But Clopin's grin only widened at her retort. "Any more of that, mademoiselle, and you'll find this cloth can serve equally well as a blindfold and a gag!"
"You wouldn't!"
"Be quiet, then!" replied Clopin as he pulled the purple cloth over Curran's eyes. "We have to do this with everyone who comes to the Court for the first time. You shouldn't take it personally."
"I won't - but does it have to be so tight?"
"Yes!" Clopin replied sternly. "You can't be allowed to see anything."
"Please!" Curran pleaded as he dragged the hood of her cloak back over her head and tucked her hair within. "I won't be able to hear anything either if that's over my ears!"
"So much the better!" came Clopin's reply. "The only way I can get you out of here without being spotted is if you pretend to be a blind old woman - and the only way you can hope to be convincing as a blind old woman is if you're entirely dependent on me. Here's my arm. Hold on to it like an old woman would."
Curran obeyed, feeling for his arm with her hands.
"Now crouch your body over like an old woman - good - and make your hands clawlike, bend them inward - yes, well done!" He chuckled. "The very picture of an old crone! For a lady you're remarkably good at this."
"If I'm so good at this, can't I just pretend I'm blind?" she whispered as she shuffled towards the exit, leaning on the gypsy's arm.
"You wouldn't last a minute, cherie. Besides, that blindfold covers your face if your hood slips back. Now lean close to me, we're about to leave the cathedral." She nodded: she saw nothing but the thick, purplish darkness pressing in on her eyes. "You'll be going down the steps in a moment, cherie. Seven of them. Remember, you're an old lady, so take your time."
It amazed Curran later how vulnerable she'd been without her eyes. Even steps as shallow as those leading down to the Place de Notre-Dame seemed ready to trap her into a fall. But what amazed her more was the realization that although she'd been cautious in her movements, she hadn't for a moment been afraid. If she had fallen, Clopin would have caught her: she'd been keenly aware of his lean strength supporting her as she hobbled her way across the cobblestone Place.
Then Clopin startled her by speaking aloud to some people in front of them. "Please sir, would you spare a copper for my poor blind mother? Please sir, she's so cold and tired... We came in all the way from the country, we went to the shrine of Saint-Louis but it looks like there'll be no miracle today for her, poor dear..."
"Go away and leave us in peace!" growled a man's voice.
"Oh please sir?" Clopin wheedled. "Just a sou? Charity is all we seek, just a little bit of Christian charity -"
Someone cleared his throat loudly. It wasn't until Clopin flinched sharply that Curran realized he'd been spat on.
"But Christian charity is, by definition, for Christians!" came the voice of the man again. "Not for Gypsies. And the sooner you Gypsies get the message and get out of our city, the better!"
Another man laughed loudly. "You heard him, beggar. Now get out of our sight, before we kick your old mother lame to go with her blindness!"
Curran was pulled backwards in Clopin's haste to get away. Though careful not to betray her anger in her movements, she seethed with anger at the treatment Clopin had just suffered from those men. A single sou wasn't so much to ask, for Heaven's sake! Jarrett used to demand five gold livres from his tenants in taxes each year, taxes to be paid just for the privilege of existing on his land. And a cruel man like Jarrett got respect from people, whilst a gypsy who did nothing more than ask for charity got spat on and insulted and told to get out of the city...
"We're out of the Place now," Clopin's voice murmured in her ear. "You can relax, they've no idea you've gone."
Suddenly the horrified realization of who they were came to her. "You mean those men - were Jarrett's dogs??"
"None other," Clopin replied casually. "They had to be, they were looking at all the young women who passed by - plain or pretty."
"And you walked up to them deliberately?" Curran could hardly believe it. "Clopin, are you completely mad?"
"Cherie, if I'd seen them and walked off in the opposite direction that would have alerted their suspicions at once. But going up to them and begging with my hand out - would I have done that if I had the woman they were looking for on my arm?"
"I suppose not."
"Exactly! And if it makes you feel any better, I couldn't have pulled it off if you hadn't been such a convincing old woman." Curran felt a momentary warmth of pride and gratitude at his words. "But you still have to keep it up until we get to the Court, so come along!"




"You can look now, cherie, we've arrived."
"At last!" Curran muttered as she reached behind her head and pulled off the cloth. By now it had started to give her a headache, together with her heavy hood that muffled sound and breathing. She lifted her hood, shook her fair hair free and looked around her.
Not since the street festivals in Calais had she seen such a riot of colour. She was in some kind of building with a high brick vaulted ceiling. It had no windows, but the shadows were chased away with campfires and candlelight, and the stern lines of the brick walls were softened by layer upon layer of bright canvas. The billows of fabric formed tents for a whole congregation of people: some were sitting on the ground before her in a circle, playing cards and chatting, others were sitting in corners hard at work at their trades - blacksmithery, glassblowing, carpentry. The shock of the colour and movement after so much darkness made her blink momentarily. After the shock, she realized that the gypsies' movement had ceased.
All of them were staring right at her.
She was used to people in the street finding her flaxen blonde hair strange, but she wasn't prepared for this level of attention. Shyly, she looked down at the floor whilst Clopin clambered up to the raised stage where two nooses swung eerily.
"Brothers and sisters!" he called, his voice echoing around the walls. "Some of you may be aware that a woman asked for sanctuary in Notre-Dame two nights ago. The wolves that chased her to Paris still lie in wait for her outside the cathedral doors, so I brought her to a place where she might feel truly secure. Her name is Curran. Brothers, sisters, I look to you to give her shelter and a true Romany welcome!"
He had evidently prepared the speech to attract applause and cheers, but only a few clapped or murmured their approval. The rest just stared at Curran's blonde hair - not even her eyes, she thought in panic, just her hair! - with expressions ranging from curiosity to hostility. Their eyes did not soften as Clopin descended from the stage and took her hand to lead her to her new tent.




Curran bent over and examined the bed - or rather, the shallow cot of straw - that had been provided for her by the gypsies. A shiny black beetle crawled to the surface and clambered over the straw. Trying to swallow her disgust, she picked up the insect between her fingers and flung it to the other side of the tent. She watched in relief as it scuttled away.
"What's your name, then, 'milady'?"
The speaker was a gypsy girl of about Curran's own age. She and half a dozen other girls had entered Curran's tent whilst her back was turned - now, as before, they stood gazing at Curran's wavy white-gold hair. Curran looked up and noticed, with surprise, that the left side of the girl's face had been burnt long ago in some accident. Her cheek was hard and rippled like melted candlewax.
"How do you do? My name's Curran," she said with a friendly smile, holding out her hand.
But the girl just stared at her blankly. "How do I do? What's that supposed to mean? How do I do what?"
As the girl's friends started laughing Curran's face burned with embarrassment. "That's just an expression we have in Calais - it means how are you."
"Oh, I know what it means," the girl answered unsmilingly. She took Curran's hand in hers and started to examine it. "Here, come feel this hand!" she said to the other girls. The others flocked around Curran, all touching her hand as if it were no longer part of her. "That's the softest skin I've ever touched in all my life," commented the girl with the scarred face after her friends were finished.
"T-thank you," Curran said awkwardly.
The girl's lip curved in a sneer. "I bet you've never done a day's work in your life, have you 'milady'?"
Her voice was so nasty that it took Curran's breath away. Clopin had believed she was a 'proper lady' and treated her politely - now these others were treating her with contempt because of it. What should she do - explain to them that Jarrett had forbidden his wife to do housework? That he'd beaten her once after he'd caught her doing the work the maid had forgotten to do? No. She wouldn't stoop to trying to make them pity her.
"You don't need to be so hostile," was all she finally said.
"You don't need to be so hostile!" the other girl mimicked, exaggerating Curran's voice and mannerisms as the other girls giggled. "Yes, and you don't need to be so stuck-up! You think you're something special, don't you, gajo? Do you think you're too good for a gypsy camp?"
"No, but obviously you think I am!" Curran shot back, sick and tired of being polite. "Your leader Clopin didn't think I was - he invited me to stay as his guest, and he said I'd be welcome. If you don't like my being here, maybe you ought to discuss it with him! Now get out of my tent, I want to rest."
The girls left the tent as silently as they'd entered and Curran collapsed on the straw cot, her head aching once more and her face flushed with suppressed anger.
Is this the refuge you promised me, Clopin? she thought bitterly.