A/N: Hello, dear reader! Apologies for the late upload... I meant to have this chapter up for the weekend, but alas, life happened... Anyway, I hope you enjoy this section. Quick PSA though: I'll be going on vacation for two weeks starting this weekend, so this story will be on a small hiatus. Fear not, though, dear reader. The next chapter has already been written and just needs to be edited. Thanks for understanding, and happy reading!


Chapter Five

"New and a bit alarming,

Who'd have ever thought that this could be?"

'Something There', Beauty and the Beast

A loud, sombre tolling startled Sancha out of a dreamless sleep. She sighed and stretched out of her palette, gazing up at the endless levels of rafters.

She had been waking up to the ringing of bells for over a week now, the candle wax in her ears only doing so much to block the sound, but she didn't mind. Sometimes, she was so tired she would sleep through all the morning offices. Other times, when the bells roused her in the wee hours, she would lie awake and listen to them sing.

This morning, Sancha did neither. Instead, she rolled over, pushed the curtain aside, and peeked out from the drapery. Quasimodo was up on the floor opposite her, pulling down hard on a rope that led up to the swinging bells overhead.

She watched him for a moment, in awe of the strength it must take to make the bells ring. He made it look effortless, and Sancha couldn't help but to think all the knights in Castile couldn't hold a candle to Notre Dame's bell ringer. For some reason, it made her grin with a strange sort of pride

Gathering the blanket around her shoulders (and removing the wax), Sancha stood and pinned the curtain back. When she stepped out onto the mezzanine, the bells seemed to get louder, as if they were offering her a boisterous greeting. She crossed the floor and gazed up at Quasimodo, catching his eye in a matter of seconds.

"Good morning," she called when he let go of the rope.

He glanced down at her and replied, "Good morning. Did I wake you up again?"

"I was awake," Sancha assured him. Her gaze went from him to the bells at his hunched back. "I did not interrupt your work?"

"No, not at all. I was finished."

"A pity…"

"Why? What's wrong?"

"I enjoy the sounds of your bells," she admitted with a noncommittal shrug. Unsure of why she was telling him this, she added, "They give me a sort of… 'peace', I believe is the word?"

Quasimodo glanced over his shoulder and back down at her. She saw a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, something she had come to recognize as a sign he wanted to ask her something. She had seen it when he asked if he asked if she needed help at the market yesterday, and she saw it before that when he offered her a room in the bell tower. Sancha didn't know why he was so shy around her; they had been living together peacefully for a week, now. But, she decided not to push him on the subject. Instead, she waited until he spoke first.

"Would… Would you like to see them?" he asked finally.

"Yes," she said gently. "That would make me happy."

It seemed to make Quasimodo happy too. Without a moment to lose, he helped her up to the second floor and waited until she had her balance before showing her the bells. Clutching the blanket around her shoulders, Sancha followed her companion where she could, watching as he swung up into the rafters to point out the various bells. She tried to remember some of their names: Anne-Marie, Sophia, Louise…

"How do you know which bell it is?" Sancha asked as Quasimodo lowered himself down to her eye-level. "There are many…"

"I've always known," he told her. "I see them all the time; it's impossible not to know who is who."

He was smiling, but Sancha suddenly felt a pang of sadness. As she shrugged off her blanket, she wondered just how much time he had to spend in the tower to know every bell individually. Against her better judgement, she asked, "Quasimodo, why did you come to be the bell ringer here? I mean… Don't you ever become… solitario?" She gestured around at the empty tower. "Lonely?"

In the quiet that followed, Quasimodo's face fell, and Sancha immediately regretted asking. As she watched the young man's uneven brow furrow, she rushed to apologize.

"Esperas – I-I mean, wait, I am sorry to ask… I didn't – I mean… Ah, mierda –"

"Sancha, it's okay. Relax."

Quasimodo's expression softened. "Now that you mention it, I'm actually waiting for my friends to come back to Paris."

Sancha quickly forgot her embarrassment with this revelation. Apart from a few kind strangers that greeted them in the streets, she had previously wondered if he even had friends.

"You are? They are where?"

"I'm not sure, but the last time I saw them, they were headed for Languedoc. They left the city a few months ago. They should be back any day now."

Another pang cut through Sancha. How many times had she told herself the same thing about her parents in the past few days? Had she known Quasimodo was going through a similar torment, she would have comforted him the same way he did her.

"I…"

She trailed off, completely at a loss for words. What would she say? That she was sorry to hear he had endured grinding loneliness for months on end? What would that change? Truthfully, she didn't just want to know how he survived the summer alone. She wanted to ask exactly how long he had been by himself and why he chose to stay in the bell towers of Notre Dame at all. She wanted to ask about that "old master" he brought up a few weeks ago, and why his friends left the city. Why did he not have a family? And most of all, what cruelty allowed for such a kind soul to be encased in such an unkind body?

But, she couldn't bring herself to pull the curtain back on those questions. And, judging by the stiffness in Quasimodo's shoulders, maybe he didn't want her to.

Before the silence could become too hard to ignore, Sancha noticed a small brass shape in the corner of her eye. She turned and pointed to the lone bell that hung a few feet away.

"Who is that one?" she asked. "I did not see her before."

The tension fled from Quasimodo's form immediately. "Oh, th-that's a spare I keep rigged in case of emergencies. She doesn't really have a name yet."

Sancha walked over to the bell and circled it. The brass was dull but in good shape, and it was a smaller bell, much smaller than the ones Quasimodo was ringing before. She glanced up to see a frayed rope dangling from the rafters.

"Would it be all right if I try?"

"Try to ring it?"

There was a pause, and when Sancha glanced over her shoulder, she was met with a funny little smile from Quasimodo. She hadn't seen that look yet. He was wringing his hands slightly, and although he wasn't looking at her – he was looking up at the bell – he didn't seem completely averse to the idea.

"All right," he said. "You can give it a try. It's rather heavy, though."

Sancha smiled in thanks and reached for the rope. She placed her hands together, as Quasimodo instructed, and took up a wide stance. She had never rung a church bell before. It would definitely be something to tell her mother once they met up again at the cathedral.

Shoving all thoughts of her parents away, Sancha took a deep breath and pulled.

The bell didn't move.

"Huh?"

She straightened and looked up at the bell. Despite the size, it was much heavier than it looked. She readied herself again and pulled with all her might.

The bell might have moved an inch.

Sancha moved her feet together and leaned her all her weight backwards until she was effectively supported by the rope. The bell moved but a few, slow inches. The clapper barely hit the soundbow.

She glanced over at Quasimodo to find him watching with that same smile. Unable to help herself, she burst out laughing.

"You are right," Sancha relented, letting the rope go. "It is very heavy."

"Here." He pushed off from the beam he was leaning on. "I'll help you. Place your hands like this – "

Quasimodo looped his arm around her and placed her hands close together. He made her close her fingers around the rope and held her hands firmly in place. They surely wouldn't slip as long as he covered them. Sancha's heart leapt at the thought.

Moving to her side, Quasimodo said, "Now you're going to bend your knees and pull as hard as you can without throwing your back. You ready?"

"," she squeaked.

"Okay, on the count of three." He was so close she could feel his muscles tense. "One… two…"

"Three!"

Sancha did exactly as she was told: Bent her knees and threw all her strength into pulling the rope. This time, however, there was very little resistance. Quasimodo's grip on her hands tightened, guiding Sancha to bring her arms down. As the clapper hit the side of the bell, the girl let out a triumphant laugh. She leaned back into Quasimodo's chest, and although the ringing drowned out all other sounds, she could feel him laughing too.

The bell swung overhead, and Sancha let Quasimodo help her pull the rope back. Once again, another knell startled the pigeons out of the rafters. She glanced over her shoulder with nothing to say, knowing the bell wouldn't let her be heard if she did. She only wanted to show him the simple joy he had brought to her in this dark, dark time.

Quasimodo's misshapen face was much closer to hers than she was expecting. Indeed, his chin almost touched her shoulder. And yet, Sancha didn't feel the need to recoil. In fact, she didn't even feel like looking away. Despite his unusual appearance, his eyes were bright and lively, and though his teeth were crooked, Sancha decided he had a nice smile. She might have even described it as cute.

Suddenly feeling as if the floor was going to fall out beneath her, Sancha turned away. Out of Quasimodo's line of sight, she bit the smile off her lip. Try as she might, though, the shakiness in her knees wouldn't leave. Where, she asked herself, in all of Creation did that come from?

XXX

"This isn't right. They should have arrived by this time."

It was late afternoon, and Quasimodo was walking along the Seine with Sancha. Despite the sunny day, her eyes were dark with concern, and she incessantly twisted the ring on her left pointing finger – a simple emerald attached to a golden band. It was the prettiest ornament she owned, and Quasimodo was almost afraid she'd drop it if she wasn't careful.

Worse yet, he didn't know what to say in the face of her concerns. They were talking about her parents, and how there had not been any sign of them since her arrival to Paris. Though she usually tried to hide it, Quasimodo had seen the forlorn looks on her face when she returned from afternoons of useless waiting outside the cathedral doors. Sancha was beginning to lose hope, and there wasn't much he could do except reassure her.

"Lots of things can happen on the road, can't they?" he asked. "Maybe there was a delay, or they had to take a longer route."

Sancha nodded. Her mouth, however, was still set in a tense frown. "You may be right… I hope you are right…"

They walked in silence for a moment. The sun was warm at their backs, and the banks of the river were lined with women and their laundry, as well as children of varying ages. The sun danced off the gentle ripples in the water and threw beams of light on Sancha's face, only to reveal her soft brown eyes were filling with tears.

"I don't know…" she murmured. "I fear they are dead…"

She turned away and pulled her veil down. Quasimodo watched her, his heart sinking at the sight. What he wouldn't give to see her smiling again, like she did when he helped her ring the spare bell earlier that week. Though she had turned away from him quickly, he hadn't forgotten the way her eyes lit up with each knell, or the dimples that appeared in her cheeks when she smiled.

Now, he struggled to find something to say. It might have been easier to comfort her if he knew the specifics of her separation from her parents. All she told him was they had been caught up in some kind of social strife, and Sancha had been the only one to escape. And, though her evasiveness was a little hurtful, he wouldn't press her for answers. Especially not now, while she was fighting to keep herself together in public.

"Sancha?"

They stopped walking, and he stepped around to face her. Though she had effectively created blinders out of her veil, she let him see her face, glassy red eyes and all.

"Please don't cry," he said gently. "You can't know for sure if your parents are… gone. Whatever happens, you're going to be okay."

Of course, he couldn't know that for sure either, but he was certain that he wouldn't let his friend live without a roof over her head or food on her plate.

Blinking away tears, Sancha managed a little smile. "You are right. I must not be so faithless. Bueno…" She wiped at her cheeks and took in a deep, calming breath. "I do not want to cry before everyone in Paris."

Before Quasimodo could reply, she linked her arm with his and said, "Let's keep walking. I wish to see more of the city."

"Ah – S-Sure."

With that, the two of them walked off, their connected reflections dancing off the surface of the Seine. Sancha squeezed his arm a little, almost unconsciously, and it was hard to ignore the swooping sensation in his stomach. It was the same feeling he got on the rare occasion where he almost slipped from a parapet or a rope. And, try as he might to force the feeling away, it only intensified when Sancha winked at him, as if to say, "I'm all right now." Quasimodo thought about pulling away from her, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Despite everything, he didn't want to let go of her.

They eventually made their way away from the riverbank and down one of Paris's side streets. Sancha held fast to Quasimodo the entire way. Bystanders and passers-by shot them curious looks, which made his face warm with a mix of shyness and – dare he admit it? – pride.

She's just being nice, he reminded himself. That's all it is.

"Quasimodo? Are you all right?"

She was watching him with a furrowed brow and a slight frown. The young man stumbled over his words for a moment before managing to spit out, "Yes, I'm fine. Why?"

"You appear upset."

He wasn't sure if she had an uncanny ability to read him, or if he was simply that terrible at hiding his thoughts. How would he answer her now? Would he tell her that he was bothered by his attraction to her because he knew it was all for naught? Insist that he didn't mind that she didn't feel the same way and have her pity him in return?

For the sake of their friendship, he pushed his doubts away and insisted, "I'm fine, Sancha, I promise. Just a little lost in thought."

He gave the hand coiled around his bicep a reassuring pat. Sancha's expression softened immediately at the touch, and it could have been his imagination, but he thought he saw a flush of colour light up her face.

As they looked at each other, though, something flashed in Sancha's eyes. Quasimodo couldn't quite name the emotion, but he did know she looked rather troubled all of a sudden.

"Ahora*…" she murmured, her brow furrowing. "May I tell you something…?"

Before he could ask her what was wrong, a stage whisper floated out from the side of the street and nipped at their heels.

"… so disgusting. Do you think she's blind?"

"Or maybe she's a common girl. And a desperate one, too… Could she really be in such a bad way she'd take up with… that?"

Sancha's head snapped up and turned in the direction of the insulting comment. Quasimodo glanced over his shoulder to see the cobbler's wife, Pernelle, watching them from the sidewalk with an acquaintance. Both women's eyes were trained on them, noses wrinkled in disapproval. Not a moment too soon, Sancha's arm loosened around his.

"Sancha, it's okay, don't –"

But it was too late. Sancha disengaged herself and marched over to Pernelle.

"If you are having an opinion of me or my friend, madame," Sancha started warningly, "why do you not tell it to my face?"

Pernelle blinked and flicked her veil over her shoulder. "I have no idea what you mean."

"Sancha…" Quasimodo tried again and reached for her elbow, but she didn't move.

"You are pretending to be ignorant," Sancha said. Her lip curled back, giving her the appearance of a snarling she-wolf.

"Aren't you the sharp one," Pernelle said in mock amazement. She glanced down at Quasimodo and took a step back, her expression falling. "You two ought to clear off right now. I'll not have a common woman and a hunchback 'round my husband's business."

Apparently unable to withstand the confrontation, Pernelle's companion excused herself and hurried away. Sancha didn't even look at the departing woman. Jaw set, she told Pernelle, "Apologize to my friend. He does not deserve what you say."

Pernelle glanced down at Quasimodo again, her expression rapidly disintegrating from angry to fearful.

"Get off my property, both of you," she said, though she was only looking at the bell ringer. This only made Sancha angrier.

"Not until you excuse yourself for what you have said," she growled.

"I'm telling you to leave," Pernelle repeated, her voice warbling.

"No!" Sancha yelled, and when she took a step towards the cobbler's wife, the latter called out shrilly over her shoulder.

"Guillaume! Guillaume, come quickly!"

That was the last straw. Quasimodo grabbed a hold of Sancha with both hands, completely intending to drag her off at a run before they could both get into serious trouble. But, she dug in her heels, which gave Pernelle's husband enough time to emerge from the darkness of his shop and survey them all with his beady black eyes.

"What's going on?" he demanded.

"They're trespassing," Pernelle said, pointing.

Sancha wrenched her arm from Quasimodo's slackened grip and faced Guillaume. "I mean only to tell your zorra of a wife to correct herself for speaking slander."

Guillaume's dark eyes immediately grew stormy. "What did you call my wife?"

"Sancha, please…"

They could have been running far away from this trouble now if Quasimodo had just thrown her over his shoulder and taken off when the danger wasn't imminent.

Sancha took a step back from the angry man, but she didn't lower her gaze. In fact, she was so bold as to look him in the eye.

"I call her only as I see her, sir. She addressed me as a 'common', when I am not, and she implied a cruel thing about my friend. You should do your duty as a husband and guide her correctly in her mannerism, in my opinion."

Guillaume's nostrils flared, giving him the appearance of a bull about to charge.

"I'll show you exactly where you can put those opinions, you little wh – "

The cobbler would never get to finish his sentence; as he reached to grab Sancha by the neck of her dress, he found himself thrown up against the wall of his own shop. A furious Quasimodo held him in place, his features twisted further into a snarl.

"Keep your hands off her!" he shouted. "And don't ever call her that again."

The man spluttered out something incomprehensible as he unsuccessfully tried to pry Quasimodo's hands off the front of his tunic. The bell ringer didn't let him go until Guillaume relented with, "Fine, I take it back! Now you get your hands off me."

Quasimodo released him, letting the cobbler regain his own footing. He turned back to Sancha, ignoring the pale and gawping Pernelle. Sancha didn't seem hurt, but she was wearing the expression of someone who had just been beaten over the head with a yardstick. It was a look that was painfully familiar.

"Come on," he said, walking past her, "let's go home."

Quasimodo watched his feet carry him away from the shop, his heart sinking with each hobbled step. Had he frightened her? The last time he had seen her look like that was a lifetime ago, when she found her way up to his home by accident. Despite having acted to protect her, the young man couldn't shake the fear that she saw him now as every bit of the monster she thought he was on that stormy night.

As he walked, Sancha's quick footsteps followed. But, she didn't take his arm again for the rest of the way back to Notre Dame.


* Ahora: Now

Not many translation today either because Sancha translated them herself, or because she was swearing... The mouth on that girl...

Thank you for reading, dear reader! And thank you, as well, to my reviewers :) Until next time...