A/N: Hello again, dear readers, and thank you for last week's reviews and comments. In return, please enjoy this (rather long) update :)

Chapter Twelve

"But she will be mine,

Or she will burn"

'Hellfire', Hunchback of Notre Dame

It was late on the eve of January 5, 1483 when the city gates of Paris opened. In the dying light of day, the townsfolk slowed their steps and gawked at the procession that marched into town.

Although it was not uncommon to see pilgrims and other travellers flood Paris for the Festival of Fools, these strangers were unlike any the citizens had ever seen before. Two men on horseback led the charge, flying livery no one in Paris recognized. Behind them, a draft horse pulled a magnificent carriage with a tall, red-clad man inside.

The Parisians whispered behind the hands to each other about the man's fin silk robes and the wide brimmed galero* on his tonsured head. The cardinal did not look at anyone or anything as his entourage moved through the streets of Paris. His dark, distant eyes were focused at an unseen spot before him, paying no heed to his surroundings.

Behind the cardinal's carriage, a squire rode a horse that drew behind it a prison carriage. The walls were made of heavy, rusted iron, and the door had but a single barred window. The townsfolk couldn't say if the monstrous carriage was empty or full. One thing everyone could tell, though, was where the procession of strangers was headed: The Palace of Justice.

XXX

Minister Philippe du Chastel sat at his desk, back straight and gaze narrowed. Sitting across from him was the subject of the rumours he had heard within the hour: Cardinal Tomas de Tavera, head of the Tribunal of the Holy Office of the Inquisition. The clergyman had not smiled once since stepping into the minister's office, and he possessed a stillness that put Philippe on edge immediately.

With the formalities over and done with, the minister had no issue in asking, "Why have you come to my city, Cardinal? It certainly isn't to pray, if your prison carriage is anything to go by."

"Indeed, Minister du Chastel," Tavera replied in eloquent French. "I am here on the account of an escaped prisoner. A young woman from my jurisdiction is suspected of practicing Judaism in secret and committing blood libel. She evaded arrest, I learned that she is here, and now I intend to bring her to justice."

Philippe squared his shoulders, his eyes boring into Tavera's.

"I will have you know, Your Eminence," he said in an even voice, "I do not take kindly to strangers looking for trouble in my city."

A muscle in Tavera's jaw twitched. "I was granted permission to be here."

"But with the intent to conduct a search for a single suspect. Why?"

"That is Tribunal business."

"Nevertheless…" Philippe continued. He leaned on his elbows and glared at Tavera. "I will have you know my predecessor nearly burned Paris to the ground last year, all for the sake of one stupid girl. When I took up the mantle of minister here, I vowed never to let my city suffer like that again. If you intend on finding your criminal, Cardinal, you will do so without disturbing or antagonizing my people."

Tavera's nostrils flared, but he remained silent.

"And you will show me proof of this girl's misdeeds before you take her back to Spain."

Tavera nearly jumped out of his seat. "I do not owe you any – "

"You are making an arrest in my jurisdiction. I am well within my right to demand proof before you cart someone off to be burned at the stake."

Silence fell, and Philippe almost expected Tavera to go over the desk at him. Instead, the cardinal rose, turned on his heel, and stalked towards the door. Philippe smiled and leaned back in his seat, content in knowing he had won, when Tavera paused at the door and glanced over his shoulder.

"Mark my words, Minister," he said, his voice low and gravely, "if you impede me in my mission, your city will pay. My country has spent nearly a thousand years wrestling its lands from the grips of heathens. Unless you want to see Paris succumb to heretics as Toledo did, you will let me have the Jewess."

The nearby fireplace cast Tavera's elongated shadow down the floor and up the wall. Darkness pooled under the cardinal's eyes and in his cheeks, and Philippe decided he looked incredibly ill.

"I sincerely doubt one heretic has the power to upend the city," the minister replied stoically.

Tavera smiled, one corner of his mouth quirked upwards, giving him the appearance of one of the grotesques that guarded Notre Dame's walls. "Ahora bien*… That is how it begins."

With that, the cardinal left, the door slamming behind him in his wake. Philippe sat in silence for a moment, staring at the fire and considering what kind of man he had just allowed into Paris. Sighing, he rose from the desk, stretched, and made a mental note to keep an eye on the Spaniard. For all the cardinal's talk of crypto-Judaism, the possibility of a single Jewess in Paris didn't unnerve Philippe nearly as much as Tavera's smile did.

XXX

The late morning sunshine filtered into the bell tower through the rafters, chasing shadows into corners and creating rainbows through scatterings of old stained glass. Sancha was at the mezzanine window, leaning on the sill and resting her head on her forearms as she watched the proceedings in the square below.

At the worktable, Quasimodo observed the way her hair fell in soft waves down her back before trying to replicate them on the block of wood in his hand. The figurine of Sancha was half-finished, with her face, arms, and Spanish style dress already whittled out. No matter how much Sancha begged to see his progress, Quasimodo always kept the figurine hidden under a cloth. He wanted to do her justice and refused to let her see anything but a perfect replica of her likeness.

"There are so many people in the square," he heard her say from the window.

He looked up from his work. "Oh?"

Sancha straightened and glanced over her shoulder. "When would you like to go?"

"Go?" The word came out as a question, but Quasimodo knew exactly what she was asking. A cold sense of dread settled deep in his crooked bones.

"To the Festival of Fools." As she turned back to the window, Sancha added, "Esmeralda will be dancing, and I wish to see her."

Frowning, Quasimodo set the figurine aside and covered it with a nearby rag. He would have been foolish to think Sancha would want to stay inside today. The Festival of Fools was one of Paris's busiest and most celebrated holidays. However, he couldn't shake the memories of last year, either. He could still feel the ropes bite into his wrists, the sting of rotten produce in his eyes, the burning shame in his belly… It was something he wished he could forget, but at the suggestion of attending the festival again, the recollections were as clear as they had been hours after the torture happened.

Quasimodo abandoned the table and joined Sancha at the window. There was already a sizable crowd gathering in front of the cathedral, and distant music floated up to the tower in jovial lilts. To anyone else, it looked like a fun time.

"I… I suppose we could go now… For a bit…"

Sancha looked up at him, concern flashing in her dark eyes. "Do you not wish to go?"

The young man avoided her gaze. He hadn't told Sancha all the details of his first time at the Festival of Fools, and he wasn't sure if he wanted to now. The memories were embarrassing enough, but he also knew if he told her what happened she might just end up feeling bad for asking to go.

No, he wouldn't tell her, he decided. Sancha shouldn't have to pay for something she wasn't even around for.

With that, Quasimodo put on a brave smile for her and said, "I do. Come on. Let's go before it gets too crowded."

Sancha rose and laid a hand on his arm, leaning in to get a good look at his eyes. A cautious little grin tugged at her lips, but her gaze was soft and sincere.

"Are you certain you're all right to go, Quasimodo? You seem uneasy."

Firmly shoving away his apprehension, the bell ringer gave her a kiss on the cheek and answered, "Everything's fine, Sancha. I promise."

Lightly touching her cheek, the girl accepted his insistence with a giddy little smile and hurried off to find her overshoes. Once Quasimodo was alone, he sighed and tried again to tamp down the rising discomfort in his chest. After all, the bad times from last year existed solely in the past. As far as he should have been concerned, everything was fine.

Still, he thought as he absentmindedly rubbed his wrist, something still didn't seem quite right that day.

XXX

On the South side of the fairgrounds, the crowd parted as the foreign carriage rolled in over the cobalt stones. Tavera surveyed the bright costumes, flags, and tents. Despite his resolve to find his fugitive, he could not help thinking about how Alfonso would have loved the colours here.

"Sir?"

The soldier's voice startled Tavera out of his sad reflections. Turning, he snapped, "What, Gomez?"

"All of Paris is here, and more," his subordinate said, gesturing to the throngs of citizens with a sweep of his arm. His other hand held fast to the reigns of his horse, who threw its head in distress at the surrounding chaos.

"Precisely," Tavera said. "All of Paris is here. It would stand to reason that the Jewess is here too."

"But how are we ever going to find the girl in this mess?"

"I will circle the fairgrounds a thousand times if I must," Tavera told him, his lip curling back. "If she is here, I will find her. If she is not, we will continue our search."

Gomez didn't press his master further. He had learned by now that when the cardinal made up his mind, he was incorrigible. Instead, he rode further ahead to join Diego, who was ponying Tavera's carriage horse.

"Do you think Avram's daughter is really here?" Gomez muttered as he looked around.

"Who cares?" Diego shrugged. "As long as I get to see the dancing girls at some point today, I'll consider this trip worthwhile."

XXX

The Feast of the Epiphany was celebrated in Spain as well as France, but Sancha had never seen anything like the Festival of Fools before. The square was full of tents, merchant's stands, and confetti rained down from the sky to carpet the stones in colour. Everyone was smiling, many with a mug of ale or wine in hand, and the costumes dazzled. The sweet smell of freshly baked bread and roasting meat wafted through the fairgrounds, mingling with the tunes produced by various unseen instruments.

It was a rowdy, off-kilter, and exciting scene. Sancha kept a tight grip on Quasimodo's arm as they made their way towards the main stage. A few people stopped them to say hello as they walked. Sancha recognized the blacksmith, the baker, and the wool merchant and his wife. As soon as they found a spot to stand up near the main stage, though, they were approached by a man in a travelling cloak, his hood drawn down over his eyes.

Upon seeing him, Sancha was apprehensive, but her fear dissolved as soon as the man inclined his head to smile at them – It was Phoebus.

"What are you doing with that heavy thing on?" Sancha asked. "Are you not hot?"

"Very," Phoebus admitted. "But I have to keep a low profile."

"Why?"

"Because of him."

Phoebus jabbed his thumb over his shoulder. Sancha and Quasimodo craned their necks to see a tall, bearded man with greying brown hair settle into a highbacked chair under a raised canopy. Positioned directly in front of the stage, he had the best seat of the entire festival, even better than the high benches where the nobles sat. Judging by his long, dark robes and plumed hat, Sancha guessed he was a city official of some sort.

"That is who?" she asked in a hushed voice.

"Lord Philippe du Chastel, the new minister," Phoebus explained in a conspiratorial whisper. "He seems a fair bit easier going than Frollo, but I can't take any chances. As far as the government is concerned, I'm still a fugitive. If he recognizes me, he might have cause turn me in."

Sancha glanced back at the minister. Philippe du Chastel smiled at someone in the crowd and waved. He reminded her a little bit of her rabbi back in Toledo. It was hard to imagine he would persecute anyone, let alone someone as nice as Phoebus.

She glanced back at the two men, only to see Quasimodo frowning at his boots, his hands busily twisting themselves in front of him. Phoebus clapped him lightly on the shoulder and said, "Esmeralda's going on soon. I'll be back with a few pints, if you two are interested."

Sancha thanked the former solider as he strode off, his cloak fluttering in his wake. She slipped her arm into Quasimodo's again and murmured, "We do not have to stay if you are upset."

Although Sancha was amazed by the festival and excited to see Esmeralda, she couldn't ignore the pit in her stomach when she saw how on-edge Quasimodo was. She could only imagine what he felt, knowing that a year ago his own master had sat in the seat Minister du Chastel now occupied. Perhaps that was why he was so reluctant to go earlier.

Still, the bell ringer covered his hand with her and said, "No, Sancha, it's fine."

"But, is it?" she asked quietly. "If this is too much, I do not mind returning to Notre Dame."

Quasimodo stayed silent for a moment, his eyes refusing to rest on hers and his face troubled. After a moment of what looked like some inner conflict, he finally met her gaze and grasped her hand.

"I don't want you to worry," he told her under his breath. "Last year's festival wasn't… It didn't really turn out how I wanted it, and it's a bit s-strange to be back… But, that's in the past now."

He squeezed her hand before adding, "You've been through a lot lately. I just want you to have a day to enjoy yourself."

Sancha's heart swelled with these words. For a moment, she wasn't sure if she wanted to stay or drag him back to their shared loft in the bell tower. Instead, she opted to kiss his cheek and murmured, "Gracias, mi alma."

Quasimodo smiled at the ground, his cheeks pink. Sancha pointedly ignored the whispers she heard behind her back about what she had just done. Let them talk, she told herself. Nothing was going to spoil her day.

Phoebus soon returned with three mugs of ale for them and Djali trotting at his heels. Sancha accepted her drink with a thanks and gave the goat a slice of apple she had been saving in her satchel. Djali happily accepted the treat and licked her palm in gratitude.

Before long, the show started. It began with a mystery play, with a trio of players portraying the three magi. After that, a bard sang a bawdy song to the accompaniment of a lute and shawm, pulling up raucous laughter from the crowd. Finally, it was Esmeralda's turn to perform, and she appeared on the stage in a puff of smoke. She startled Sancha so badly, the girl nearly dropped her cup.

As she watched her friend prance around the stage in a lovely red dress, Sancha felt a sense of giddy happiness race through her veins. Whether it was the alcohol, or the fact that she was here with people she cared deeply for in a city she had come to appreciate, she didn't know. All she knew in that moment was that she was more relaxed than she had been in months.

She glanced at the two men beside her, the movement making her head spin a little. Phoebus watched his wife, the hood over his head unable to conceal the proud grin or the desirous look in his eyes. Quasimodo was smiling up at Esmeralda too, but when he noticed Sancha staring at him, he tore his gaze away from the stage.

"What is it?" he asked softly.

Sancha opened her mouth, but found her voice gone. What she was about to say wasn't an answer to his question. It was completely unprompted, unexpected. Not even she knew where the thought came from. Still, she hesitated as the words knocked around in her head, threatening to jump from her lips if she didn't think of something else to say soon. But, why was it so hard to just say what she wanted to say?

Because you've never said it to anyone before, her conscious whispered.

A burst of applause from the crowd broke the couple out of their spell. Sancha turned back to the stage to see Esmeralda bowing, a pile of gold coins growing at her feet. Even Philippe du Chastel tossed a few livres to the gypsy girl, laughing in approval. After curtsying to the minister, Esmeralda turned to exit stage right, when her gaze caught Sancha's. With a jerk of her head, the dancer hopped off the stage, and Sancha watched to see where she went.

"I'll be back. I believe Esmeralda wishes to speak with me."

She downed the rest of her ale and bade a quick goodbye to Quasimodo and Phoebus. As she ran off, the former solider watched the girl before turning back to his companion.

"Congrats by the way," he said.

"For what?" Quasimodo asked.

Phoebus waved his hands towards Sancha's retreating figure. "She seems like a good girl. You two look really happy together."

"Oh, um…" The bell ringer looked away in embarrassment, but despite himself, a smile threatened to break the surface of his face.

"Come on," Phoebus said in a light, teasing tone. "Own it a little, would you? Just don't wait too long to make an honest woman out of her. Girls have expectations too, you know."

"What…?" Quasimodo started, but trailed off when the meaning of Phoebus's words sunk in. In the silence, the former soldier quirked an eyebrow at him.

"Unless, marriage isn't your plan?" he asked slowly.

"I don't know," Quasimodo muttered, almost to himself. "We never really talked about it."

"Well," Phoebus said, "don't worry too much about it. Just, keep it in mind if Sancha's going to hang around, all right?"

Quasimodo nodded, his mind swimming. He knew his friend was right. He had been cohabitating with Sancha for months, and ever since she asked him to stay the night with her, he had been confused. Happy, even elated, but painfully confused. After surviving the aftermath of their first night together, he wasn't sure where to go next. Sancha treated him unlike anyone else in his life – She always sat close to him, often held his hand or rested her head on his good shoulder, and she wasn't shy about taking a kiss when she wanted. She insisted on cooking (though she claimed not to be very good) and delighted in any needlework that had to be done. He had come to recognize the mischievous twinkle in her eye that meant she wanted to 'go to bed', and they could spend hours talking after the fact. Despite Quasimodo never having made mention of it, she acted as he imagined a wife would around her husband.

But if that were so, he always asked himself, why hadn't she told him she loved him yet?

XXX

Sancha found Esmeralda in her tent that doubled as a dressing room. She cautiously stepped inside, just as the gypsy was tying the cord around her robe.

"You were amazing," the girl said as she let the curtain fall closed behind her.

Esmeralda pushed her hair out of her eyes and smiled. "Glad you enjoyed it."

The gypsy gave her friend a look over and said, "I wanted to ask you how you're feeling. Any better?"

"How do you mean?"

"The leaves I gave you." Esmeralda quirked an eyebrow at her. "Did you do as I told you?"

Sancha looked at her feet and smiled, trying not to feel shy. Absentmindedly, she wrapped her arms around her midriff. "Realemente, I had no use for them after all."

Esmeralda gave her a knowing wink. "I figured. That's good news. Still, keep them on you just in case."

"I always do." Sancha patted her satchel and gave her friend a grateful smile.

After leaving Esmeralda to get changed, Sancha found herself wandering through the fairgrounds, cup in hand, drinking in the sight around her. Quasimodo and Phoebus were gone from the main stage, but she felt no sense of urgency to find them just yet. Instead, she wandered from stand to stand, tasting the ales and watching the side acts while she gathered her thoughts.

While she had not needed to use the leaves Esmeralda gave her, Sancha did not feel as thrilled as she thought she would when her monthly courses began last week. The thought of having a child out of wedlock while she was trying to start her life over terrified her. But, she was not adverse to the idea of eventually becoming a parent. In fact, she thought as she watched a young family stroll by the puppet show, she wanted nothing more than to be a wife and mother.

Sancha took a swig of her ale as she moved under a colourful banner. Thoughts swirled in her mind with the alcohol, warming her through. Her arrival in Paris had been marked by loss, confusion, and dishonesty, but everything was different now. Now, she was a known face around the city and could pick up menial jobs whenever she could. Now, she found a place to live – unorthodox as it was – and an equally unorthodox partner.

A smiled tugged at the corners of her mouth. She never imagined herself as a bell ringer's wife. Her mother had been a noblewoman and her father, a physician. By all rights, she was supposed to marry a wealthy landowner, or perhaps a successful merchant or a banker.

And yet, here she was, wishing with every day that passed that Quasimodo would ask her to marry him.

Sancha didn't know what was holding him back. She had no father for him to negotiate with. They had been living together for months, she assured him she would stay until he wouldn't have her anymore, she gave herself to him… And yet, he never asked.

Sancha wondered why as she circled a group of girls who were engaged in a small carol.* Was he scared of rejection? But she had proved to him that she loved and cared for him. What more convincing did he need?

Did he have to hear her say it out loud? Sancha frowned, her heart growing a little heavier with each step. If that was all it took, he had no idea how close she came to saying it out loud, before all of Paris, just thirty minutes ago…

The young woman sighed and reminded herself that, whatever the reason was, no one should ever have to be convinced of getting married. She would simply have to be patient and let Quasimodo come to her when he felt it the time was right.

Meanwhile, she would simply enjoy the day and let tomorrow take care of itself.

And I will tell him, she thought. The world may hear, but I won't hold back this time.

Sancha finished her cup and winced as the warm, acrid liquid ran down her throat. Her face felt very warm, and she knew it wasn't just because of the sun. In that moment, she decided to stop meandering and find Quasimodo and Phoebus. It wouldn't do to be caught alone and tipsy in such a large crowd.

She turned on her heel but stopped short. Her breath hitched in her throat as the sight of the red, wide-brimmed hat of a cardinal floating through the crowd. Sancha stood frozen where she was, ignoring the staggering young couple that bumped into her. The crowd parted to reveal a matching red robe. The cardinal had his back to her, but she watched him turn his head. His profile was sharp and dangerous, his aquiline nose and square jaw cutting stark shadows against the day's colours. He turned his back to the young woman and kept walking.

The empty cup clattered to Sancha's feet. She backed up into a group of men, who shouted at her to watch herself. She ignored them and staggered off into the crowd, fighting to keep her vision from tunneling.

He couldn't be here. It was impossible. Sancha muttered these two phrases to herself under her breath, but she couldn't convince herself. Each step she took felt as if the street was giving out beneath her. The festive music grew muffled, as if she had a blanket over her head. She tried to draw in a breath, but it was as if her lungs were rejecting the air. Sancha blinked, and suddenly she was running, knocking into bystanders and upsetting many a drink, but she didn't care. She ran blindly, panting, until she found Quasimodo sitting by himself on a bench near the gypsies' caravans.

"Sancha," he said when he saw her, "there you are! I was looking every – "

"Es aqui."

"What?"

"He's here."

"Who?"

Sancha swallowed down hard, her throat dry. "T-Tavera. He's here, at the Festival. Ahora, I saw him."

Quasimodo stared at her, his mouth open but unmoving. He didn't believe her. Sancha clenched her jaw against the threatening sting in her eyes. She was searching for the words in French that would convince him she wasn't lying, but he spoke first.

"A-Are you sure?"

"Yes! I-I swear to you, I saw him! He is in Paris. I- He can't find me – Por favor, Quasimodo, créeme!"*

The look in the bell ringer's eyes soon turned from disbelieving to frightened. He took her hands, which were balled into fists in front of her, and lowered them.

"You have to go to the church," he told her, his words quiet but rushed. "You need to claim sanctuary before he finds you. He can't hurt you if you're inside Notre Dame."

"But I – "

"I-It's going to be okay," he stammered, rising from the bench. He never let go of her hands, though his own palms became slick. "J-Just, follow me. Keep your head down, okay?"

Sancha did exactly as she was told, watching her feet carry her over the cobalt stones as Quasimodo led her through the throngs of people. Each step seemed heavy and slow, as if they couldn't reach Notre Dame fast enough. When Sancha dared to raise her head again, a treacherous measure of relief laced her heart when she saw the statues of the Kings of Israel looming high above her.

That was, until, Quasimodo accidentally ran straight into a woman ahead of them and ground their procession to a halt.

"Excuse me!"

The woman whirled around, and Sancha recognized her as the woman who confronted her for sleeping in the transept all those months ago. The face of Marguerite de Beaumont was flushed an angry shade of red, and her sharp blue eyes glinted dangerously in the sunlight.

"You," she growled, glaring contemptuously down at Quasimodo. "You wretched boy. How dare you put your hands on a lady?"

"I-I-I'm s-sorry," Quasimodo started to apologize, but Sancha cut in.

"Enough! Get out of his way!"

She passed Quasimodo and reached out, completely intending to shove the old woman aside, etiquette be damned. However, she never got a chance. Marguerite captured her wrist in her talon-like hands and jerked her arm up, her gaze horrified as it fixed on Sancha's adorned pointing finger.

"You little witch," she shrieked. "Where on earth did you get this?"

"Get off me!" Sancha shouted. She struggled to pull her hand away, but the lady held fast.

"Why do you have this?" she demanded. She pulled on Sancha's arm, so that her hand was splayed out between the two of them. "Where did you get this ring?"

"Let her go!" Quasimodo made a move to pry the woman's hand off Sancha's wrist but stopped when the lady screamed.

"Keep your hands off me," she snarled at him, before turning back to Sancha to ask again, "Where did you get this? That ring is mine!"

The commotion was starting to draw a crowd. Quasimodo glanced around, panic threatening to overtake him, when he saw Esmeralda's face poke out from the crowd. Her eyes were wide and questioning, and her jaw dropped when she realized what was happening at the centre of the circle.

"It's mine!" Sancha screamed, digging her heels into the ground.

"Give me back my ring!" the old woman shouted, her fingers prying at the jewelry. "I gave it to my daughter when she was baptized! You lying little thief, how did you come by it?"

"Vete la mierda," Sancha told her, pulling as hard as she could. "My mother gave this to me for my baptism! It is the possession of Jeanne de Beaumont, not you!"

Marguerite's face fell out faster than a gallows floor. Her grip went slack, but before Sancha could wrench herself free, the noblewoman muttered in a dazed voice, "Impossible… Jeanne de Beaumont is my daughter…"

Sancha's body went very still, her wrist hanging limply in Marguerite's hand. As quietly as she had spoken them, the old woman's words rang as loud as any church bell in Sancha's head. In that moment, she forgot all about the imminent danger. Somewhere in the distant, she heard Quasimodo urging her to get to the church, but she couldn't move. All she could do was stare at the noblewoman's eyes and note how similar they were to her mother's…

Suddenly, a heavy hand grabbed Sancha by the back of her dress and wrenched her away from her grandmother. Before she could even scream, the young woman found herself nose-to-nose with a pair of hard, black eyes and a poorly concealed grin.

"Sancha Bat Avram," Tomas de Tavera purred. "At last, I've finally caught up to you."


* galero: A wide-brimmed hat worn by cardinals

*"Ahora bien..." : "Well now..."

*"Por favor, Quasimodo, créeme" : "Please, Quasimodo, believe me"

Phew, I was almost afraid the characters were getting too comfortable... Alas, I'm going to have to let Tavera ruin their fun a little bit... What will he do, I hear you asking? My dear reader, I'm afraid you'll just have to keep reading to find out ;)

As always, thank you for reading and sticking with the story!