Claude had been annoying Phoebus in early February and now it was late February and he had yet to come up with a way to annoy the captain further. He was beginning to be bothered that the gypsy's spell had turned his head nearly as vacuous as the captain's and then was almost furious as he realized where he was going.

He was standing at the edge of a crowd that had gathered around all-too familiar tambourine music. He turned to stalk away, when the music suddenly stopped and there was a feminine scream accompanied by the tambourine seemingly having a seizure. Then the goat shrieked.

The crowd gasped and everyone backed away and Claude had to fight to keep from people stepping on his foot before battling through the crowd.

After shoving people away and stabbing several in the gut or the foot with his crutches, Claude finally found out what was happening. Esmeralda was trying to beat a large, angry, and probably drunk, man away with her tambourine. He held onto her arm tightly just below the shoulder. The goat tried to fight back on his mistress's behalf, only to shriek as it was punted away—apparently again.

The minister didn't know what to do. He had no idea how to deal with a hostage situation. By the time he ever got to one, the criminal panicked and let the hostage or had already killed them. Even if he did know what to do, he realized, he couldn't do it anyway. He was still on crutches and he had yet to get to his horse, which might have done some damage or at least created a distraction. No one was going to listen to him while he was stuck on two sticks.

For the first time in his life, Claude found himself a spectator at a crime. Or maybe this would be an execution, given the man's sword and how her struggles were angering him. He hadn't been a spectator at one of those for decades either.

However, he'd never been a spectator to whatever was happening next. A large rock flew over the heads of several participants of the crowd and hit the man in the back of the head. Soon another rock flew at him from another direction and for a second he released Esmeralda.

Instead of running, she used the newfound freedom to pull out a dagger attached to her ankle. It turned out to be a smarter move than running for he grabbed her wrist and lunged to strike at her with his sword.

She slashed at the man's wrist, just above the hand that held her. He pulled back, screaming. She turned to run this time, but she was too late to escape on her own.

Someone grabbed her and threw her out of the way as the sword came down. Claude missed the rest of the fight, for Esmeralda was thrown in his direction and the only thing to stop her from hitting the street was him.

She stood up, standing on his feet, and screamed something as she watched. Doing his best to shuffle his feet out from under her while still encumbered by the brace, Claude assumed that what she was yelling meant 'puppy' for that was what everyone else was yelling. The question of why was a confounding mystery he would see if he could figure out later.

"You're in my way!" he yelled. No one did anything. As much as her backside looked nice, he didn't want to see it, especially while trying to stand up. "Excuse me!" he tried again, finally but barely shoving himself up on the crutches.

The crowd gasped and Esmeralda blocked his view as he focused on balancing before standing at full height. "What's—hey!" Esmeralda grabbed the closest piece of cloth, which happened to be his dalmatian sleeve, and started to cry on it. "I am not a handkerchief!" he yelled, tearing his sleeve from her grasp and righting himself to his proper height of half a foot taller than her.

Pushing her away, he caught sight of the last of the fight, realizing he'd missed the climax of battle and resenting the gyspy because her pathetic sobs had been pointless. Esmeralda's rescuer had turned out to be Gaetan, and the man had sublimated killing the 'boy' in Esmeralda's place. Gaetan had been shorter than the man realized and he's missed both in timing and in height in his attack, thanks to her training. Gaetan, however, misjudged the man's weight and struggled to keep her footing and to shove his dead weight off.

One of Gaetan's feet slid out from under her and she fell to her knee, as she used her other leg to slowly shove the body to the side. She picked herself up and tore her short sword from the body.

"Miss, are you—" Gaetan asked as she turned to Esmeralda, then stopped, realizing not just what, but who she was. Then she noticed her master behind the gypsy and swore as she tried to run.

Now that Esmeralda wasn't in his way, Claude could easily maneuver on his crutches. He easily reached out and grabbed her arm. "What have I told you about that language?" he yelled. "Perhaps you'd like to practice your dodging skills—"

"Oh, is this your child?" Esmeralda interrupted, putting her hands on both their wrists.

"Unhand both of us!" Claude demanded. "And go away. Gaetan, you're getting cleaned up." He started leading her to the nearest well, which was blocks away.

"You're daddy must be so proud!" Esmeralda said, petting Gaetan's hair. She stared at her now blood covered hand, and then shrugged. She licked her hand and tried to smooth Gaetan's hair back into place before the blood dried.

"Daddy?" both 'men' asked.

"You're not his father?" Esmeralda asked.

"No, I am not," Claude said. "I have not even been married—I see you people don't follow that line of logic. Why are you following me?"

"I was wondering if I could thank your little boy for saving me," she said, walking closer to them. "Who's boy is he?"

"His father died in the war," Claude said. "His mother needed the money, and I needed an apprentice, simple as that." There, a much more respectable backstory than being a bastard child of some whore. He wasn't lying; he just kept a few details to himself. Even he didn't have as much breeding and refinery as he wanted if you looked at the truth straight on. His father was just a working class peasant and his mother was considered a spinster when she married.

"That's so nice of you," Esmeralda said.

"No, it's not," he replied flatly. "Why are you still here?" He contemplated sending her to Phoebus. Between the both of them, they had enough stupidity and insanity to fill an insane asylum. But the captain had enough flaws without chatting up a gypsy witch.

"You've never been married?" she asked, changing the subject. "Then I hope this isn't too forward, but I must say I've admired you for some time now." Esmeralda wondered why it was so easy to get his attention without talking to him, but when she did talk, he didn't like her. Too bad hitting him over the head with a blunt object and dragging him off somewhere private didn't count as flirting.

"That's very… interesting" he said, finally stopping at the well. "Except, not really." He thought he couldn't be more confused when he thought of her last night, but now she had corrected him. She was pretty, entertaining to watch for some reason, and so far didn't break the law, but he preferred her when she wasn't talking.

"I mean, I know this is hardly a befitting situation, and I do hope you'll excuse my ignorance, but… oh, if only I knew the grace and poise that suited someone like you!"

"Um…" Claude said. Talking to Phoebus on one of his worse days made more sense than this.

Gaetan did her best to pretend nothing was happening and just washed her face with water from the well's bucket.

"It would be a dream to be wooed as a proper woman," she said, clasping her hands and leaning against him slightly.

"What part of don't touch me did you not get the first time?" he asked. In truth, he was stalling for time. He knew what all the words meant, but strung together like this and in this context, she might as well have been speaking whatever native language her people spoke. "Did the archdeacon send you?"

"Huh?" she asked.

"Young woman, I honestly have no idea what you're saying." He hoped in whatever code she was speaking in, it meant 'Go away,' or at least 'Make sense.'

Before she could try and explain, Djali butted her legs and jerked its head at something. Casting a quick glance in that direction, she saw Clopin waving at her from an alleyway.

"Oh, how decorous of you to say such things," she said. "I shan't trouble you any longer. But I do hope to see you again!" She ran off down the alley, Djali tagging along.

"What was that all about?" Claude asked himself, then turned to Gaetan.

"She likes you, master," Gaetan said, suddenly feeling pressed for answers.

"I don't see why," he said. People weren't supposed to like him. It ruined the whole point of torturing someone if they smiled back at you.

"Romantically," Gaetan said. As intelligent as Frollo was, Phoebus was smarter about this, and she was sure that his horse could outwit him at a few things.

"Oh." There was a very long pause as she finished washing up. "Wait, what?"

………………

"This is your plan?" Clopin whispered, wanting to scream.

"You said you trusted me," Esmeralda complained, hands on her hips.

"I do trust you. It's him I don't trust!" Clopin whispered, waving his arm out at the streets.

"He hasn't done anything," she said, now crossing her arms.

"Good. Let's keep it that way."

"Look, he's a bit stupider than I thought about this, but I'm sure this plan will work," she said. She hoped to God and All Other Holy Things that she was right and that Frollo had shown up to stare at her and not at Djali. "He's just a lot harder than he looks—forget I said that."

"I'm making forgetting that a priority," Clopin said. "It's up there with breathing."

"He's not as easy as I thought."

"Esmeralda, I know corpses easier than him. In fact he might as well be one given that's all he's intent on making more of! Why don't you just go play on something metal during a thunderstorm? It's a lot safer and you're a lot more likely to get off while doing it."

"Clopin, that's not my plan," she said. Why did everyone think she was speaking an alien language all of the sudden?

"Oh, I get it" Clopin said, suddenly elated. "You're going to kill him. Go right ahead, I've been trying to kill him for years. It's the kid I have a problem with."

"Clopin, that's not my plan either," she said. "Although I will if I need to… Look, you will know the second I'm in trouble. But not yet."

"Fine. Just don't do anything I wouldn't—no, that's not right," Clopin put his hand on his face and tried to think.

"Clopin, look at it this way: he's not going to send my breasts to jail anytime soon and if he's paying attention to them, he's not paying attention to anything else."

"I'm not sure if you're flattering yourself or if you're amazingly brilliant."

"Well, he's not when it comes to this and I'm wondering how to give him a hint without painting words and arrows on my blouse," she said, rolling her eyes. She'd been harassed by more straightforward twelve-year olds than Frollo.

"Yes, that would be a problem," Clopin said, thoughtfully contemplating her cleavage. "Even if you did find someone who could read and write, it might be a bit too subtle."

……………….

Later that night, Claude sat thinking in his chair, obviously wishing he could pace back and forth across the floor without the aid of his crutches. Gaetan felt she would be safer from whatever he was contemplating in her corner, but the floor needed scrubbing again and in the winter the fireplace was used often and needed sweeping.

"What does that woman want?" Claude asked aloud.

"Flowers, master."

She saw his eyes focus on her and she cringed. Either the question was rhetorical or she had given him the wrong answer.

"In February?" Claude asked. "It's still snowing."

Gaetan didn't answer this time.

"Wait, you're a female," he said, as if he'd suddenly gotten a bright idea.

Gaetan hoped that was rhetorical too.

Claude had taken to calling her 'boy' even when no one else was present. To his mind, she was male. Flat chest, no hips, spoke perfectly coherently, had nothing to do with flowers, and wore pants; that equaled male in his mind. "You can translate her alien blathering. The question is what do I do with her?"

Gaetan decided this was going to be a one-man conversation, whether Claude liked it or not.

The problem with that was that Claude didn't like it at all. He'd never liked this. His father's only advice had been 'If she's serious about you, do whatever she wants, even if it's stupid. That's how I married your mother.' Why had been about money, so that was even less help. Eventually his father lowered his standards and just said 'Just make sure you bring home something human.'

His mother had been a lot more proactive in trying to see the family line continue in genetics. He had once made the mistake of asking why they didn't have more children themselves if they wanted to see grandkids. That was his first mistake and he had the misfortune to keep making them until his mother gave up on him entirely and thought he was a hopeless failure. She gave him the book De Amore, which he wondered why it was even written: nothing but delusional people having conversations with women who weren't interested and men looking for some non-existent clue to spurn on their attempts at love and then several paragraphs about talking with prostitutes and raping nuns. His mother had said the book was romantic, but he was terrified to be near her until they had a very long conversation about it, which ended in her telling him to ignore the book. After that, she sent him off to public gatherings and meetings with other lower aristocrats. He had always been dragged back from them by the ear and scolded, not having done something she thought was obvious. Her tirades went from yelling at him to talk to girls more and not to tell them it was all his mother's idea to why didn't he sneak off with them when invited and then not knowing what to do when he did. She stopped taking him anywhere after that and made one last attempt in the form of sending letters about a betrothal, all of which started with an apology about him. She gave up after that. She gave up on a lot of things after that. His only response had come after her death and he had to personally make a rejection letter, saying he was in mourning and he never wrote the mystery girl again.

His main problem, which his mother never understood, was that he didn't like a lot of people. If they were intelligent enough that he could stand to be around them, they often bored him. Women talked of knitting and pretty ponies and colors, never anything he could talk about. He preferred intellectual conversation, he was raised with refinement and breeding, he was well-read and modest. Esmeralda fit into those categories like a square peg in a round hole.

"How old are you, ten?"

That one wasn't rhetorical, Gaetan realized. For some reason, her instincts were telling her to run away. "What day is it today?"

"The twenty-fourth, why?" he asked.

"Fourteen, then."

Not noticing any significant change in her age, Claude continued. He didn't mention it, but he was perplexed by her acting a bit more morose than usual for the next few days. "Even better. You were a girl, and a peasant, you tell me how to go about courting her."

"But she's a gypsy, master." Hopefully that would make him go on about how horrible those people were and give up on his current idea.

"I know. That's the point," he said.

From her expression, she apparently didn't get it.

"If she weren't I'd take her to the church and have someone throw holy water on her for speaking in tongues!" he exclaimed, as if he'd found out how to turn lead into gold. "But this is an opportunity! The secrets she can tell me! I'll have her Court of Miracles! I'll know what the gypsies are up to, when they're going to act, how they operate! All I need to do is court her for a while and she'll tell me what I need to know. I just need you to tell me how. What could possibly go wrong?"

"Can't I just go to jail?"

………..

What could go wrong, did. Gaetan's first trouble was to figure out what exactly Frollo didn't understand. Sadly, the answer to that was everything. Courting was like a foreign language to him, and he'd already bungled Italian and German.

Frollo liked books and thought of people in a similar fashion. The cover didn't matter, but some people could certainly fix theirs up a bit. The inside just tended to be dull and tedious most of the time. Gaetan was a novel he'd found in the sewer: air it out properly, replace the cover, and give a spine and it was nearly decent. He'd slowly replace the pages with those of better quality, but the writing was rather interesting and pleasing. Phoebus had a nice cover and there were scribbled notes in the margins and most of the pages were blank, hopefully to be filled in later. Esmeralda, however, wasn't a very good book. All the words were right and had a loopy frilly quality to them, but strung together in sentences, they just draped gibberish across the pages and if you looked at the cover the wrong way, you got a very lewd image.

Gaetan's second problem was that her mother had never passed on any knowledge of romance to her. 'Make sure you smile at the men,' turned into her throwing rocks at mean ones and bullying younger ones. She never realized that it might make her unapproachable or be seen as a rejection. To her knowledge she had no suitors, but then, she was never taught how to spot one either. Often her mother would complain, completely oblivious to her daughter preferring to hit things than be hit on, 'Why aren't you married yet?'

Gaetan had to remember what she'd seen on the streets and heard from her mother and then had to filter a few bits out. After that, it was breaking every tiny piece down to its simplest parts for him to understand. By the time she understood how to talk to Frollo, she had concluded all men were morons.

"It starts with giving girls flowers," she said. That seemed like a simple enough sentence.

Seemed.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because… um… because they say they want flowers," One sentence in and she had hit an academic wall. Why was teaching being a man so easy to a girl, but teaching girls to a man so difficult? "I don't know; I don't like flowers."

"But flowers are things you shove in your mattress to keep bugs away," Claude protested.

"Not those flowers," Gaetan said. "Bunches of flowers. Bouquets."

Claude took a while to ponder that. Jacques used flowers in medicine and to stuff his beaked mask when a patient came in with an infectious disease. Why would healthy women want them? "What do they do with them?"

"Uh…Good question," Gaetan conceded. "But they're important for some reason. It's like etiquette. It makes you different from Phoebus."

"Point taken," Claude said. "But why can't she get her own?"

"Because that's not how it works… for some reason."

"What if it's winter?"

"You…write her letters or come back and tell her a big long speech about how much you missed her." She'd seen a lot of men get thrown out of houses over stuff like that. She kept an eye out for them in the spring. She knew how to look for them because she made a good amount of money—relatively—selling ribbons to men trying to woo young girls, only to sell the ribbons back to them the next day after the women had tossed them away.

"Well, she can't read," Claude said. "I think I'll politely wait until the flowers come up. It's only a little over a month. She can wait that long, trust me." He'd been finding himself wandering into her for a month. If she could put up with that, she could wait. "Is that it?"

"Um…. Girls like dinner," Gaetan said, trying to think. Her mother certainly talked about how her father bought her dinner a lot and how sweet it was. She talked about how some new guy tried to buy her dinner as best he could when he had no money, which was somehow sweeter. Gaetan didn't understand that logic.

"They can cook, can't they?" Claude asked.

Gaetan almost felt offended, and then almost felt sorry for him. He wasn't asking a mean question because he was mean. He was asking a stupid question because he was stupid. "No, they like it when they don't have to cook."

"But I feed you!" he said.

"That doesn't count," Gaetan said. "It only counts if flowers or a long speech about missing someone happens first."

"Women make no sense. Don't ever become one."

"I don't think I want to," she said. She also questioned the alternative, given the rampant stupidity.

…………………….

Men weren't just stupid, they took a dumb idea and ran with it like a dog playing with a ball and refusing to give it back. Frollo had asked her to consider the situation with Esmeralda and look for both danger and any details she had forgotten to mention about 'handling women.'

The rest of Paris had been smart enough to avoid anyone in charge of the law in a grumpy mood, especially if they were capable of killing, even if they were a tiny little kid. She was standing in for Frollo, and so was her mood.

Phoebus, however, wasn't learning much, no matter how hard the lessons. "You're in a foul mood," he said. He hoped to cheer her up from whatever Frollo had dumped on her.

"He wants to know about women," Gaetan said mournfully.

"Wow." Conversations usually took at least five seconds to blow up in his face, and often someone waited for him to put his foot in his mouth.

"Not me!"

"Tell me these things before hand!" Phoebus yelled. "And he says I can't talk right. Wait, what about that girl who left something of hers at his place?"

"That's who he's interested in."

"Poor guy," Phoebus mused. "Happens to lots of men with girls like her. You think all that stuff she says to you is true. I wonder what her rates are, though…"

Gaetan shot him a spiteful glance.

"What?" Phoebus asked innocently. "If he really wants her in the long run, he can have her. But if that's her job, there's nothing really wrong with me at least asking."

"My mother was a prostitute," Gaetan said, and steered her horse away.

"Yeah but—Oh sweet Jesus! I'm sorry! Get back here! I said I was sorry! Hey!"