," continued Melenie. "You are engaged to the man you claimed you had no feelings for."
Esmeralda was struck dumb. It was too late to prepare her friend for the news. No apologies could be made. She hated to think about what Melenie must think of her now. The black-braided gypsy had looked to Esmeralda as a sister since she was a child of seven and Esmeralda was a child of twelve. Now Esmeralda felt like she had betrayed that relationship. Why oh why couldn't she have been honest with Melenie four months ago? Surely she could have trusted her friend with that secret. She tried to remember the reason, but something blocked her mind.
"Melenie..." she said with her voice coming out in a whisper, "I'm...I'm sorry for not being honest with you."
Melenie shrugged. "Well, if I told you I wasn't angry and hurt when I heard about it, I'd be lying. I suppose it's fortunate that we were apart when it happened. But I realized that the heart doesn't always listen to reason." She turned her brown eyes up to Esmeralda. "I know what you think of me, dear sister."
"What do I think of you?" replied Esmeralda.
"You think I'm afraid," answered Melenie. "You believe I worry about you and that I fear change. And you're partly right: I do worry about you. You are practically my sister - I can't help but worry about you." She lightly touched Esmeralda's cheek. "But I do not fear change."
Esmeralda couldn't think of anything to say.
"And another thing," Melenie continued, "I trust my sister. I trust her to know what's best for her." She gently stroked Esmeralda's hand. "I know you are a Christian now, but would you grant me permission to read your palm just this once?"
Esmeralda found her mouth beginning to smile. "I think God will forgive this one." She stuck out her hand.
Melenie took her friend's hand and began running her fingers across the older gypsy's palm. The exact movements of her finger are difficult to describe without the use of visual aid. Sometimes her finger seemed to dance across the palm. Other times her finger made a grinding motion, like it was digging into the skin. Still other times it barely moved at all. And all this was executed within a few seconds.
"I see a wise young woman," said Melenie, "who has the courage to handle anything that comes her way. You will face some hardships in this marriage, but love will help you pull through." She looked up and faced Esmeralda's emerald eyes. "And so will your sister."
Esmeralda unconsciously threw her arms around Melenie. "My little sister..." she murmured, "...my little sister...my little sister..."
Melenie closed her eyes and absorbed the embrace. Yes, she was accepting her friend's attachment to Phoebus. She was still uncomfortable, and she didn't particularly like it, but she was accepting it. Now that her statements had been made, she actually found it much easier than she had initially perceived it would be. Esmeralda needed her support. That little notion far superseded all doubt and concern.
"Melenie," Esmeralda said after they separated, "I know you must think I'm the most demanding person in the world, but I have something to ask of you."
"What is it?"
"Would you be my maid of honor?"
"Esmeralda!" Melenie exclaimed, pretending to be offended. "That is a stupid question!"
"It is?"
"Yes," Meleine grinned, "it's stupid to ask such a thing when you know perfectly well that I'd love to do it!"
. . . . . .
"Well sister, welcome to my home, or at least the place where I currently reside." Phoebus led Minerva into his room at the boarding house.
"I always wondered what luxuries the Captain of the Guard was provided with," said Minerva.
"If you want to know that, go to the third floor of the Palace of Justice," said Phoebus. "Here you'll only find what luxuries a boarding house resident is provided with. And what luxuries they are. A cramped bed, two worn-out chairs, an ugly table, a wall hidden away by furniture past its prime, and a window with a lousy view make up this tiny, drafty, hot-in-summer-and-cold-in-winter home."
"You're trying to scare me away, aren't you?" teased Minerva, but secretly she was amazed at how poor her brother appeared to be now, and angry at Frollo and her mother for causing it.
"So, is the food good here?" she asked.
"It's decent enough to stay alive on," answered Phoebus.
"Ah, so it's not good. Well fortunately for you, I'm not a picky eater, although I do adore my German food. Say, have you ever been to Germany?"
"Only passing through."
"Then you have sorely missed out," said Minerva, "If you ever linger there you'll see why I decided to stay."
"Hmm, you mean why you decided to stay and let everyone think you're dead?"
Minerva shifted her eyes and turned her head away.
"Minerva," Phoebus said firmly, "I'm asking you seriously here. Why did you let everyone believe you're dead?"
He thought he could hear her breath picking up its pace. After a moment or two, she suddenly whirled around and stared him in the eye.
"Phoebus," she said quickly, "remember the time when you stole Diana's necklace and hid it in the yard and you made me promise not to tell anyone?"
"Uh, yes."
"And do you remember what you said?
""I said Mother would think Diana had done it."
"No, besides that," Minerva said sarcastically. "Remember, you said that the next time I had a secret, you wouldn't tell anyone."
"And..."
"The time has come."
Phoebus raised an eyebrow. "All this time and you still haven't learned how to forget. So, you're about to tell me something I'm not supposed to tell anyone else, am I correct?"
"Congratulations, you finally got it," sighed Minerva.
"All right, go ahead. I won't tell anyone."
Minerva glanced downward guiltily. "I-I...I ran away. Mother...she tried to force me into marriage."
Phoebus nodded understandably.
"The man was absolutely stupid," Minerva continued without looking him in the eye. "Cold hearted, arrogant, certainly not someone I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. So I ran away with the gypsies. I thought it better to be presumed dead than to dishonor the family...uh, no offense."
"None taken," said Phoebus.
Minerva kept her eyes pointed downward as she struggled to keep herself from shaking. She had told the truth...at least part of it. There was no need for her brother to know the rest of it at this time. After a moment or two, she glanced back at his face to see his expression was almost indifferent.
"I see I've really triggered your emotions, haven't I?" she said with a raised brow.
"Terribly," Phoebus grinned as he playfully pinched her ear.
"Ow...hey...watch out, there's a hole there now!" Minerva laughed as she pried his fingers off.
"And to think, you used to say women with pierced ears practiced self-torture," said Phoebus.
"Look who's talking - you used to say men with beards looked like animals!" Minerva said as she yanked his beard.
"Touchee'," said Phoebus as he pulled her fingers away.
"Now if we can quit the child's play for a moment, I'd like to thank you."
"For what?"
"For hiding it."
"Hiding what?"
"Your reaction to Quasimodo. The poor guy's had a hard life."
Minerva gave a somewhat confused expression. "I certainly noticed that his appearance was different from most, but that was no reason for a reaction. We all have our own attributes. What, were you expecting me to start screaming in the middle of a crowded street and cause a commotion?"
"Well, to be honest, I was praying that you wouldn't," admitted Phoebus. "He's had his share of people's reactions, and far worse."
"What do you mean?"
"It's a long but very interesting story," said Phoebus. "One which I might tell you after you unpack."
"Oh right, unpacking!" Minerva said as she suddenly set down her bag and bent over. She opened up her bag and pulled out an armful of dresses. "These are all my own creations," she stated. "Sewed every last stitch in them, and these stitches will not come undone, not even if you were to tie one end to a pole and have a horse pull on the other end. I make a good business with my needle."
"Clothes press is over there," said Phoebus.
"Thank you." Minerva hobbled over to the clothes press and began stashing her dresses inside. "People come from all over to purchase my dresses. The material I use is cheap, but very soft. I've always thought that comfort is just as important as beauty, and...oh, what's this?"
Her eyes had caught sight of something white stuffed in the bottom shelf of the press. She yanked at the soft material.
"Bedsheets?" she observed.
"A failed idea would be a better term to describe them," answered her brother. "Mother discarded them from her guest room and I snuck them away, thinking that maybe they could be a wedding dress."
"A wedding dress?"
"I spontaneously had this crazy idea that I could have those sheets made into a wedding dress to surprise Esmeralda," said Phoebus. "But like most spontaneous ideas that you get on the morning after you're banished, this one wasn't meant to be. My new job offers a decent salary, but all the dressmakers around here have outlandish prices."
"Ah, I see," said Minerva, running the sheets through her fingers. "Well, these would indeed make a fine wedding dress. Shame that none of the dressmakers in town realize that." She then turned her head slyly. "You know, as I said earlier, I'm quite a skilled dressmaker myself."
"Yes, I heard you say that just a few minutes ago."
"You're not catching on, are you?" said Minerva. "You want a dressmaker, I am a dressmaker...do you see my point?"
"You want to make Esmeralda a wedding dress?"
"Bravo, you finally figured it out." Minerva rolled her eyes as she pulled the sheets out of the press. "For the right price, I could turn these into a lovely wedding dress within two weeks."
"The right price?" Phoebus said skeptically. "Define 'the right price.' Don't tell my fiancee I said this, but I won't be put in the poorhouse just so she can have a dress."
"Well, I certainly have no intention of putting you in the poorhouse," Minerva said as she pretended to examine the sheets. "Hmm...very fine silk...might be a bit difficult...all right...my estimated price would be...nothing."
Phoebus raised his brows. "Enough joking, now tell me the real price."
"No, I mean it," said Minerva. "Consider it payment for letting me stay with you, and a favor from sister to brother."
A grin covered Phoebus's face as he talked. "You always were a softie. A stubborn, impossible softie, but a softie nonetheless. But are you sure you don't want anything?"
Minerva's pink lips turned upward into a cheeky expression. "Well, you know, there's always the secret salute. You remember the secret salute, don't you?"
He flinched slightly. "I remember the secret salute all too well. Which, may I remind you, was something we did as small children who don't know embarrassment."
"So what's your point?" quipped Minerva. "Half our childhood was spent away from each other."
"It was still spent," Phoebus said gruffly. "I doubt you've noticed, but we're not eight years old anymore."
"Oh, come on, has the army really made you that stuck-up?" Minerva said with her lips puffing. "There's no one here but you and me. Pretty please?" She batted her eyelashes at him and stuck her lips upward to the physical limit.
Phoebus groaned. "How is it that after all these years you still haven't outgrown that smile? And how is it that after all these years I still don't have the power to resist it? All right, all right, you win! But just one time."
He awkwardly raised his hand to his forehead. Minerva grinned and saluted him back, then they each began moving their hands back and forth: first touching their own forehead, then touching each other's foreheads, then their own, then each other's.
"Okay, I hope you enjoyed that, because I'm not doing it again," said Phoebus after they put their hands down.
"Lucky for you, I don't want to do it again," said Minerva, "but I do wish to know what the accommodations will be here."
"Do you want the bed or the floor?"
"Well, I certainly don't want to take your bed," said Minerva.
"And I don't blame you; the floor's more comfortable."
Minerva rolled her eyes. "I meant that in a guest-respecting-the-host way."
"No, I'm serious," said Phoebus. "The floor's more comfortable."
. . . . . .
Minerva set to work on turning Annette's old sheets into a dress fit for a royal wedding. She worked in the room for a day or two, but quickly ran into a problem. She discovered that people who are soon to be married never like to go too long without seeing their fiancees, and Esmeralda was no exception. Esmeralda paid calls on Phoebus several times a day, forcing Minerva to stash the dress in whatever place that was closest to her (which usually meant sitting on it). It became obvious that this wasn't going to remain a secret for long.
"Phoebus, I can't work like this!" she finally exclaimed one morning.
Phoebus looked up from the book he was reading to find Minerva in the opposite chair, furiously poking her needle through the cloth. "Can't work like what?" he asked.
"I can't work on this dress with Esmy always dropping in unexpectedly. There's no place to hide it. It won't fit in the clothes press..."
"Well that's only because someone stuffed it with all her clothes!" interrupted Phoebus.
Minerva rolled her eyes. "It's your wedding, not mine. If you wish for this dress to be a surprise, then you figure out a way for me to hide it."
"Calm down sis," said Phoebus. "I have an idea."
"It had better be good," said Minerva. "What is it?"
"Quasimodo!" said her brother. "You could take the dress to Notre Dame and hide it there. There's plenty of room, and I'm sure Quasi would love to have the company."
Minerva cocked her head. "Well, that's certainly an idea, but I barely know him. What makes you think he'd be eager to do it?"
"He takes in wounded soldiers," Phoebus said with a grin.
. . . . .
"Hello?" Minerva called out as she entered Notre Dame's hall with the dress gathered up in her arms. "Is anyone here?" Nothing answered but her echo bouncing off the mighty walls. She gazed around the massive room that she hadn't seen in ten years. Tinted sunlight streamed in through the stained glass windows, casting an ethereal glow on the intricately detailed statues. How strange, she didn't remember it being this beautiful. Nor did she remember her way around the building.
"Leave town for a decade and they remodel the church," she muttered. She took to wandering around, which proved to no avail. Every stretch of hall seemed to branch out into ten others. At last she spotted a figure gazing up at a statue of the Virgin Mary. Although his face was turned away from her, she could easily identify the figure, for his humped back was a dead giveaway.
All right, now what? Should she tap him on the shoulder and explain that Phoebus sent her? She suddenly felt quite foolish to ask a near-stranger to make such a large commitment.
She didn't have much time to ponder, for the figure sensed that he was not alone and turned his head. The instant his eyes met hers, he fled.
Minerva chased after him, amazed at how fast those uneven legs could run. She couldn't have kept up with him even if her arms weren't full, but still she followed him up the stone spiral steps. Her legs began to ache from the climb, and the dress began to slip from her arms. After a little while, the silk tangled around her legs and caused her to fall, landing in a heap on the stone steps. She uttered a swear word under her breath and fiercely attempted to free herself from the sheets.
"Um...a-are you all right?" a small voice asked.
Minerva looked up to see Quasimodo shyly peeking his head around the bend in the wall.
"Yes.." she said, "...if you consider falling down on hard stone steps with your legs tangled up in an unfinished dress to be all right."
"Well...w-would you accept my help?" He timidly walked down to her and offered his hand. Minerva looked at him again with that fascinated expression, and Quasimodo again felt like he was being investigated. "You don't have to be afraid of me," he said softly.
"Who said I was afraid of you?" replied Minerva. "I merely find you intriguing."
"W-well...you're not accepting my help."
He wasn't even finished with his sentence before Minerva took his hand and allowed him to help her up. "Who said I wasn't accepting your help?"
"W-w-well...f-forgive me then," Quasimodo said awkwardly as he untangled the dress from her legs.
"Do you remember me?" Minerva asked.
"Uh, y-yes..yes I do," replied Quasimodo. "Minerva. Phoebus's sister."
"I would prefer not to be known just by who my relatives are!"
"Well I don't know you otherwise," said Quasimodo. "At least, I don't know much about you. I know you're a ball of fire who flies instead of walking and plays practical jokes."
"You heard a description of me when I was eight years old," said Minerva. "That is not knowing me for who I am."
"Well...forgive me again."
"You're very quick to beg for forgiveness," commented Minerva. "It's not your fault that you don't know me."
Quasimodo was briefly overcome by spontaneity. "Well, how about you come up to the tower and we can get to know each other for who we are?" He wasn't sure why he had given this invitation - he certainly wasn't accustomed to inviting near-strangers into his home.
Minerva's eyes relaxed slightly as she smiled at him. "I'd love to."
"A-all right," Quasimodo stammered. He took her hand and began leading her up the steps."
There is so much I want to know about you," Minerva said as they ascended. "Qua-si-mo-do...is that how you pronounce it? Such an unusual name. What does it mean?"
Quasimodo responded with an awkward silence.
"What is wrong?" persisted Minerva. "Do you not know what it means?"
"Oh, I know what it means," Quasimodo said bitterly, hastening his pace.
"Oh...I see..." Minerva said awkwardly as he began to lead her across the bridge between the two towers. After a moment or two, she molded her face into a comforting expression and said softly, "I promise I won't say anything. You don't have to be afraid to tell me."
There was something about Minerva's accented voice that made Quasimodo less ashamed. "All right..." he finally whispered, "...it means 'half-formed.'"
Within a moment, he regretted telling her. What had he been thinking? He was shaming himself even before he and Minerva got acquainted. For once a person was unaffected by his looks, and now he had to go and tell her what his name meant. The fact that she had promised that she wouldn't say anything did nothing to comfort him. Not saying anything wouldn't prevent her face from reacting. Would she cringe in disgust? Back away in fear? Hold back a giggle?
When he finally brought himself to look back at her face, her expression was almost unreadable: certainly not any of the reactions he had expected. How difficult it was to read her face sometimes. She seemed ashamed to have asked the question, yet not regretting it. "I feel sorry for you," her eyes seemed to be saying.
It had never occurred to Quasimodo that anyone should feel sorry for him because of his name. His name was something he had grown up with: something he was accustomed to. He wasn't fond of his name, but he wouldn't change it.
"Is there a surname that goes with that?" asked Minerva.
Quasimodo lowered his brows and ground his teeth. "No," he said firmly, "I refuse to use the surname of the one who raised me."
"Well I don't blame you there," Minerva immediately responded. "That name is synonymous with the devil."
"You know about him?" asked Quasimodo.
"Of course," said Minerva. "That creature from Hell was minister for most of my life."
"Um, please remember this is a church," Quasimodo reprimanded. "Even if that is a fitting term."
"Definitely fitting," Minerva growled.
By now they had passed the bridge between the two towers and were now climbing up the ladder that led to Quasimodo's room. The ascending took quite a bit of time due to the fact that Minerva had to drag the dress with her, but all the while neither of them spoke. It wasn't until they reached Quasimodo's dwelling area that he finally brought himself to speak again.
"Here," he said simply, "this is my home."
Minerva shifted her eyes from the bits of colored light dancing on the floor to the broken statue pieces being used as furniture, to the pools of light reflected off of the bells, and finally to the intricate carved city. As she took in each detail, her breath slowed down a bit.
"Is something wrong?" Quasimodo asked.
"What makes you think something would be wrong?" Minerva replied as she stepped into the room. "Don't you get taken aback when you encounter something so beautiful?"
"Beautiful?" Quasimodo repeated.
"Yes," said Minerva, "absolutely beautiful."
Beautiful. Quasimodo had heard that word the last time he showed a woman his home. As with the previous time, his heartrate quickened and his stomach danced. Why did he still feel so awkward to have a stranger in his home? He was tempted to hide behind a beam, as he did with Esmeralda, but he found that he couldn't move. His eyes were gazing at Minerva.
She still didn't spark like Esmeralda, but the light reflecting off her earrings gave her cheeks a bit of glow. Her narrow eyes couldn't open as widely as Esmeralda's, and yet they still took everything in. Quasimodo decided that, although she didn't spark like Esmeralda, she was not as plain as he had first thought. With the colored light dancing on her face she looked quite pretty indeed.
Minerva turned to face Quasimodo and cleared her throat. "I've come here to ask a favor of you."
"A favor of me?" Quasimodo repeated.
"Well to be specific, it's a favor that my brother has asked of me which requires me to ask a favor of you." She held up the unfinished dress. "These old bedsheets of Mother's wish to become a wedding dress for Esmeralda. Trouble is, they wish to be a surprise wedding dress and the little room at the boarding house is unfit to hide them. So that's where you come in."
"You want me to hide them here?" Quasimodo guessed.
"Exactly," Minerva replied. "But only with your consent, of course. I would pay you for it."
"Pay me?" Quasimodo exclaimed. "Y-you don't need to pay me. I'm more than happy to help out."
"Really?" said Minerva. "Perhaps I've failed to mention that I'd need to come here every day to work on the dress. You will reconsider the payment offer once you've become acquainted with me and found out what a troublesome creature I am. My whole family has a reputation for being difficult - why do you think we send our sons to the military? Of course, you've already been acquainted with a member of my family, so he probably gave you a taste of how troublesome we are."
"W-well...would you please take a seat?" Quasimodo offered, then he realized that the only "seats" he had were buckets and stools and old statue pieces. What would she have to say about that?
Apparently nothing. Minerva sat down on a statue head as easily as if it were a large inviting armchair. Her skirt draped over the head, giving the illusion that she was sitting on air.
"Now," she began, "I expect that I should work here an hour or two a day. While I'm not here, you will be in charge of hiding the dress."
Quasimodo nodded. "I-I have plenty of room."
"I can see that," said Minerva. "At least that tyrant gave you a large space."
Quasimodo sighed slightly. "A large space that I could never leave. Any large space begins to shrink after you haven't left it for twenty years."
"My brother has told me some of your story," said Minerva. "The Festival of Fools thing, the burning of Paris, how you saved his life by stashing him under a table, the revolution against Frollo, all that. It's a very interesting story, but there was one thing my brother was unable to explain."
"What?"
"How did you end up here in the first place? Or better still, how did that menace end up as your guardian?"
Quasimodo was silent. Not because he was shy, but because he had never uttered this shadowy story before. How could he begin when he only knew bits and pieces of this story?
"M-my...my mother died when I was a baby. I don't know who my father was." He paused for a moment. "W-well, a-actually, I don't really know who my mother was either. She was a gypsy, I know that, but not much else."
"A gypsy?" Minerva interrupted with an interested face. "Do you think she knew the people who killed my father?"
Quasimodo wasn't prepared for that question. "Uh...I-I don't know. I-I d-d-don't know who k-killed your father."
"A group of gypsy men beat him to death in 1456."
"My mother died in 1462."
"So you're twenty-one then?"
"Uh, I guess," Quasimodo said unsurely. "I don't know for sure."
"I'm twenty-eight," said Minerva. "I know I don't look it, but I'm old, and I've seen a lot even for a girl my age. Of course, I haven't seen as much as my brother, seeing as how he served in the army."
Quasimodo was a bit frazzled by her rapid shifting of subjects. "Uh...anyway, I grew up believing the story Frollo told me about how my mother abandoned me as an infant and he was the only one with the compassion to take me in. It wasn't until just before he died that I found out the truth. My mother died at Frollo's hand, and he took me in not out of charity, but out of fear for his soul."
Minerva nodded. "Sounds about right. That black heart could never do anything out of compassion. Which brings me to my next question. How did you ever learn it?"
"Learn what?"
"Compassion," said Minerva. "You are obviously rich with it, and your guardian had none of it. How did you ever learn compassion when Frollo was all you knew?"
"He wasn't all I knew!" argued Quasimodo. "I had plenty of other teachers."
"Like who?"
"Like the wind," explained Quasimodo. "When I was young I'd sometimes hear a swift but gentle breeze whipping its way through the tower and making the bells give a faint sound. After I became the bellringer, I'd use that same technique - be swift but gentle. And of course, the bells taught me a lot as well."
"The bells?"
"Yes," continued Quasimodo. "The bells taught me how to fly. After I got them ringing I would sometimes leap onto one of them and let her carry me back and forth. They would each give me a different ride, but I think my favorite was Big Marie."
"Big Marie?"
"The largest bell. When she carries me, sometimes I feel as though I'm riding on the wings of a gale - the next best thing to flying. Big Marie taught me that moments of joy could exist anywhere, even in my miserable life. But back to your question, I think the ones who really taught me compassion were the birds."
"The birds?" asked Minerva, who was beginning to feel like an echo point.
"Birds would fly into the tower every day, looking for food or shelter" said Quasimodo. "They'd be everywhere. Those poor little creatures looked so cold and hungry that I just couldn't help myself; I had to help them. It was an instinct or something. Sometimes I found myself giving up my entire breakfast for them. Soon they started building their nests up in the rafters and around the gargoyles. We couldn't speak each other's language, but a bond still grew: we didn't need words to communicate." He sighed. "Those were different days, when my only friends were the bells, the birds, and the gargoyles."
Minerva gave another smile so wide that dimples appeared at the edges of her mouth. "Half-formed, eh?" she said. "I think not. You're probably the most fully-formed person in this city."
"What do you mean?"
"Exactly what I said. Like I told you, I've seen a lot, but in all my years I've never met anyone who comes as close to being fully-formed as you."
"Uh, haven't you ever met anyone who is 'fully-formed'?" asked Quasimodo, unsure about what she meant.
"Of course not!" answered Minerva. "No one on this earth is truly fully-formed. No matter what one tries to make of himself, he will never be fully-formed."
"So I suppose you aren't fully formed?"
"Dearie me, of course I'm not!" said Minerva, as though the very notion of her being fully-formed was foolish. "I wouldn't be fully-formed anyway, but I'm a twin, and twins are never as close to being fully-formed as other people. We have to share our crucial development period in the womb with someone else, thus formation falls short."
"So Phoebus isn't fully-formed either?"
"Definitely not, I think that's obvious. It will also be obvious with me once you get to know me," Minerva stated, but then she quickly added, "But he left the womb five minutes before me, so I'm a bit more formed than he is."
Quasimodo found himself grinning at that statement. "So, how formed do you think Frollo was?" he asked after a moment.
"Not at all," replied Minerva. "That devil's child had no sense of anything except hatred. But the worst thing is that he believe he was fully-formed. The most dangerous thing in the world is someone who believes he is fully-formed. With the belief that righteousness is always on his side, almost nothing can stop him from doing whatever he pleases."
Quasimodo nodded, finally understanding what she meant. Meanwhile, Minerva's eyes had drifted down to the miniature city on the table.
"Did you make these yourself?" she asked.
Quasimodo had been asked this question once before by the first one to ever treat him as an equal. He remembered how awkward he had felt, how he had wished that Esmeralda would simply leave and allow him to return to his life of misery. Now so much had changed in his life, but he was still embarrassed to reveal things to a practical stranger.
"Y-yes...yes I did," he stammered.
"They're lovely," she said as she examined the figures. "You must have great talent. Where did you learn how to do this?"
The bellringer took a few moments to speak. "W-well...I-I don't know exactly. My mast...I mean Frollo was always telling me that I should entertain myself."
"So what did you do?"
"Well, I didn't know what to do at first, but then one day I found an old knife. I don't know where it came from, but it was sent here to save me. I began my awkward attempts to carve logs into shapes...and after a while Frollo discovered what I was doing and well...he started providing me with wood and teaching me a few things about carving better. After a while I was learning for myself, and I made this little replica of the city I could never visit."
"He probably taught you so you'd keep yourself out of trouble," concluded Minerva.
"Maybe so, but it turned out to be a skill that saved me. Sometimes I think I would have gone mad if I wasn't able to work with my hands like I did."
Minerva nodded. "At least that black heart could recognize talent..." she stopped in mid-sentence when she noticed a particular figure. "...ooh, this one's my brother, isn't it?"
"Uh, y-yes."
"You capture him very well. Since his personality is so wooden, it's fitting for all of him to be wooden as well."
Quasimodo found himself laughing despite attempts to control himself.
. . . . . .
The whole afternoon was spent in the tower chatting about various things. Quasimodo soon decided that Minerva was quite warm and amiable once you got to know her. She stayed in the tower until well past sunset.
"Oh," she exclaimed, as though she was just now realizing it was dark outside. "I've stayed much longer than I intended."
"Hey, it's all right," Quasimodo said in a relaxed tone. "I've really enjoyed it."
Minerva was in the process of placing the unfinished dress on the table, but she managed to flash one of her extremely-wide smiles at Quasimodo. "I have too." She started heading for the ladder. "I'll see you tomorrow, Quasi."
