A/N: Hello, dear reader, and welcome back to this story. Hope you enjoy the chapter. Thank you, as well, to my new review - Any and all comments are welcome!

Chapter Two

"What makes a monster,

And what makes a man?"

'Bells of Notre Dame", The Hunchback of Notre Dame

Sancha was entranced by the clouds roiling over the city and the buildings obscured by the sheets of rain. Settled at the workman's table, snuggled in a blanket, and away from the eeriness of the main cathedral, the young woman started to feel a sense of peace.

That is, until, she heard someone clear their throat.

"B-bonsoir?"

The bench crashed to the floor as she leapt up and spun around. There was a faint glow behind her, the light of a single tallow candle. The firelight threw a monstrous face into relief against the darkness. Hunchbacked and deformed, the creature behind her recoiled at the commotion she made. Sancha's hands flew to her mouth, half covering a shriek, as she backed up into the table and upended half the diorama.

The candlelight flickered as the monster moved off to the side and away from her. The candleholder rattled slightly as he set it down on a nearby box.

"Attends," he said, "s'il vous plait –"

Not waiting to hear the rest, Sancha bolted towards the stairs, sped down the landing, and nearly tripped down the spiral staircase more than once. She ran back into the empty church, and only when she curled up in a shivering ball on her palette did she realize she was not actually being chased.

Similarly, she was so caught up in what she thought was happening that she had also abandoned her blanket in the bell tower. She didn't see the "monster" gingerly scoop it up off the floor and hold it out to her retreating form, nor did she see the look of confused hurt settle over his face. Instead, Sancha remained downstairs in the transept, shaking like a frightened kitten, until the solemn tolling of bells filled the void. Matins was now in session.

Sancha stayed hidden in the furthest corner of the transept, not wishing to disturb the archdeacon or the monks at their liturgical office. Now that she was in the company of others, she allowed herself to doze off to the sound of low, melodic chanting.

Eventually, the chanting died away, and the shuffling of feet roused her. She crept to the edge of the devotional altar and peeked around the corner. The monks were silently filing out of the church, and the archdeacon stood by himself at the front of the church, quietly clearing the main altar. When the last monk left, Sancha left her hiding place and approached the archdeacon. She opened her mouth to greet the old man, but her footsteps alerted him to her presence first.

"Good morning, child." He looked up at her with a soft smile. "If you were disturbed by the service, I would suggest either sleeping up in the choir next time or joining us. Sometimes the laymen and their wives come to Matins, especially around feast days. You wouldn't be out of place."

Sancha smiled and bowed her head. "Thank you, Father. But, it is not why I am awake."

The archdeacon furrowed his brow, awaiting an explanation. Sancha glanced over her shoulder, as if she would see the creature from earlier that night standing right behind her. She swallowed down hard and pointed upwards.

"There is… something in the tower," she half whispered.

She tried not to feel embarrassed as the archdeacon's frown deepened.

"The bell tower?" He looked up, as if the answer was painted on the vaulted ceiling. "Do you mean a man?"

"I think…"

"And what business did you have in bell tower so late at night?" The old man picked up his Bible and motioned her to follow him. Sancha moved down the steps and into the aisle, trying to remember her words as they walked.

"Forgive me," she said. "The storm woke me, and I could not sleep. I went to the tower – I only meant to watch the rain. But, then I saw him there… And he was espantoso*." She shuddered at the memory of the grotesque face floating in the darkness just over her shoulder. "I became frightened."

The archdeacon gave a small sigh and shook his head. "I don't doubt you were. However, I would venture to guess you scared him just as badly as he scared you."

Sancha looked at him. "Father?"

"The man you encountered was most likely Notre Dame's bell ringer. He's been in the service of this church for twenty years, and he has always resided in the bell tower."

She blinked, suddenly feeling very foolish. Of course, those who tended the cathedral lived within its walls, just as pilgrims and those in need of sanctuary did. Why would it be any different for the man responsible for ringing the bells?

Still, the vision of that face in the shadows brought a chill to Sancha's bones. She was thinking of the words to say so when the archdeacon slowed to a halt at the end of the aisle. He turned towards her with a knowing but gentle look.

"I can imagine why you became frightened of him, and why you felt compelled to speak to me about it," he said. "But I assure you, your fears are unfounded. I would even say there is not a kinder soul in all of Paris than that man. You needn't fear anything within these walls, especially not him."

With that and a gentle "God bless", the archdeacon left her. Sancha stayed rooted to the ground, staring at her feet and turning the clergyman's words over in her mind. The images of the model Parisian houses and Notre Dame – the very ones she knocked over in her panic – came to mind. Her stomach sank as it dawned on her that she had probably walked straight into the bell ringer's home… before causing a commotion, upsetting his workspace, and then taking off without a word.

Sancha crossed her arms over her chest to shield herself from the guilt that suddenly assailed her. She walked back up the alley, thinking of the few words the deformed man said to her before she fled.

Attends. S'il vous plait.

Wait. Please.

Sancha knew very well that monsters did not plead. They barged into homes and lives uninvited. They ransacked entire neighborhoods and dragged fathers away from their daughters in chains. In that moment, Sancha realized she had many reasons to be afraid, but the man in the tower – strange as he might look – was not one of them.

Frowning, Sancha stopped by the altar and raised her head. A statue of the crucified Christ met her gaze, and the girl could have sworn He looked disappointed in her. She tightened her arms and turned away from the altar. But, as she slunk back to her palette, she knew that as soon as the sun rose, she would have to go apologize to the bell ringer of Notre Dame.

XXX

The bells needed to be polished, but Quasimodo was dragging his feet. It took him longer than he would've liked to admit to leave the window and get to work. The sun was rising on another day, and there was still no sign of the gypsy caravans. As he rummaged to find a rag, Quasimodo told himself another day past meant another day closer to seeing Esmeralda and Phoebus again. All he needed was a bit of patience.

He was just toying with the idea of going out for a walk after his chores when he came upon the discarded blanket, left by that girl from last night. Frowning, Quasimodo picked up the undyed cloth and gazed down at it in his massive hands. Despite its flimsiness, he could only assume she spent the rest of the night shivering after she fled from him.

After the strange encounter with the girl, he had not been able to sleep much. The look of abject horror on her face kept him awake for most of the night, and the scream she had tried to suppress wasn't a sound he would easily forget. Though he didn't blame the young woman for her reaction, Quasimodo couldn't deny the incident left him feeling similar to how he had felt almost daily a year ago.

With a sigh, he folded up the blanket and set it down on his table, where half of his models were still scattered. Though the city had become a kinder place to him since Frollo's demise, not everyone in Paris was so considerate. Maybe he would save that walk for another day.

After finding a good rag, Quasimodo climbed up the rafters and set to work on the bells, firmly pushing all thoughts of the girl and his friends from his mind. He worked quickly, and was nearly done with the first bell, when he heard a creak from the staircase below. The sound was followed by a timid and heavily accented "Hello?"

Hardly daring to believe it, Quasimodo dropped the rag and peered down through the rafters. The same girl from last night was back, stepping onto the mezzanine and gazing around like a lost pet.

Though he had seen her earlier, it was much easier to make out her features in daylight. Her hair was the colour of chestnuts, matched by a pair of soft brown eyes and fair skin. Her style of dress was as strange as her accent: She wore no veil on her head, and her loose, long-sleeved dress was half hidden by an over-tunic of transparent gauze. Judging by the colour of the dress – a deep burgundy – Quasimodo guessed she was some kind of gentlewoman.

He froze, wondering what she was doing up in the bell tower again and if he should reply. He had half a mind to stay hidden and let her leave on her own. However, he couldn't deny he was curious as to why she was looking for him.

Before he could make up his mind, the rag, which he had flung to the side, slipped off the support beam and plummeted down the tower. It landed on the floor next to a girl with an obnoxious smack, making her jump. Quasimodo bit his lip and nearly turned away, but it was too late – The young woman had looked up, and her gaze locked with his.

He didn't know what he was expecting, but the next words out of her mouth were, "What are you doing there?"

It wasn't asked with any malice or accusation, but the question made him nervous. What was he doing up here?

"I – uh – I'm polishing the – the bells."

The girl blinked up at him. "Oh."

Neither of them spoke. Quasimodo desperately tried to think of something to say, but nothing came to him. He looked away from the girl, who also looked as if she was grasping for her words, until she motioned for him to come down.

"Por favor, will you come here? I wish to speak to you."

"O-Okay..."

Quasimodo hopped off the beam and swung down on a nearby rope, as he usually did to descend from the towers. He landed nimbly on his feet, which seemed to surprise the young woman. She held her hands up to her chest and took a step back. She glanced at him, looked up at the rafters, and muttered what sounded like a mild oath. Then, she refocused her attention on him.

He almost wished she didn't. Quasimodo had grown used to showing his face in public and no longer felt the need to hide behind a hood or in the shadows. But, after what happened last night, a measure of his old self-consciousness was back. He wanted nothing more than to turn away from the girl, but he made himself look at her. To his surprise, the young woman regarded him with a calm yet curious expression, her eyes betraying none of the fear she had last night.

That was, until, she started talking. Suddenly averting his gaze, she clasped her hands together and said haltingly, "I… came to this place the night before. I realized – No, I didn't – I didn't realize this is the place of your… I mean, your home – This is your home… yes?"

She gestured to four walls around them. A little apprehensive, Quasimodo nodded.

"Yes, it is," he said softly.

She frowned and absentmindedly began to twist one of the three rings on her fingers. "I see…

Quasimodo patiently listened to the girl falter, trying to pin down her origins. She didn't roll her R's at the back of her mouth like a native French speaker, and she kept lisping on certain words. And the more she struggled, the more limited her vocabulary became. At one point, she gave up trying to explain herself and got to the point of her visit.

"Ahora, I mean to tell you this," she muttered, her cheeks nearly as pink as the clouds at dawn. "I am sorry. For last night, I am very, very sorry."

She looked it too. Now Quasimodo understood – She wasn't looking at the floor because she didn't want to see him; it was a symptom of her embarrassment. Her brow was knitted in a troublesome scowl, and her downcast eyes bespoke a genuine sense of regret for what happened. Immediately, his heart felt lighter than it did this morning.

He moved towards the table and grabbed the folded blanket. She raised her eyebrows, as if she was surprised that he bothered to keep it for her.

"It's okay." He held the blanket out for her. "I didn't mean to scare you."

The girl's frown deepened, but she accepted the blanket. "The fault is not yours. It was dark, and I was fearing the storm, and I thought to come to the tower. I never meant to…" She worked her mouth, but no sound came out. She clutched the blanket tightly. Quasimodo could almost see her trying to translate her thoughts, and for a moment, he thought she was going to weep in frustration.

"I'm sorry," she said through gritted teeth. "My French is horrible."

"No, no, it's really not that bad," Quasimodo assured her, offering a smile. "Please don't be shy. Take your time."

The corner of her mouth quirked. "You are kind to a little foreigner like me. I thank you for that."

Quasimodo felt his smile broaden, and his cheeks grew warm. "You're welcome." After a beat, he ventured a guess at her homeland.

"Provençal?"

She shook her head. "Castellana. From the Kingdom of Spain."

Quasimodo's eyes widened. This girl was, indeed, a long way from home. He had heard of the kingdoms south of France, but never actually met anyone from the area.

The young woman stepped around the table and cast her gaze out the window. The sun was high over the city now, lighting up the streets and blanketing the houses and shops in soft yellow light.

"I am waiting for my mother and father," she said, her eyes glazing over. "It is why I am here."

Not wanting to startle her, Quasimodo slowly came around the other side of the table and joined her at the window. "Were you travelling with the pilgrimage?"

She shrugged. "Not to start. I… did meet the peregrinos* later, after I… became separated from my mother. It was she who instructed me to come to Notre Dame to meet her."

Now everything made sense. Despite her broken French, Quasimodo could piece together a story in his head: A rich Castilian family travelling abroad, a separation occurring on one of the long roads, and a young woman left stranded between towns before she caught up with the Montmartre pilgrims.

The girl leaned on the sill, her mouth taut and her eyes troubled. Quasimodo resisted the urge to give her a comforting touch on the arm or hand, though he desperately wanted to. She looked as if she needed a hug.

"I'm sorry," he said. "You will see them again, though."

She gave him a grateful smile, and Quasimodo decided he liked that look on her face much better than the one he saw last night. "I pray you are right."

She pushed away from the sill and turned to face him. To his surprise, she tucked the blanket under her arm, held out her skirt, and gave him a little curtsy.

"Forgive me," she said, "but I did not tell you earlier: My name is Sancha."

For a second, Quasimodo only stood there in silence and stared at her bowed head. He had never been shown that much respect before, let alone by a gentlewoman. He wasn't sure how to react at first, but eventually settled on returning her curtsy with a little bow of his own. He bent at an awkward angle, and the neck of his tunic strained against his hunched back, as if to remind him of why the girl got scared of him in the first place. Nevertheless, he smiled up at her.

"I-It's a pleasure to meet you," he said.

"And what are you called?" she asked.

"I'm – My name is… Quasimodo."

Sancha quirked an eyebrow at him, and he immediately wished she hadn't asked. Though she wasn't from the area, it didn't take a linguistic genius to understand what his name meant.

Still, she didn't ask him anything more about it. Instead, she turned back to the window and said, "Muy bien…Now that I know you are not angry at me, Quasimodo, can you tell me where it is in this city that I may find something to eat?"


*espantoso: hideous

*peregrino(s): pilgrims

Thank you once again for reading! More on the way...