CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Belle could not stop the shiver that traveled down her spine and to the tips of her toes in her boots and she felt her arms wrap around her middle as she was still fairly cold, and the cathedral, despite the dozens of lit candelabras scattered through the main level of the sanctuary, did very little to warm the massive church.
"Come." The woman's voice spoke up. Belle turned back towards her new companion, who, she quickly realized, she had not yet even bothered to learn her name and she felt quite foolish.
Her cheeks reddening as the woman with the strawberry blonde curls lowered the hood of her robes and regarded Belle with something akin to a quizzical little smile, Belle bent her right knee and sank into a brief curtsy. "Forgive me, but I didn't catch your name earlier, madame?" she asked, standing up straighter and lifting her chin out slightly to meet the she-stranger's gaze.
To her surprise, the woman's lips crinkled into a light smile and she flashed a set of dazzlingly white teeth, almost too well-cared-for a simple beggar woman, which only confirmed Belle's suspicions there was more to this woman than meets the eye, though given she had known her for all but of a precious fifteen minutes at best, she thought it not her place to comment on such matter.
The only thing she was able to ascertain was that she knew that she liked this curly-haired she-stranger. Belle could not explain it, though she decided not to fight this strange feeling.
"Forgive me. I am afraid the pleasantries must have slipped my mind earlier. My name is Agathe, child," answered the woman after a long silence, and before Belle could even fathom what was happening, she felt the edges of her lips curl up into a soft smile as the older woman offered Belle her arm, holding it out for her to take. "Come," she instructed, and there was a hardened edge to her voice that compelled Belle to obey. "Walk with me, dear. Keep me company a minute. It has been so long since I've had another woman in my life."
But her voice trailed off and the woman who Belle now knew to be called Agathe did not complete her sentence and looked away for a moment, seemingly showing an interest in the marble statues of the saints, particularly the Virgin Mary clutching onto baby Jesus.
"It's really something, isn't it?" Belle breathed as her gaze followed Agathe's as she heard the sharp intake of breath from the woman as she reached up to her free hand and tucked back a strawberry blonde curl behind her ear. "I love how peaceful and quiet it is here, but…I—I wish that I could feel His presence, but I haven't been able to since Papa's murder."
Agathe turned to regard Belle as she led her down the main aisle of the nave, having seemingly been engrossed in absorbing the details of the various statues and the stained glass artwork of the window. Her gaze, Belle had noticed, seemed particularly interested in the Rose Window, an enormous panel of stained glass that depicted a beautiful flower. A rose.
"You are troubled, child, and not over the loss of your father. Something else is on your mind, my dear. You can talk to me about it if you wish." Agathe spoke to Belle without looking directly at her, whether that was to spare Belle the embarrassment of the woman seeing how flushed her cheeks were or to ensure it was easier for Belle to open up to her.
The beggar woman finally tore her gaze away from the stained glass depiction of the rose, though, after today, Agathe knew it would forever remind of the days ahead for the young woman when her life would irrevocably change. Whether that was for the better or not, only time would tell.
There were some things that even Agathe had not the answer to.
Belle watched as Agathe gave her head the tiniest of shakes, her strawberry blonde curls bouncing with the simple movement as she did so, and prevented a light little chuckle from escaping her lips as her right hand drifted towards her left and her fingers fidgeted with her simple yellow gold wedding band.
Her expression softened a little, though it was quickly replaced by a look of immense disgust and she removed her wedding ring and before she could fathom what she was doing, Belle felt her arm draw back and hefted the piece of jewelry as far as she could, where both women heard the ring clatter to the ground behind one of the marble columns.
Belle did not bother to retrieve it, nor did she even look back. Belle heard Agathe exhale a slightly shaking breath through her nose as she clutched onto Belle's arm and felt the woman's head lean into rest slightly on the crook of her neck.
"What ails you, sweet girl?" Agathe spoke up, finally unable to remain silent any longer on this matter. "Your husband, from what I knew of Gaston Dupont, was not a terribly pleasant man, and what happened to poor old Maurice was a crime of the highest order. I have…heard rumors," she began hesitantly, glancing over her shoulder towards one of the stairwells that Agathe had a sneaking suspicion led to the north or south bell tower lofts. "That you had…some help in that regard, did you not? The cathedral's bell ringer, he saved you? Not from just your husband, but a Prince of these lands, would I be correct in my assumption?" she asked, biting her bottom lip in a slight pout, and Agathe stifled her restraint to allow a small smile to cross her features as she heard the recently widowed young woman's soft gasp.
"I—I did, y—yes, he did save my life that night, b—but how did you know of this? You weren't there," Belle breathed, feeling her dark eyes widen in astonishment as they paused by one of the windows depicting Saint Aphrodisias, and the young brunette turned to regard Agathe with no small amount of wonder in her eyes. Agathe offered a coy little smile that was more like a smirk as she folded her arms across her chest and shrunk into her robe as much as she could for warmth.
"A beggar, dear, remember? I hear and see things," she chuckled, the corners of her mouth twitching slightly.
"O—oh." Belle stammered, the heat creeping on her cheeks as she nervously weaved her fingers in between her knuckles. "I…yes, I did. The—the bell ringer of the cathedral and I, he…we…are friends," she finished lamely, averting her gaze to the floor, where she feigned an active interest in the black and white checkered tile beneath their boots. "He is…kind." Perhaps it was the softness and tenderness in Belle's voice that prompted Agathe to continue, and Belle blinked owlishly at the beautiful strawberry blonde in surprise as the older woman spoke up again.
"You care for him." It was not a question, coming from the hooded woman. "The world needs more genuine love in it if you ask me. A love that does not discriminate between gender, culture, race. Love should not cast one group out in favor of another, Belle. Love does not refuse to understand the hurts of another person or people. It seeks to build bridges, to bring out the best in one another, and if you truly care for the boy, well, then it is up to you, my dear, if you should choose to act upon these feelings. Now that you are widowed, I do not believe it would be a problem for you if you were to pursue the young boy, Belle…"
A snort from Belle through her nose caused Agathe to at first assume the young woman was on the verge of a meltdown and break down into tears, much how she had when Agathe had first spotted the dear young thing kneeling by her father's unmarked grave earlier.
Though when the young brunette turned to regard Agathe, there was a look of amusement intermingled with something that Agathe could only describe as self-pity etched upon the young girl's pretty features, though there was no mistaking the gleaming of unshed tears that threatened to cascade down her pale cheeks in graceful tracts. "I—it's not funny at all, b—but I—if it's not funny, th—then why am I laughing about this? I—I can't help it!"
Belle reached up a slightly trembling hand to wipe away a stray tear that had escaped from the corner of her eye, and the beggar woman's eyes were inexplicably drawn to Belle Dupont's nails. The young brunette noticed Agathe looking and quickly tried to hide her nails under the overly long sleeves of her black mourning gown, but it was already much too late. The girl's nails were long, almost like claws, and Agathe could not help but to wonder if the inventor and painter's daughter kept them like this on purpose as perhaps her only means of defense in terms of warding off unwanted advances from undesirable menfolk.
The lines on Belle's palm caught the beggar woman's attention. They swirled on the skin of her palm like an unfinished drawing. Belle's fingers were bone white and soft, though cold to the touch as Agathe reached out what she hoped was a reassuring hand and curled her fingers overtop Belle's shoulder and gave the recently widowed young woman a light, reassuring little squeeze.
Agathe's frown deepened. "You do not want the boy, then?"
"I…" Belle's voice was faint and barely above a whisper. "I—I do," she confessed, and the way she whispered it and uttered her confession to her new acquaintance made it sound as though it were little more than a dirty secret, one that she was ashamed greatly of.
Belle flinched and shirked away from the beggar woman's touch as the woman's grip upon her shoulder slackened, and Agathe dropped her arm and let it fall to her side. It seemed to take the older woman ages to find her voice, but when she did, Agathe's voice was resolute, determined.
"I want very much for you to be happy, Belle. Women like you and I, in our position, we must make the best of our circumstances in his life, should we not try?"
The inventor's daughter knitted her brows together in quandary and looked away for a moment, up at one of the statues, ignoring a pained growl from her stomach, unpleasantly reminding her of her hunger, though it did not escape the beggar woman's attention that the younger girl had a strange look of longing on her face, in her eyes. "My situation is…unique," Belle admitted, at last, a pained expression in her eyes as she folded her hands together and inclined her head. "I had dreams once. Foolish ones, that I would marry a lord or a great prince one day. Or a knight, perhaps," she sighed wistfully. "But life has killed that dream."
Agathe bit the inside wall of her cheek as she regarded the young brunette woman in silence for a moment as she latched onto Belle's arm and slowly steered her towards the hallway, where the smell of something cooking wafted through the air. Maurice's daughter had such a contented little inflection in her voice whenever she spoke of the possible outcomes of a different life for herself, had her circumstances been better, and Agathe wondered briefly if she should offer kindness to the child, for not many in the streets of Paris, save for perhaps Monsieur Clopin, had dared to show her an ounce of generosity. And then there was Belle.
A young girl who was barely older than twenty-three, who had escorted Agathe back to this magnificent cathedral, this glorious House of God, Paris' own Lady of Peace, and was offering her sanctuary and food in order to wait out the thunderstorm. There was kindness in Belle's smile, a gentleness.
Agathe could see it for herself whenever the young woman met her gaze. It was the smile of one who laughed with ease and saw the person underneath the layers and their behaviors. A soul-connector. Maurice's daughter was the kind of person who lived how she believed that people ought to as if she were sunshine that only radiated from the best aspects of those she met, their flaws entirely invisible to Belle Dupont's gaze.
The girl's dark chocolate eyes spoke of a beautiful soul, filled with a kindness that seemed so innocent and genuine so endless, as big as the sea, and her movements told of a need for nurture. The beggar woman was jolted out of her musings as she forced her attention to return to Maurice's daughter, who was in the midst of completing a thought. Agathe blinked and hoped it was not evident upon her face that she had allowed her mind to wander for a moment. She let out a sigh.
"…A-and even though I want to—to develop a—a relationship with him, surely, you've seen how the rest of Paris treats a poor soul like him! Were that I could, I should hope for a future for us, but I do not see how our king would allow it."
The note of bitterness in Belle's tone was unmistakable, though Agathe suspected that it was not to do as much with the fact that she was a recently widowed young woman still in her prime and wrestling with feelings for a man who, by rights, was not accepted by Parisian society and was shunned, regarded as very much an outcast.
For there was a strange look in Belle's eyes, a growing fondness, perhaps even affection that would, in time, develop to feelings of love, whenever she spoke of Notre Dame's elusive bell ringer, but still, the beggar woman could tell something else was troubling her. No.
It was something else that was raging war within the confines of Belle Dupont's mind, though what that thing was, or those things were, only Maurice's daughter knew for sure.
"You don't want him, then?" Agathe repeated her question, clutching onto the young brunette's arm and upon hearing the poor girl's stomach gave out another pang of hunger, she quickly realized they needed to head towards the kitchens. The beggar woman's grip upon the younger girl's arm tightened as she recognized that Belle's posture had stiffened the closer that they got to the kitchens.
"Yes, no, I—I do, b—but…th—this is all happening so quickly, I think," Belle stammered, averting the older woman's gaze as an incredible fiery heat crept onto her cheeks at a rapid place, though out of curiosity, she glanced at Agathe out of the corner of her eyes. "Were that I could, I would…be with him, if society would allow for such a match, but if it will not, then it is my burden to bear."
"So, you do want him in that way, then? Your feelings…extend beyond that of friendship?" Agathe questioned, wanting to get to the root of whatever ailed Belle's mind. The beggar woman shook her head, sending a silent prayer to God and His angels above that the girl would take better care of her words uttered within these holy walls, for even here in the cathedral, spiders lurked, men like the infamous Judge Claude Frollo, whom Agathe had gone explicitly out of her way to avoid.
The beggar woman would not have put it past the judge to have ears and ears everywhere, including within the cathedral, even when he was not present. You never could tell who you could wholly trust, and this disturbed Agathe greatly.
The young widow may be a pretty little budding rose, clever and intelligent, but that would not do her any good in her new situation, for Agathe could tell the girl wanted more out of life, and that a difficult decision would await her in future.
Belle would have to be clever but in a different kind of way. Unfortunately, given how distraught she was and how thin and emaciated she looked over the loss of her father, Agathe was beginning to think that Belle did not have the capacity to do so. She blinked in surprise when the young brunette woman turned and regarded Agathe, and answered her swiftly and honestly, wringing her hands together tightly.
"I…" Belle bit her bottom lip, sticking it out in a slight pout, unshed moisture glistening in her dark chocolate eyes. "Yes, you are right," she confessed, reaching up a hand to tuck a lock of hair back behind her shoulder. "B—but I am afraid," she whispered. "I have never…had the experience of…pleasure," she emphasized, her cheeks reddening maddeningly and Agathe could not help but notice Belle Dupont, that she sounded far more intrigued by the possibility of spending a night in love's embrace with someone who would genuinely care for her than the thought of bedding someone who society deemed and reviled as a monster.
"That is not necessarily a bad thing," Agathe said softly.
Belle nodded, though her expression was grim. "I have known nothing but abuse and neglect at my husband's hand, for over a year. Wh—when I was married to Gaston, he—he took me, every single night. He raped me, over and over again, so often that I thought I would just die, and I came to wish for death. Anything would have been better than seeing my husband's face light up with power and lust every night in our marriage bed. I still remember what he said to me on our marriage night, when Gaston asked me what I thought of him. 'I could be crueler to you still, wife,' and he was," she growled through clenched teeth and rooted jaw, her nails digging into the palms of her hands as her hands shook at her side. "I hate him, Agathe…what he took from me! Th—when my father was murdered in front of me, and Gaston forced me to watch, as my father was ripped apart limb from limb, his throat torn out, and I thought I would die with all the hate in my veins, and now…without the hate I feel for him, I know that I would! There isn't a part of me that feels anything else anymore. Without it, I'd be nothing, feel nothing, so why should I eat? Why should I sleep? Why continue to breathe? There's nothing left for me here, no reason to continue going forward," she cried, blinking back briny tears and swallowing hard.
Belle turned to face the wall, her face creased and her fists closed so tight she could feel the sweat trapped inside them as red-hot fiery tears of shame and anger ran down her face, each one carving furrows on the tender flesh that still stung from her husband's slaps as the memory of times when his sinewy arm would drawback and backhand her across her cheek, how she would recoil, cry, and beg for him to stop. The tears continued to pour down her cheeks, like water flowing through the drains, rubbing salt into her open wounds. Belle coughed once, blinking back the salty liquid that ran down her pale face and sniffed once to regain composure.
"I—I never would have expected if you were to ask me a few years ago that my life would come to this," Belle sighed and cast a wary glance towards Agathe.
The beggar woman had pursed her lips into a thin, rigid line and was regarding Belle with an inquisitive look in her eyes that Belle wasn't sure what to make of, and she wasn't entirely certain that she liked it. She wanted to look away, and yet, something in her slightly hardened gaze told Belle that she needed not to.
"My child, I am afraid I must correct you. You are not alone in all of this, as I have mentioned to you before. What about him?" Agathe questioned, a wry little smirk forming on her lips as she glanced back over her shoulder towards one of the bell tower stairwells. "Your friend, this bell ringer that you've developed a close relationship with, it seems. Has he mistreated you in any way during your weeks of friendship?" Agathe asked solemnly. She had a feeling she knew the answer.
"No." Belle's answer was immediate and left her lips without any semblance of hesitation, though her dark brown eyes were wide and round with astonishment.
"Has he been kind to you?" the beggar woman pressed. When Belle mutely nodded, confirming the older woman's suspicions, she felt her frown deepen in confusion. "Then you will have to correct me, for I fail to see the problem here?"
"H—his…father, his master, the—the judge, he does not want me around his…son." The words escaped Belle's lips in a hushed whisper, as though she were afraid to confess her revulsion for the silver-haired Judge that was more demon than man. Though Agathe could not fault the girl for her fear and trepidation of the man.
"Somehow, I get the feeling that will not stop you, my dear," chuckled the beggar woman. "For if you truly took the man's words to heart, you would have already stopped seeing this bell ringer in his tower three weeks ago, am I right?"
Agathe knew the moment her words left her mouth that they had hit their mark, for she was surprised to see Belle's face pale even more than it already was, as what little color was left in her cheeks drained, and Belle's face was rendered pallid and sickly, and the widowed young brunette began to nervously intertwine her fingers together in anticipation.
She watched as Maurice's daughter held her breath and emanated a tense, slightly shaking exhale through her nose.
The young brunette blinked as she quickly realized that Agathe had asked of her a question that she had somehow missed in her musings over the beggar woman's words regarding Frollo. "My apologies," Belle stammered, her blush deepening. "I was not listening."
Again, the beggar woman smiled at the inventor's daughter and her grip upon Belle's arm tightened as she led the young girl towards the kitchens, and she could feel Belle's body stiffen. "It matters not," Agathe sighed, letting out a wistful sigh. "I was merely saying that, given the opportunity to prove himself, if you will allow him, I think that this bell ringer could be quite the charmer in the…right moods. You are quite fortunate, my child, to have garnered the man's attentions. Something in your eyes tells me you would much rather have his heart than that of the Prince's." Agathe did not bother to hide her wry smile as the younger girl's face blanched at the mention of the Prince who, if the rumors were true, had also seemingly taken an active interest in Belle and had attempted to corner the girl.
"He's vile and cruel, and a monster," Belle growled through clenched teeth, folding her arms across her chest. "The—night he tried to…I looked in his eyes and saw nothing there but hatred for me. Why does he hate me so much? I don't even know the man!" she protested, blinking back another wave of tears, her third of the day, and wondering if there would ever come an end to her tears. Belle sighed.
"Our Prince does not hate you, Belle, despite what you may think," Agathe chuckled, observing the catch of Belle's breath and her sudden tenseness as she adjusted her gait and posture and stood taller, straighter, more resolute. "His hatred that night of you was nothing more than a transformation of his own shame and insecurity. It is all of himself that he despises yet lacks the courage and convictions to face. It is far easier for Prince Adam to lose himself in the theatrics of his own mind, casting himself as the victim, than it is for the Prince to swallow even an ounce of truth."
Belle furrowed her brows into a frown. "You talk as if you know the Prince. You know him?" she asked, finding it personally hard to believe that a beautiful woman such as Agathe would ever dare to associate with the likes of a horrid beast.
But the woman shook her head, her curls moving softly as she did so. "Not personally, no. I have heard of him, but as a woman of the streets and going wherever the wind takes me, I have never physically met the man." Belle frowned at the use of the word 'man' to describe the Prince, for he had behaved monstrously towards her.
The woman noticed Belle's brow furrowed and laid a gentle hand on Belle's shoulder and gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Do not underestimate the Prince, milady. And though I only have the whispers and rumors of what I hear through my connections to his staff in his precious castle that borders the edge of the woods, I hold out hope for the young man one day, that someday, he will be much changed."
Belle hesitated, biting her bottom lip in a slight pout. "I doubt it," she snapped, folding her arms across her chest. "That Prince was not at all like Quasi, he's so kind, so sweet. Nothing at all like the Prince. No jealousy, no meanness. But…" her voice cracked and wavered as her voice trailed off and she fell silent.
It felt as though Belle was finally about to arrive at the heart of their conversation and get to the point of their talk, whatever was weighing so heavily on her fragile. The beggar woman watched as the young brunette woman bit the wall of her cheeks and curled her fingers into fists, her nails digging into the skin of her palm. "But?" Agathe pressed, sensing that Maurice's daughter needed assistance, just that little bit of prodding to coax the truth out of her. "I sense that you are still troubled."
Belle opened her mouth to speak as Agathe's grip tightened on her arm as they neared the kitchens, and had been about to answer her new companion when the smell of butchered venison lingered in the air and wafted through Belle's nostrils, and she was overcome by such a strong bout of queasiness in the pit of her stomach that she could go no further.
She shot out an arm and clutched onto a nearby marble pillar for support, retching and gagging, though nothing was coming up, and then she remembered Quasimodo's words about demanding she eat, and she had eaten nothing out of spite, wishing for nothing more at the time than to be left well alone. She had not broken her fast this morning, nor ate lunch or even supper.
With one violent contraction, the congealed contents of her stomach emerged in the dim light from the torches resting on the cathedral's walls, nothing digested since the evening before. Belle wiped at her mouth shakily, unaware that the beggar woman's hands were resting on her shoulders, one holding back her hair, the other, rubbing small, comforting circles on the small of her back, just near her spine.
"Belle? Belle? Are you all right?" Agathe's voice sounded muffled and distant, far away, as if underwater, or perhaps that was just the incessant ringing of her eardrums. Belle mutely nodded as her nausea slowly cleared and she exhaled a few more times through her nose as she straightened her gait with the help of her new friend. "Would you like me to find one of the nuns for you or the healing maester?"
The beggar woman's suggestion escaped her lips before she could so much as stop herself, and throughout her tones were laced with vexation and clearly on the brink of hyperventilation. The older woman, Belle noticed, was quite skittish, as if on edge.
Belle swallowed and let out a sigh, shaking clutching onto the wall for support as the waves of nausea slowly passed and the black dots quit swimming in front of her vision. "Y—yes, I—I think that is for the best." She paused as the beggar woman began to tug on the sleeve of her black mourning gown.
"Come." Agathe's voice was terse and laced with concern.
Belle shook her head and gingerly shrugged out of the older woman's grasp.
"No, I—I could take myself, please. I know the way to Sister Alice's quarters," she whispered, "b—but wait for a second," she pleaded, gingerly shrugging her arm out of the beggar woman's grasp and ducking behind the kitchen door, gagging again as the smell of the boiled meat wafted through her nose, and she pinched her nose shut and rummaged through the basket of food stores underneath one of the counters until she found what she was looking for, and quickly ducked back out with a freshly baked baguette loaf and a sealed jar of jam underneath her arm. "For—for your troubles," she gasped weakly.
Agathe felt her lips curl up into a genuine smile as she gingerly accepted the gracious gift of the bread and jam, taking them from her, though Belle could tell it did not quite reach her eyes. "You are too kind to this old woman, Belle. I should like to repay you for your kindness. I am afraid I do not have any money, but if you would like, I would be happy to bless you, tell you your fortune, sweet, sweet girl…"
Her voice trailed off as she waited. Belle blinked owlishly at the beggar woman and was not given a chance to respond as the older woman led her away from the rotten smells of the venison cooking, noticing how it sent painful lurches through Belle's stomach, and she clamped a hand over her nose to prevent herself from vomiting again. It was not until they stood closer towards the opposing hallway, away from the kitchens and the source of the smell that was causing the young woman such discomfort, that the beggar woman smiled at Belle again.
"I can see that has piqued your interest. Give me your hand." Before Belle could even utter so much a single yes or no, the woman with the strawberry-blonde curls took hold of her left hand and gazed deep into Belle's eyes, as if searching for something. And, as if by witch's curse, Belle found herself unable to pull away. "You will find happiness here," she murmured after spending a moment in silence, narrowing her eyes, her gaze intensifying. "And love. True love. Different than what you had with Gaston. Your love for one another will be pure and true, and this person will—"
Just as Belle had been so engrossed in the woman's blessing, Agathe suddenly let go of Belle's hand and recoiled it back, rubbing it gingerly, as if Belle's very skin of her palm had burned her, and her beautiful features contorted into an expression that Belle could only describe as greatly disturbed, perhaps even afraid.
"Wh—what is it?" Belle whispered worriedly, wringing her hands together.
Agathe pursed her lips into a thin, rigid line and furrowed her brows into a frown, gingerly rubbing her hand and flexing her fingers. "Nothing for you to trouble yourself over, my darling child. I thought that I merely saw…" She shook her head to clear it, her frown deepening. "Never mind."
Belle opened her mouth to retort but did not get a chance as the woman's brows furrowed in confusion and she stared off into space for a moment, seeming to be lost in deep concentration. Just as quickly as it had come, however, Agathe snapped out of it and returned her attention back towards Belle.
"My dear, I have kept you far too long. It is much too late for you to still be up, and you are looking quite ill, if I may speak freely with you," the beggar woman commented, taking note of how pale Belle's face looked, beads of sweat gathered on her brow, a feverish tint to her skin, dark circles from lack of sleep forming underneath her dark eyes. "You should go. Ask for…what did you say her name was, Sister Alice? And you should get some sleep. You would not want the wrong person to catch you awake at this hour aimlessly wandering the halls, wouldn't you?"
With a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, Belle realized the beautiful beggar woman was right. The blonde woman pulled up the hood of her robe to conceal most of her face in the darkness, a soft, knowing little smile tugging at the corners of her lips as she gingerly reached out an arm and shoved Belle towards the direction of the nun's personal quarters. "Go. Do not worry about an old woman like me. I can take care of myself. I will show myself out, child. You need to take care of yourself now. Go see the nun or the healing maester."
Belle gave a mute nod, right as her stomach gave another painful lurch as she stumbled down the hallway, and with each step, her stomach tightened and ached all the more. Belle kept swallowing, and her throat kept clenching, but no matter what, she could not stop the warm feeling rising through her chest and she shivered.
She had never felt so bruised inside. Belle paused in the hallway, nervously lacing her fingers together and shifting her weight from one foot to the other, as one final question burned on the tip of her tongue, prompting her to turn around to ask of the mysterious beautiful beggar woman one final question. "Will I see you again?"
Belle turned around gingerly, back towards where she had left her new acquaintance, only to be talking to thin air, as if Agathe had never been there in the first place. Almost like…
"Magic," whispered Belle nervously, slightly awestruck, and horrified.
She would have lingered in the corridor longer, content to stare after the spot where the she-stranger had stood only moments before, wondering if this was all somehow a hallucination brought on by grief, but she could not ignore the swooping sensation in her stomach, nor the acidic warm feeling of the bile as it crept up her throat.
Belle winced, hoping that Sister Alice would still be awake at this late hour and could give her a tonic in some tea to help settle her stomach, perhaps some essence of nightshade to help her sleep. Belle bit the wall of her cheek and jumped slightly as a man's voice from directly behind her interrupted her thoughts, a deep baritone.
"You again. What are you doing here at this late hour wandering the hallways, child?" the man spoke in a low, rumbling voice. Belle cringed and turned around slowly. "I thought I made it quite clear, dear. Certain areas are…off-limits, girl."
Belle swallowed the acidic stomach bile coating her tongue and hoped the fear in her eyes did not betray her as she slowly turned around and found herself face-to-face with Judge Claude Frollo. The way the Judge's cold gray eyes squinted as Judge Frollo glowered at Belle, his head inclined, and hands folded neatly in front of him as he awaited her answer, reminded Belle of a pit viper's slit-like pupils, cold and mean.
She gulped nervously. A burning animosity was rapidly developing in Frollo's eyes, and Belle could tell that she was most likely the root cause of the problem.
Could this night possibly get any worse?
Apparently, Belle thought, as she looked up into the Judge's eyes, it could.