Paquette's POV

The darkness of my cell was all that I had known for several years. I had been buried alive, but only my body seemed alive. The person I had been seemed so far away that I was no longer acquainted with her. Sister Gudule, the living corpse. That was my identity.

My only connection to the outside was a man my age by the name of Claude Frollo. He hadn't come to see me for several weeks and I knew why. His reputation had been smeared. Attempted murder…somehow it didn't surprise me. He'd always been a particularly passionate man and his temper had gotten him in trouble several times in his youth. The woman he'd stabbed the captain over must have been something special to provoke him in such a way…

I wish someone would have done something like that for me.

My life consisted of prayer, of lashings, of enough food to keep me alive, and of darkness. I had no mirror, but I did not desire one. I knew I looked as dead as I felt. My hands, once slender and smooth, were skeletal like tree branches. My bones stuck out beneath pale, almost translucent skin. My hair had turned gray from the harsh treatment. I had once looked forward to Claude's visits, for he treated me like a person and spoke to me as one. The others…well, they didn't feel the need to entertain me.

"Sister?"

My heart started to pound. He was back! I rushed to the small opening that served as a window. I didn't have much of a view, but it was enough.

"Brother Claude! Where in God's name have you been?" I asked.

"It's a long story. I came to ask you if you still had that little pink shoe you'd shown me once."

"Of course," I said, rushing to retrieve it, "I never let it out of my sight…not that it happens much."

Bless Claude…he never grew tired of hearing about my daughter. He was the only other living soul that knew of her disappearance and all the years I'd spent grieving for her.

"It so happens that I've found the other one," he said, holding his up for comparison. Even in the scant light, I could see that it was a match. Feeling dizzy, I grasped the wall for support.

"Where did you get it?" I asked.

"I think I've found your daughter."

He began to tell me of the gypsy girl that had caused all the commotion in the world outside my cell…a world that I could only imagine.

"Yes, but what does she have to do with-?" I started to ask impatiently.

"She is your Agnes," he answered, cutting my question off.

"WHAT?"

"Esmeralda is Agnes."

"You're sure?" I asked, hoping he wasn't cruel enough to play a trick on me.

"I'm sure," Claude insisted, "I remember very clearly what you looked like when they sealed you inside. The resemblance is unmistakable. I didn't put the pieces together until just recently."

A noise akin to a sob escaped my constricting throat. Feelings I'd forgotten I could feel were conflicting violently with each other. Agnes was alive…

"I want you to come and see for yourself," he told me.

"But I can't," I lamented, "I'm sealed in…nothing short of an explosion would get me out."

"That's what they want you to think. Until now, you've never had a reason to get out."

His voice took on a slyness that was foreign to me.

"But how do I get out?" I asked impatiently.

"Beneath your bed is a trap door that leads to a tunnel. If you can move the bed out of the way and lift the door, the tunnel will bring you straight outside."

I was puzzled.

"But why would they put a tunnel?"

Claude didn't answer. As I struggled to move the meager bed out of the way, I realized why. Sooner or later, I would die and they would need to retrieve my remains. Shuddering, I gathered what was left of my strength and gave one last heave. The bed scraped against the stone floor and was out of the way enough to get the door open. I had to work at pulling it up. By the time it gave way, I was sweating and exhausted. The damp air from the tunnel wafted into the cell. Claude said nothing, but I knew he was there.

I descended into the tunnel. I knew it was only a short distance, but I felt like the smothering darkness lasted for hours. A square of blindingly bright light shone through the darkness and I struggled up the ladder towards it. His hands took mine and hauled me out of the darkness.

I threw up a hand to shield my face. The whole world was blindingly bright after years in the dark. I was shaking because the breeze felt unfamiliar on my skin.

"Come on," he said gently, "we need to leave before they realize something is amiss."

I staggered with him. If he hadn't been supporting me, I'd have collapsed in the street. I only vaguely realized that he wore a dark cloak. No one seemed to give us a second look—he was only a nice man helping an old woman across the road. My muscles were thin and atrophied from lack of exercise and they ached painfully after only a few steps. It was only until we had reached the house that my eyes began to adjust. The sun was beginning to dip lower in the sky—it would be setting soon.

An older woman was stirring something over a fire. A misshapen young man was dragging a string across the floor for a litter of kittens to chase. A young man with hair the color of fire was scribbling something on a bit of parchment. They all glanced up when they heard the door open. All of their eyes settled on me.

"We have a guest," I heard Claude's voice announce. He lowered the hood of his cloak. It was the first time I'd been able to see him clearly in years. His turquoise eyes locked on mine.

"How would you like them to address you?" he whispered.

For a moment, I did not know what to say. I had been called "Sister Gudule" for so long that I'd nearly forgotten my former name.

"P-Paquette," I stammered awkwardly, "my name is Paquette."

It was the old woman who spoke first.

"Welcome to my home, Paquette. Why don't you come and sit by the fire?"

Claude helped me to the chair and I sat down. The warmth of the fire was the most welcome thing in the world after years of cold and damp.

"I'm Margot and this is Jehan and Quasimodo."

I vaguely remembered Claude talking about them on the way here. The misshapen youth named Quasimodo was someone I'd been hearing about for quite a while—Claude had talked about him frequently.

"We'll have you all settled in momentarily," Margot told me, "and Esmeralda should be back at sundown."

Claude and Jehan brought water in for a bath before hastily exiting the kitchen.

"You look like you've had a very hard life," Margot commented, scrubbing my hair with more vigor than was necessary, "I do wish that people of the cloth weren't so hard on themselves."

I hissed as the water touched the wounds on my back. Margot sliced off several inches of my hair with a pair of thick shears. I watched in dismay as she gathered it up to dispose of.

"It will grow back and be beautiful," she assured me, "but you have lice, dear, and they love long hair."

She rubbed some foul-smelling stuff into what was left of it to kill them. Then, she dried me off and bandaged up my wounds. Clucking to herself, she muttered something about how everyone coming to visit seemed to have back wounds as of late. The secondhand dress I was given was a few inches too short, but it was clean. She cast my nun's habit into the fire along with the hair shirt she'd separated from my body with some difficulty.

I watched it burn with a sick feeling. If things did not work out, what would become of me?

Margot lay a spidery hand on my shoulder.

"Don't fret, dear. Your daughter is a lovely young woman and she has searched for you every bit as much as you have searched for her."

There was a knock on the closed kitchen door.

"You may enter," Margot called.

Claude poked his head in.

"It is time to meet your daughter," he said quietly.

Margot nudged me forward. Trembling, I accepted Claude's extended hand. He gave it a reassuring squeeze as I stepped through the door.