A/N: Welcome back, dear reader. Hope you had a lovely week and are ready for another chapter - Enjoy!


Chapter Ten

"I swear it must be Heaven's light…"

'Heaven's Light', Hunchback of Notre Dame

There was still at least an hour left of sunlight, but Sancha hurried home as if there were only five minutes. Her satchel jingled with her earnings for the day, the result of washing the linens of the wool merchants' wife. She apparently had taken pity on Sancha when the latter showed up on her doorsteps asking for work that day. Now that she had earned her room and board, Sancha was more than anxious to get indoors and off the street.

She all but ran around a corner and collided into someone much taller than her. Fully expecting a fight, Sancha looked up to see a man with jaw-length blonde hair, an angular face, and dark eyes. Sancha recognized him immediately as Esmeralda's husband, Phoebus, who she had met the same day she accompanied his wife to the blacksmith.

"Where's the fire, Sancha?" he laughed as he steadied her.

She smiled sheepishly at him. "I only mean to get home before curfew." And, with a shy laugh, she added, "I cannot break it again."

Phoebus nodded, a measure of solemnity softening his features. "Esmeralda told me what happened that night. My condolences."

His words settled over Sancha like the top half of a stock, weighing her shoulders down. "Thank you. Quasimodo told me you left that night to look for me… It was kind of you."

Phoebus smiled demurely and looked her once over. "Are you doing all right?"

She shrugged. "I cannot spend my life in mourning. I will be fine as time continues."

She meant it, too. It had been almost three weeks since that fateful night, and though she still had moments of pain that were nearly unbearable, they were becoming fewer and far between. As she established a routine that did not involved waiting for her parents, Sancha was becoming more and more accustomed to life in Paris. She found joy in waking up to the bells and setting out each day to find meaningful work. Even speaking French came easier to her than ever before.

"That's the spirit," Phoebus said, patting her shoulder. "Besides, it's the Feast of the Nativity tomorrow. You should be enjoying yourself."

Sancha looked down at her feet, a frown tugging at her mouth. "Yes… That's why I must go home. Before anything happens…"

"Before what happens?"

"I do not know if it is the same thing in France," Sancha started slowly, "but the Nativity was always a… strange time for my family in Spain."

She raised her head and gave him a sad look. "Sometimes it was safe to go out, but other times it was not."

Phoebus inclined his chin, his eyes understanding but no less troubled. Sancha had heard from Quasimodo that Esmeralda's husband was the former Captain of the Guard, and that he had lost his position after refusing to participate in Frollo's persecution of the gypsies. Surely, he was a worldly man, and he must have known the same breed of evil was routinely visited upon the Jews of Europe. Depending on the timing, it was very easy for them to get hurt, and the Feast of the Nativity was a prime time of year for violence to break out in Toledo's judería.

Lowering his voice, Phoebus said, "The Jews were expelled from France over eighty years ago. No one will be looking for a fight as long as you don't give them a reason to suspect you – And that means walking home at a normal pace. Remember, curfew's at least another hour from now, so there's no reason for you to worry."

Sancha drew in a calming breath and fought off the wave of embarrassment that threatened to sweep her away. "Thank you, Phoebus. I suppose it is silly to be so frightened."

"There's nothing wrong with a little caution," he told her with a wink. "Just don't worry yourself sick. Go home and enjoy the night. It's supposed to be a time of rest and recreation, anyway."

Smiling, Sancha nodded in agreement, and they bade goodbye to one another. As she set off down the road, Sancha called over her shoulder, "I hope to see you and Esmeralda soon! I'll speak with Quasimodo, and perhaps we can all meet another time."

Phoebus watched the young woman leave, turning the girl's suggestion over in his mind. Since when did she start making plans on behalf of herself and the bell ringer? As he set off back to the caravans, Phoebus smiled as he remembered a conversation he had with Esmeralda not long after they met Sancha.

"That girl is in love," she had said.

"With?"

"Our friend."

Phoebus had known exactly who his wife was talking about, just by the intonation of her voice. Admittedly, he was a little surprised by this inference.

"How do you know? Did she tell you?"

"No, it was the way she talked about him, and… It was in her eyes… There was something there, I could just tell…"

"Huh…"

"It's hard to explain…" Esmeralda had relented, and with a sigh, she added, "I don't think she's even aware of it herself."

Phoebus chuckled when he remembered the look in Sancha's eyes when they parted. As she called out to him over her shoulder, there had indeed been something there, a glimmer in her soft brown eyes that lit up he whole face. As he neared his home, Phoebus considered the look again, and wondered if he should tell Esmeralda that Sancha more than likely figured it out by now.

XXX

The bell tower was lit up with the soft light of a few candles when Sancha arrived. She peeked over the ladder of the mezzanine to see Quasimodo had finished his chores and was seated at his worktable. A paintbrush was balanced between his fingers, his other hand holding up the figurine of a minstrel. He was deeply concentrated on his work, and Sancha tried to be quiet as she pulled herself up onto the platform.

"Buenas tardes," she said quietly.

Thankfully she didn't startle him. Quasimodo turned around, his face softening when he saw her. He set the figure down and rose to embrace her, as he always did when she came back in from town.

"Any luck today?" he asked as she settled down next to him.

"Yes, I got very lucky. Madame le Marchand* needed her laundry done. My hands were nearly freezing in the Seine, but I was paid well for my trouble."

A look of concern crossing his face, Quasimodo caught her hands in his. "Be careful, Sancha. That's an easy way to get frostbite."

"You are sweet to worry." She kissed him on the forehead. "But I am fine. After all, it is a good thing that I earned my pottage tonight."

The gold coins the merchant's wife had paid Sancha bought her more than just good soup. After dinner, as she cleared away the dishes and Quasimodo went to ring Evening Mass, she glanced over her shoulder to make sure her satchel was where she left it. The girl smiled, knowing what was hidden therein. She hurried through the washing, grabbed the bag, and joined Quasimodo up on the second platform as the bells' song came to an end.

"I didn't mean to keep you waiting," he said as he came down to her eye-level. "Did you want to go to Mass?"

That was something they had taken to doing recently. As the days grew shorter, and work was less frequent, the two of them sometimes attended the later offices. Sancha didn't know a lick of Latin, but she enjoyed just sitting in the grand cathedral, watching the proceedings with Quasimodo by her side. It often brought her a sense of peace and contentedness, but this time, she shook his head.

"I hope you will forgive me, but I do not feel like going to Mass tonight."

She clutched the handle of her satchel, twisting the leather strap in her sweaty palm. Why was she so nervous?

"Oh. That's fine." Quasimodo smiled at her. "We can stay here if you're tired."

"Realmente, I…" Sancha looked down and watched her hands open the satchel. She fished about in it for a moment before her fingers closed around what she was looking for. She almost breathed a sigh of relief – Nothing had spilled.

"I… wished to give you this."

She held out her hand, palming the gift: A small pot of red paint. She watched with a growing smile as Quasimodo's eyes widened. He gingerly took the pot from her, his thumb running over the cork that sealed the pigment inside.

"Sancha…." he whispered.

"I-I noticed that you were missing the colour," she said, her eyes going straight to her boots. "I hope it is the right shade… I tried to tell the monje* how your other paint looked, pero…"

She wasn't explaining herself well, and she cursed herself for being so nervous. She was never good at giving gifts, but she had wanted to do something nice for him. Day and night, she watched him work on the miniature replica of Paris, and thought it was a shame that he had recently run out of red paint.

Quasimodo didn't seem to notice (or care about) her stumbling. The surprise melted from his face as a wide smile broke the surface. He pocketed the gift and gently pulled Sancha into his arms. A soft, sweet kiss landed on her lips, and she instantly relaxed.

"Thank you, Sancha," he said. "You didn't have to trouble yourself, though."

"Trouble? No seas tonto,*" she said, brushing his bangs out of his good eye. She saw her reflection in its blue-grey depths, a blushing girl of eighteen who didn't know much about courting but was trying her best.

Quasimodo held onto her a little longer, his eyes speaking a world of gratitude that his words couldn't convey. The expression made Sancha's breath suddenly hitch in her throat, her skin prickling with a not-completely unpleasant heat. For a moment, she genuinely wished he would never let her go.

Still, they had to separate at some point. The bell ringer took a step away from her but didn't let go of her hands. "Follow me. I want to show you where the rest of the red paint went."

Nodding, Sancha set down her satchel and followed Quasimodo up one of the nearby ladders. On the higher platform, he grabbed a candle from one of the sconces, and motioned her towards the spare bell she had rung a lifetime ago. He glanced over his shoulder at Sancha, and she returned his smile with a quirked eyebrow and an uncertain little giggle.

"That bell does not look red to me, cariño."

"That's what this is for." He held up the candle. "It's on the inside of the bell."

More questions popped into Sancha's mind, but she decided to hold her tongue and accept the candle from Quasimodo, watching as he pushed the bell up. He motioned with a shake of his head.

"Go on under," he told her. "Just be careful with the flame."

Balancing the candle in her hand, Sancha lowered herself down and crawled under the bell, ducking her head as Quasimodo slowly lowered it back to its original position. She sat on the floor, her knees tucked up to her chest, and waited for him to join her in the near darkness. Quasimodo moved to avoid hitting the clapper and took the candle from her, illuminating the heavy brass roof over them.

"There" – He pointed to the lip of the soundbow – "Can you see it?"

Sancha moved closer to him and squinted. There was a word scrawled in bold red letters on the inside of the bell. The penmanship was as precise as any scribe's, and the wording shone slightly in the candlelight. Fresh paint. She smiled wanly and looked over at him, her nose inches away from him.

"That is impressive," she said. "But you know I cannot read. What is it?"

"That's your name."

Silence crashed around them, the cover of the bell drowning out all sound except for Sancha's stuttering heartbeat. The air was suddenly as still as a pond in early morning, and not even the candle flame dared to move.

"M… My name?" She glanced back at the word, the pretty mess of scribbles. "That is my name?"

"Yes, it is. Look, I'll show you." Quasimodo pointed to each individual letter as he sounded out, "S-A-N-C-H-A… That's what it looks like written down."

The girl was speechless, staring at her name with parted lips. Absentmindedly, she traced her finger under the first letter. Her hand was shaking.

She had never seen her own name before. She had heard it many times, in happy, angry, sad, and fearful tones. She had even heard it screamed out by authority figures when she was caught misbehaving. But, despite knowing a few literate people in Toledo, no one ever showed her what 'Sancha' looked like written down. And now here it was, permanently branded on the side of a bell that belonged to Notre Dame de Paris. It was the identity of a real person, a soul who had not yet been stamped off the face of the earth, despite all efforts.

"I-I noticed you're always sitting by this bell when you sew, and she doesn't have a name yet, a-and you did ring her, after all," Quasimodo explained, rushing to fill the silence. After a moment, he ventured, "Do you like it…?"

Sancha swallowed down hard as her vision began to blur. Any words she wanted to say were drowned by a flood of emotions. Her heart swelled with the current and strained against her chest, cutting her breath short.

Instead of answering him, Sancha turned and gave him a slow, burning kiss. He froze for a moment, surprised by her reaction, but quickly relaxed and brought his arms around her. Sancha drew away from him eventually, but only because she felt as if she 'had to.' She bit down on the inside of her lip, struggling to tamp down the urge to go for another kiss.

"You do not know what this means to me," she murmured. "Thank you."

Quasimodo smiled as she shifted to lean her head into the dip of his neck. He let a heavy arm fall over her shoulder and draw her closer. "You're welcome."

The two of them sat under the bell in silence for a moment, minding the candle and gazing up at Quasimodo's handiwork. Outside, the wind howled, and a light snow began to fall, but Sancha was as comfortable as could be. She let her eyes close, letting her thoughts wander where they pleased.

As usual that past week, they wandered back to a part of her that she kept secret and locked away from polite society. When she realized what she was doing, Sancha's eyes flew open. Still, the troublesome thoughts would not leave her alone. They ran in succession in her head, imagined scenarios and wishful thinking, setting her skin alight again and pushing her to acknowledge what she had been denying for a while now: A strong and unrelenting need, something her mother had warned her to save for her future husband.

With each passing day, though, Sancha had found the wait more and more unbearable. And why should she have to wait, her conscience had asked many times over. She knew where her heart lay, and what she wanted… Or rather, who she wanted…

Sancha drew in a deep breath and turned her face towards the crook of Quasimodo's neck. Without thinking, she gave him a kiss, starting a trail at his collarbone and tracing her lips up to his ear. She gently nipped at his earlobe, and Quasimodo's laugh echoed through the bowl of the bell.

"That tickles, Sancha."

She bared her teeth teasingly, and they laughed together. When their voices died down, they looked at each other for a quiet moment, and before the silence could drag on too long, Sancha heard herself say, "I wish to go to bed."

Her arms broke out in goosebumps as the words left her mouth. The heat in her face was hard to ignore, and she imagined she looked as red as the lettering on the spare bell. Alas, there it was – She was doing exactly what her mother had told her not to do, and she didn't care.

Quasimodo was completely unaware of Sancha's inner torment. In perfect obliviousness, he gave her a chaste peck on the cheek before saying, "All right. It's getting late, anyway."

They crawled out from under the bell, replaced the candle in its rightful sconce, and descended to the mezzanine. They extinguished the candles as they went, until the only light that remained in the tower was from the full moon. Its cool, pale beams spilled over the floorboards and lit up the walls in calming shades of white and blue.

Once on the lower platform, Sancha didn't move from the middle of the 'room'. If this were any other time, she would give him a kiss goodnight and retire to her palette alone. Instead, she stood in defiance (on numb legs, no less) to this expectation and waited for Quasimodo to notice what she was doing. He was halfway up the ladder to his own sleeping area before he realized Sancha was not going to bed.

"What's wrong?" he asked over his shoulder.

"Nothing."

He dropped down from the ladder and approached her, confusion pulling his uneven brow taut. Summoning her courage, Sancha reached out to him, her fingers splayed and shivering slightly.

"Come," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

The bell ringer looked at her hand, then up at her, questions dancing in his eyes. Sancha offered him a soft smile and pretended not to be nervous about what she was asking.

"Come with me."

She stepped towards him, her hand still outstretched and inviting. A moment passed as the two of them gazed expectantly at each other, before understanding dawned on Quasimodo's face.

Sancha didn't know what kind of reaction she was expecting, but unadulterated terror was not one of them.

"Wh-What?" he stammered. "Do you mean –? Sancha, I don't th-think you know what you're… A-Are you really… Do you know what you're…?"

"Venga ya*, Quasimodo, you act as if I am asking you to depose the king for me. I ask only for you to… to stay with me this night."

Slowly, she approached him and took his hand, which was trembling as well. "If you do not wish to, you may tell me," she said softly. "It is fine to say no."

"It's not…" He looked away from her, his poor cheeks a brilliant shade of red. "It's not that… I…"

She waited patiently as he gathered his thoughts, her thumb stroking the back of his hand. After a beat, he blew out a breath and finally turned his gaze on her, which was equal parts confused and concerned.

"You're so beautiful," he said, his voice quiet.

She grinned at her shoes. "And so are you."

"But, why…?"

Sancha shushed him gently, before he forced himself to say anything too self-deprecating. "Quasimodo, I am a grown woman, and I know well what I am asking. Please do not doubt my convicción*. I have been thinking of this for some time, and I know my decision."

She leaned in and cupped his chin with her free hand, gently making him look at her. She locked her soft, dark gaze on his, ignoring the swooping sensation in her stomach.

"What I ask to know now is if you wish it as well. I cannot convince you, and I do not wish to if you are not ready. I can only be truthful with you in what I want."

He stared at her, incredulity shimmering in his gaze. "… Me?"

The word fell from his lips like a dirty secret, whispered and quick. She nodded, swallowing down her nerves again.

"Sí. More than anything."

Sancha's cheeks burned something fierce. She had never spoken so plainly before, and certainly not on these kinds of matters. Still, it had to be said, and she waited as patiently as she could while Quasimodo silently worked through his disbelief. At this point, she could only guess at what he was really thinking. She only hoped that whatever answer he gave her reflected his true feelings.

The silence wore on, but Sancha refused to move before she heard a clear yes or no. Eventually, Quasimodo traced a hand up her arm, his thumb running over her forearm. His eyes never left hers.

"You're sure…?" he breathed.

"Quite sure," Sancha promised, her heart leaping into her throat. "But, are you?"

With a deep breath, Quasimodo slowly nodded. "Y-Yes… Yes, I am."

A cloud from moved away from the moon and threw a pathway of light through the mezzanine. Sancha took a careful step backwards. She didn't let go of Quasimodo's hand, and he matched her movement. Again, she stepped back, and again, he followed. He still wore the expression of a man who had just witnessed an act of God, but he seemed more fascinated than shocked now.

She led him out of the moonlight and into the warm, welcoming darkness of her bedroom. She knelt by the palette and brought him down with her, tugging gently on his arms. As she pushed aside her blankets, Quasimodo awkwardly cleared his throat and said in a constricted voice, "Sancha, you should know, I haven't – I mean, I've n-never done... this."

"No te preocupes, mi alma."*

She leaned her forehead on his, her breath ghosting over his lips. "Neither have I. We shall go slow. Is that all right with you?"

He only nodded, swallowing with nervous anticipation. Sancha gave him a quick, reassuring kiss before she rose again to undo the curtain. She glanced around the bell tower, as if warning the shadows to keep away from them, and she sent up a prayer to whoever was listening that she would do right by the man who had come to mean so much to her.

With that, Sancha unpinned the curtain and let it fall.


*Madame le Marchand: "Mrs. Merchant", a (grammatically incorrect) nickname Sancha gave to the wool merchant's wife

*monje: A monk. Ecclesiastics in the Middle Ages usually knew how to prepare paint, since they used it to illuminate manuscripts

*"No seas tonto": "Don't be silly"

*"Venga ya": "Come now" or "Come on"

*convicción: conviction

*"No te preocupes, mi alma": "Don't worry, my love"

I hope you dear readers found this chapter sweet and satisfying! I hope you'll forgive me for "closing the door" on Quasimodo and Sancha, but keeping it open just wouldn't fit the tone of this story... That being said, thank you all once again for reading. Thank you as well to my reviewers and commenters :)