Claude's usual position in his own bed had become lying on the edge, far from his wife, and to very slowly curl up in a small miserable ball that uncurled by morning. Despite feeling more comfortable in his independence to refuse to lie with his own wife, he wished for a chance to agree to it. As much as it was a relief that there were no emotional outbursts for the last week, Claude realized he could not live in a marriage the way his parents did, which meant he was faced with the unfortunate alternative of having to figure things out for himself, and hated that. Last time he did that, he'd gotten married.

Esmeralda's talk with him had given him no insight to his actual problem. While her good intentions had explained why everything that had happened on their official wedding night had gone the best way possible and that he shouldn't be embarrassed about doing things right, she had never explained how anyone went about accomplishing such things or what rules actually applied, other than that both parties had to agree throughout the act. In short, thinking about what he wanted physically had been less complicated when he had no idea what it was in the first place.

What made matters worse—and there was always something that made matters worse than what you initially thought about—was that if he could ever think of what to do, he had no idea under what circumstances he was allowed to do them under and he'd not just end up acting like an idiot, but she wouldn't love him anymore due to his mistake. The only thing he did know was that he should not try talking about it. That rule had been explained to him by at least a dozen people, including his commanding officer and both of his parents. His mother may have been lost in utter despair after losing her husband to murderers who were never captured and being stuck with a pitifully useless boy and no hope of a real family, but at least she did it right.

So he lay in bed again, wishing the blankets offered more comfort against the raging monster of his amalgam emotions and contemplating lying about working late so he could sleep in his quarters at his Palace of Justice because he'd somehow lost any potential at privacy in his own home. Sometimes, while nearly unconscious, he'd hold himself and struggle against his desire to roll over and grab hold of whatever part of Esmeralda was the first he'd encounter. His passion burning inside of him that he had to be ever-vigilant to constantly smother, often sending painful sensations of cold throughout his body, but more it was a fire that wanted to be matched by a flame that could burn just as brightly, just as hot, like the two doomed cities of Sodom and Gommorah glowing in their destruction.

Yet, through the confusion and fear and hurt, he was willing to wait. He'd tasted Heaven and he'd gladly wait as long as God wanted to give him another. All he had to do was hope and pray that his wife would notice or decide to deal with her own frustrations, which she could figure everything out about and he didn't.

One should always be careful what one prays for, because—like in this instance—someone may roll over and decide to answer those prayers.

"Claude?" Esmeralda asked, gently shaking his shoulder and pulling the covers off of him. Once she had figured out how, he was very easy to read. Her poor husband was lonely, waiting like a boy sent to his room and thinking his parents had forgotten about him, but not willing to cry out in case of further punishment. He was doing it again, probably because it was the only thing he knew to do. He'd wait until he either built up courage—or felt there was no other option other than severe disgrace and he'd better get it over with—or felt like hiding, seeking the comforting darkness and covers.

"Hm?" He was still unused to being called by his first name, but he could tell she wanted something, and it wasn't a horse. At the very least, there was the pleasing prospect of being held and keeping her warm if he did what she wanted.

There were no words. Words complicated things and confused him. Instead, she used the fact that she was facing her to press her lips against his. Instead of the usual game of cat-and-mouse, he pressed against her fiercely and wrapped his arms around her. He couldn't help it anymore, there was no other way for him to react to her advances and he couldn't restrain himself.

It got even better. She didn't disapprove. In fact, she put her hands behind his shoulders and pulled him towards her, rolling him over on top of her, making it easier for him to squirm over her and give him access to the rest of her body to kiss and caress.

He was in a frenzy. His mouth wanted to chase her heartbeat, following veins and heaving flesh, his hands wanted to be everywhere, to memorize every aspect of the experience before he went beck to his shadows and silence. There were no inhibitions now, he could do anything, he could do everything… except think.

His legs tangled in his long nightshirt, his exploring hands were nowhere to hold him above her, and so he toppled in a heap on top of Esmeralda's naked body. In that humiliating second, she acted like a compassionate angel to him. She said nothing, merely held him and propped them both up and encouraged him to continue when they were both sitting up. She still had to hold him up, for his hands still refused to take up that job while there was still parts of her and he had not perfectly mapped with his touch and again he twisted his baglike nightshirt into a tangle in his amorous squirming. He was being an idiot and it showed, but she still let him be an idiot; he kissed her, petted her, reveled in touching and holding parts of her, but went no further than letting his hands follow her curves and his mouth follow her moans.

After nearly losing his balance for the second time, he let Esmeralda slip the giant shapeless garments over his head and toss it between the bed and the curtains. He had no idea what was going to happen, but assumed Esmeralda would know what to do. His braies felt uncomfortably tight and had a wet stain on them. He doubted he could walk properly to the other room, but he wasn't going to relent to getting the bed filthy. Perhaps she knew some way of being quiet on the floor.

He put his hands in her hair, which had become as soft as dream of a cloud since she'd taken over his washroom and plundered his supplies—at that moment it was worth the sacrifice—and he awaited her demands. No matter how much his skin and mind burned for her, it could never be satisfied without her showing the same ferocity. He wanted to be matched, he wanted to be chased and battled and forced to admit defeat under another passion, he wanted to lose a fight and be rewarded by her flesh and the euphoria only she could give. At that moment he swore he'd give her anything to feel that again, but he thought too soon.

Esmeralda's hands slid under his undershirt, making his give out a moan that was cut off by a frightened gasp as he realized what she intended. He let go of her and pulled away. He batted her hands away from his vulnerable skin and grabbed his undershirt by the hem, pulling it down as far as it would go, suddenly determined to cover his cold and bare legs with it. He'd hit a dead end and there was no way to turn back. He should never have let her deprive him of his nightshirt, but he had let her lead him down that doomed alley. There had only been two embarrassing options, either she'd dislike him after seeing his gaunt and shameful nude figure or he'd make a fool of himself and prove his shame without even showing her and acting like a child.

Damn.

He could offer her everything better than she could in finery, he could offer her devotion of a saint, he could keep her warm and fed and clean, but only she could offer physical beauty. If he lost everything from his title, she could find someway to replace everything he could give her with rags and warm ashes and a little stream, but he could never give her what she was best at offering. His youth had been lost in a distant fire and his color had ebbed away as he watched what was left of his family reprimand and wither as he was unable to stop either. Beneath his fine robes of silk and velvet and linen no one else had to know about the scars or how his skin had come to resemble a bleached and creased blanket, but now she wanted that secret revealed.

He closed his eyes and tried to steel himself as he felt her hand on his cheek. He wanted to give her whatever it would take to keep her at his side, believing he was the only one who could give her the gifts she truly desired. He inhaled, trying to find the hope that she hadn't been driven away, that he hadn't lost her to disgust… but he couldn't find it anywhere. He was answered by nothing but silence and cold despair down to his bones and the quiet part of his brain that kept nightmares at bay. There was no answer of such hope and so his hands tore themselves from what was left of his clothes and in the darkness of his own bed he began to sob into them.

Knowing nothing else to do, Esmeralda held him close and gently stroked his back every now and then.

The problem is, if you give someone the ability to choose for themselves, they will make that choice based on the silliest of things, or at least silly in front of someone who is going to find them silly. Without the ability, people are stupid, unhappy, and mean, which makes one wonder exactly what was so great about Eden until you realized there was only one other human and a lot of room to put between you and them; in short, the perfection God created was the ability to be completely alone, but to have someone else to talk to and not feel stupid about it (at least until one had finished). But if you take away someone's right to choose, they act as if you've taken a lot more from them.

…………………..

The night had not gone as Esmeralda had planned, and she had many things planned for the night. The only thing that was going right was that Claude was contentedly curled up against her, fast asleep. This was more of an afterthought than a plan. In fact, it was merely an extension of each of her many plans.

Esmeralda had expected a snag or two, but she hadn't expected a road block. She had expected to stay up most of the night explaining things to him. She hadn't expected to end up in a situation where she couldn't explain anything.

She had wanted some fun. She had wanted to show him how fun fun could be. She wanted to know what he thought would be even more fun, if he ever understood it was possible. The problem was that something was taking all the fun out of fun, and the problem seemed to be her.

……………………….

"Clopin, this place smells," Giselle complained as Clopin lead her through the sewers. "I don't like it here."

"You'll get used to it," Clopin said. "Besides, there are other tunnels you can use if you want to leave."

"If I want to leave?" Giselle loudly exclaimed. Although she thought Clopin had gone nuts from sniffing the fumes from the glue factory, she was glad he was holding the baby, for she would have dropped the baby in her surprise. Giselle couldn't fathom any reason to live underground near the sewers where many neighbors were dead and not want to leave later than immediately.

"I'm trying to sleep," Felipe complained back from his ledge. Clopin had wasted his time in a long discussion about letting Giselle down into the Court of Miracles, given that she was his wife and should finally be let to live with him. Felipe was unconvinced until Clopin agreed to trade him a chicken for letting the woman stay indefinitely. There was just no fixing some people; the poor man didn't even know how to take a bribe properly.

"Clopin, I want to go home," Giselle pleaded.

"That's silly, you don't want to go back there," Clopin said. Her home was where she had a horrible job sleeping with horrible other men and the horrible landlady chased Clopin with a broom and told Giselle to ditch the baby because customers didn't want to be reminded about what sex was meant to be for. Consequences took all the fun out of sins.

"See?" Clopin said with a flourish as they walked through a doorway. "This is much better, isn't it?" Spread out in the eternal darkness of the catacombs, were hundreds of little tents, through which thousands of people moved about. Women shooed livestock and children, men kissed them and left t work, which most often was only a few feet away. Someone was hanging multi-colored laundry and someone else was arguing with them. The whole thing looked like a giant circus of housework.

Giselle whimpered, as Clopin happily said he'd show her to the tent she'd be staying in. She wanted to go back to the brothel; at least when toothless old men gave her blankly confused looks, she knew what they wanted.

……………………..

"We're almost there," Esmeralda said, trying to lighten the mood, which, thanks to Gaetan, was blacker than Frollo's robes in lightless cave. Esmeralda had never seen any of the dark moods Gaetan had learned on her own, but had perfected by watching her master at work. Now, however, he seemed preferable company, no matter how bad a day he was having. Esmeralda had led the girl to the Court of Miracles in silence the whole trip, and it seemed even furniture wanted to get out of her way. Now, even though their only company was Felipe, who was just waking up, it seemed even the skeletons were backing away to avoid Gaetan

"Halt! Who—Aaah!" Felipe screamed, jumping back from Gaetan's angry glare before he hit the ground.

Felipe was one of those strange people who answered two of the oldest theological conundrums ever posed, and disappointed clergy with them. Although he'd been built with a strong body and near-perfect symmetry, free-will and the fact that it seemed every bit of his ancestors once having bittern from the tree of knowledge had been bred out of him at least two generations ago made him a living testament to the horrific effect of Empty Mind of God-Created Matter which gave every part of him a deceivingly lopsided look. He had only a few expressions: bravado that insinuated he was trying to lead another crusade, panic, blank confusion, and either thinking he had a thought or trying to put together a complete sentence longer than three words together—it was hard to tell which, especially for him—and his body was always prepared to act on these, along with different versions of running away, each in their own distinct direction. His limbs looked uneven, his joints looked backwards, and his face was a warning sign to all to make sure his hands were empty and to recheck the contents of their pockets every half-minute. Although everything lined up with precision that would give angels headaches, his expression shoved his face around the same way taking one bundle of socks out of a neatly organized drawer turns the entire thing into a messy heap. His eyes both crossed and tried to look the other way when he tried to think hard, which was almost every time someone spoke to him, his nose had forgotten its original shape and went with the design it had been punched into from dozens of fights, and his mouth seemed more interested in forming shapes when it was closed than when he was actually speaking, accented by an asymmetrically shaved beard.

Even his hair betrayed the fact that although whatever contents of his head had rattled around too hard and fallen out a long time ago, complicated questions like 'what do you think you're doing?' could take up your whole day with him and catching him could take the whole of the next. Any soldier who tried to grab him by his long hair wound up falling in a mud puddle that seemed to follow the man like a dangerous lover, a bakers dozen of different dark colors all over their hands, and sometimes a disease Jacques didn't want them tracking into his hospice. Cleaning the filthy mane either resulted in him dripping a slick black oil behind him for days and hardened the mess to a brick like texture the same way pouring water on a fine powder such as dry cement or flour does not return to the softness it started with. Attempting to work the mystery substance from his hair had the same results and changed nothing, save for the additional work of having to spend a day filing the black substance off your hands in order to ever move them again. The only hope for the hair was a slim possibility of using a hammer, the wider range of possibilities consisted of being stuck with a useless stick, metal shards, and the same hair you started with in a matter of minutes. There was a question among the soldiers and the gypsies of whether his hair was actually black, or if it had been painted that way throughout his badly executed escapades.

There was one thing Felipe was good at, and that was having most everything fly over his head, and everything else just grazed it. Anyone else, in broad daylight would have done the math in their head and calculated that purely standing near the girl was too dangerous for one's health. In the dark with flickering candlelight reflected back in angry eyes and off polished armor and weapons, which had been sharpened—if there was a way to sharpen armor against someone, she would have done that too—they would have taken one look at the problem, forfeited solving it, run away, and asked directions to the next city. Felipe's mind scribbled the formula of contemplating Gaetan, the servant of a man so dangerous and insidious he could not only scare people into taking up drinking, but into sobriety as well, and with a good reason to hold a worse grudge against gypsies than her master. His mind took its time, missing several important bits and putting some metaphorical symbols backwards, and then gave up, realizing it was too far out of its league already.

"Someone under arrest?" Felipe asked. Things made the most sense to him if divided into 'danger' and 'ignorable.'

"They could be," Gaetan said, crossing her arms.

Felipe considered this. 'Could be dangerous' was not something he put much thought into. Or any thought, for that matter.

"You will be if you don't get out of my way."

If he let her through, no one was under arrest, so she had no point in being here. If he did not let her through, someone—most importantly him—was under arrest and thus she had a point in being here in which case he could let her through, but then no one was under arrest…

"You going to kill someone?" That was the only alternative Felipe could think of, but it left him with the same paradox.

"Only if my visit's anything like last time," Gaetan answered, still angry enough to scare gargoyles off a church.

"So, why are you here?" Felipe asked. He was going to get a complicated answer involving more than one sentence. He hated those.

"I'm here to visit my father," Gaetan replied. Esmeralda wondered why someone seemingly angry enough to radiate her own hellish heat could talk so icily and also envied Felipe for not being able to care.

"He ain't here," Felipe answered simply. Even he could identify colors and knew parents passed them on to their kids. No one here was colored like her.

"Clopin is my father," Gaetan replied. She was looking forward to getting back to mass.

At this, Felipe burst into laughter so uncontrollable, he nearly fell over twice trying to move out of Gaetan's way. "She's funnier than the other one," he managed when he was leaning against the wall of the tunnel, unsuccessfully using it to hold himself up. "Next time she should say you're her sister, Esmeralda!"

Ignoring Felipe, who was thinking he should have asked for a good joke from Clopin rather than a chicken, the two continued on.

………………………………

When people find there is a new and strange person in what was formerly their cozy and familiar neighborhood, some people try to get rid of them, and some people try to pretend they aren't there and that the problem will solve itself. Unbeknownst to either of these parties, neither strategy works without the authorities helping you out or doing your work for you.

No one wanted to try the first option, given how much trouble that had caused and because the authorities were in no way on their side in the situation. So everyone opted to ignore Giselle and hope she'd move out as soon as possible.

Then the authorities arrived and the neighborhood was never the same again.

Despite the fact that he could barely scare the chickens he attempted to steal, Felipe's echoing laughter just made the scene of the apprentice, now looking even more like her master, with her new hat covering most of her untamable hair, an expression that could strike flying birds from the air with a glance, and her giant, over-sized clothes, though held down by armor, resembled Frollo's giant flowing gown. She was followed by Esmeralda, who was dressed in her usual clothes and bangles, and even wore a traditional diklo Clopin had found for her. She had to keep up appearances as Frollo's wife, but now and then, she had to keep up appearances of being herself. Secretly, Esmeralda wondered what would happen if these appearances couldn't be kept up anymore and fell down in a heap, what would they reveal?

Save for the two have of the reunited family, everyone thought five minutes ago would be a great time to be somewhere else.

"See, I told you I'd make it work out!" Clopin said, waving his free hand as if he'd conjured Frollo's women himself. His other hand was doing a magic trick of holding prince safely, yet out of reach of anything the baby would try to tear off of him. "What, no hug?" Clopin asked, staring despairingly at both the girls in front of him. "Well, someone say 'hello,' at least; all this time I thought you two missed each other."

"Um.." Gaetan tried, and stopped her from failing any worse, or at least feeling so. To Frollo, she was now a man, but whatever significant difference that made, she had yet to find out. To everyone else, she was just a boy with way too much authority and skill at ruining their day. Everyone may know that she is—and always was—a girl, but she never learned much as a girl. As a boy she learned more than she ever conceived of as a poor peasant whose job was to wash tables and avoid customers so real women could get to them or to avoid knife fights. As a girl, she was underfoot, burdensome, dirty, and stupid. As a boy, she was useful, important, well-groomed, and learned, but this situation was something she had never learned as either gender, or in any situation. She knew how to run away, but she didn't know how to come back. In fact, she had run away from coming back. Well, Frollo did say to at least try to get along… "Momma," Gaetan said meekly, taking off her hat.

Giselle, who also had no clue how to address the situation, just hugged Gaetan.

"See? I told you two this would happen!" Clopin cheered, wishing he had more to do with it.

Meanwhile, someone from the crowd of bystanders bravely tugged on Esmeralda's sleeve for attention and asked what was happening when he got it, distracting her from what was a very dangerous situation.

"Momma, what's wrong?" Gaetan asked.

"Um, Giselle?" Clopin asked. Things weren't supposed to be going wrong. Not yet; nothing had happened.

Giselle, who had started crying, pulled out of the hug and turned to Clopin. "My poor baby girl! Look at her!"

"What?" Clopin asked. "It's the right one, right?"

"Just look at her!" Giselle said, grabbing her daughter and holding her as if for display.

"I am. Trust me, she's still a she under all that—stop glaring at me like that, it wasn't my fault!"

"She looks like me!" Giselle cried.

Clopin stared hard. Giselle was a very definite hourglass shape, though a short one. Gaetan was a very definite dandelion shape, debatably a rose given the amount of sharp objects on her belt and the others no doubt hidden on her person. As cute as it was to compare girls to flowers, Clopin was sure Gaetan's father could fit through a closed door given the differences between the two women. Coming to the conclusion that he had no idea what Giselle was going on about, Clopin shrugged, Prince giggling as he was bounced in his father's arms, disappointed that he couldn't vomit in appreciation.

"So… what's the problem?" Clopin asked. One kid, alive and with all parts where they were supposed to be and unscathed—quite possibly with a bit more parts than she started, but he wasn't going to check and he didn't want to know—and it was the right one. What detail was he forgetting?

"I want a daughter! I thought you were going to fix things!" Giselle wailed. "I couldn't say anything against the archdeacon or the minister, they're scary and powerful—"

"I don't want to be fixed!" Gaetan yelled. "Everyone's stupid and horses stink and its too loud in the bedroom and cook hates salt and I have to go places I hate like here, but I did it so you'd never have to be in the brothel or jail and I didn't want you to be here either but it doesn't matter because you hate me now!"

"About 'scary and powerful'—" Clopin whispered to Giselle.

Esmeralda turned her attention to the impending doom while the crowd continued to chatter.

"I hate everything!" Gaetan screamed, spinning around and running off as her words echoed in the sewers, muffling the sound of Felipe being violently shoved to the side.

Giselle burst into tears and Clopin looked from her to the empty tunnel and shoved Prince into her arms and took off before Esmeralda knew what he was doing.

"Wait!" Esmeralda screamed, but all she heard was another sound of Felipe being thrown out of the way and hitting the wall again.

"Who are you?" Giselle asked, still crying. What was her husband doing with a woman wearing an apron on her head, an attractive one at that?

"I'm… sort of his daughter," Esmeralda answered, knowing how much trouble the word 'friend' would get her into in this situation. "Um… about 'scary and powerful' people… have you ever slept with one of them?"