Friday, February 1st

Quasimodo sounded the Vigil, then allowed the bells to rest. The night was bright, with a full moon, and bitterly cold. He stepped to the edge of the tower, looking over the city. To the North, he could see the distant hills as black shadows before a brilliant, sparkling sky. To the west, lay most of the island. Amber windows dotted the soft blue light that blanketed the city. At this hour, all of Paris was silent, to him and everyone else.

Looking to the scattered dots of candlelight, Quasimodo sighed. Who else was awake at this hour? Scholars? Other bell-ringers? He looked down into the empty streets. He grasped his cloak to his shoulders and left the tower.

The portal of St. Anne remained unbarred. Quasimodo carefully closed the door behind him, as not to cause alarm to anyone awake inside the cathedral. He turned, facing into the square. The snow-dusted cobbles appeared blue. Small eddies of snow glistened and sparkled before him. He stepped away from Notre Dame and into the square.

Quasimodo walked through the empty streets, his shoes creaking on the thin layer of snow. He folded his hands into the sleeves of his cloak, warming his fingers against his arms. As he walked each street, he noted the pictures and signs on each shop and continued to look back to Notre Dame to orient himself. There were shops selling paints and dyes, shops selling quills and quilted chairs. Paris was different when walking through it, with many of these treasures hidden from his regular view.

A gust of wind lifted his hood, flattening it over his hump. He drew his hands up in order to replace it, then paused. There was no one here. He stood for a moment, in the middle of a street, feeling the wind tousle his hair. Closing his eyes, he breathed deeply. When he opened them, the street remained empty.

Quasimodo continued to walk the streets by moonlight, orienting himself in the mazes of streets without the distraction of others pointing or staring. Only when his legs began to ache did he return to the comfort of Notre Dame.

The bells would not ring again for a few hours. Quasimodo lay back in his bed, enjoying the softness. Would he ever grow accustomed to such comfort?

Esmeralda and Charles were right. Visiting the fief was imperative. How would he get there? How would he be treated? Was it true that they'd already heard of him and knew what to expect? Would the vassal, Arsene, continue to hold a grudge against him, or were Charles and Justice Moreau correct in that he would become agreeable to working with him? Would he have to admit his lack of hearing to the people living there? Or would they speak to him one at a time?

Quasimodo attempted to roll to his side. Finding this uncomfortable, he piled a few cushions so that he was sitting up slightly. He could breathe better this way. He looked to the fire, then turned his attention upward, to the red glow on the ceiling. He closed his eyelids.

What did she look like? The girl with the broken-wheeled cart? Truly only a dream, yet the sweetest dream to ever befall him. She had braided hair, and that was all he could remember of her appearance. He knew not the colour of her hair or eyes. Her hands. He could imagine her hands signing to him. They were worn, callused and possibly those of a worker. She'd signed him, smoothly.

"You have nothing to fear, Quasimodo."

"I'll look for you." Quasimodo promised himself. "I don't know who you are, but I'll go out there and look for you."

"All of Paris will be there." Fleur-de-Lys bounded in her dressing room. "Virginie, I must look my best for him."

"Who is it you plan to meet, my Lady?"

"No one." Fleur quickly corrected herself and shrugged. "I could meet someone there. All of the most devout will attend, certainly every eligible bachelor."

"I see, my Lady." Virginie shook her head. "Will you wear your mother's jewels?"

"Of course." Fleur held a dress to her shoulders. "Is this too fancy, or does it make me look like a cow?"

"Wear the dress you love most, my Lady." Virginie commented. "You will need to tell me which one to fetch."

"The one with the gold trim, wide sleeves and Spanish lace." Fleur announced. "I feel as a princess when wearing it."

"It will be ready for tomorrow morning." Virginie nodded. "You will be the most beautiful woman there."

Fleur-de-Lys stepped into her father's office. As she closed the door behind her, she heard her father laugh.

"Why are you in here, my dear."

Fleur paused, her eyes scanning the desk.

"Paper, father." Fleur blurted. "I came to fetch some paper to write on. Also, I came for a book. To read. A book for me to read."

"Is that all, my darling?" Charles stood, filing through the few books and scrolls on his shelf. He drew a small volume and offered it to Fleur. "Is there anything else?"

"That, and to tell you how much I love you, father." Fleur bounded forward, into her father's arms, hugging him. She kissed him on the cheek, then stood, expectedly, before him.

"Go, Fleur. Attend the lessons that you requested."

"I will, father." Fleur turned.

"Fleur. You are forgetting something."

Fleur quickly turned, taking the paper and book from her father's outstretched hand. She was gone. Charles arranged the notes on his desk and prepared for his last meeting with Quasimodo. When the melody of the rebec reached his ears, he relaxed in his chair and waited.

The door opened, Quasimodo walking in unaccompanied. Charles rose to greet him. It was then that he noticed his daughter's scarf on the leather chair. Charles moved forward too late. Quasimodo picked the scarf from the chair and neatly hung it next to his cloak. Charles sighed.

"There is much to cover today, Monsieur... Quasimodo." Charles nodded. "Forgive me for not meeting you yesterday. I fear I ate something disagreeable. I trust you feel well?"

Quasimodo nodded.

"Mostly, this is housekeeping. Appointing book-keepers, delegating tasks and keeping peace on the fief."

"Are people unhappy?"

Pierre stepped in, bearing a tray of rolls and mugs of ale. He laid the refreshments on the table.

"They are unsettled, Quasimodo." Charles bounced his quill between his fingers. "Claude Frollo ran that place for close to twenty-five years. They knew what he wanted, what he expected. Many have never known any different. None of them know what your demands will be. To put it frankly, they are scared. Arsene has dictated a letter and wishes to meet with you as soon as possible."

"What do you mean?" Quasimodo leaned forward, his right eye squinting at Charles. Pierre spoke.

"Imagine you took orders from the same Archdeacon for twenty years. He wants the bells to toll a certain way, meals at a certain time and only certain foods. He's very strict, and does not allow anyone to eat bacon during Lent, even if they hide it in pastry." Charles nodded in agreement as Pierre spoke. "Then, one day, that Archdeacon is gone. Another one takes his place, yet does not show himself. No one knows what he wants, so they follow the old pattern, hoping that it's correct. This creates uncertainty, and fear. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Then let us begin."

"All of Paris will be there." Quasimodo paced through the bell-tower. "Everyone who was at the Feast of Fools, will be there."

Quasimodo stepped onto the transept, at the gallery of Chimeras. He looked down, onto the empty moonlit square.

"No harm will come to you in Notre Dame." Father Lacroix's words had been clear. Yet, how could he be certain they were true?

"If one person decides I don't belong there, what will happen?" Quasimodo thought to himself, then looked to the chimera next to him. "You've said nothing in over two weeks. Why so silent after twenty years?"

Quasimodo laughed, shaking his head. He placed his hands on his forehead, forcing his callused fingers through his hair. He remained still, his elbows resting on the parapet. His breath escaping in ragged gasps.

"There is no way out of this."