Fingers numb, head aching, but I am done for the day.
The sun in quickly setting over the buildings of the city, and I want to get back to the Court and be with my fellow gypsies. Ferdain and I move around too often. I have only him, and after our entire lives together, irritating each other and knowing every little mood and idea we have in our heads, he is dull company.
Antessa interests me. The life of a normal gypsy woman interests me: married, with children, never getting out, never having to perform for her coin.
I love my fiddle, but I wish it was not my source of income as well as my only joy.
"Wait!" Ferdain says, grabbing my arm and stopping in front of a bright tavern. "Evalyne, let's go in!"
I know most of the ideas in my brother's head, and most of them are fool ones.
"Already forgotten last night, have you?" I say a little angrily. Sometimes his foolishness makes me angry that I have to constantly watch him. "Besides, what makes you think they serve the likes of us?" He glares at me and throws his hands up in the air.
"I have money and I want a drink. Why would they refuse me?" Ferdain learns nothing. He listens but doesn't understand. He sees things as he wishes to see them, not as they are.
"No, Ferdain, I have money. You do not." His eyes grow pleading.
"Fine." I sigh. He smirks, as if he's triumphed. I let him because he has nothing else to feel triumphant over.
We enter the tavern. Surprisingly there are a number of gypsies already in it, mingled in with the common Parisians, though the two aren't associating. Ferdain immediately abandons me for the bar. I wander over to a seat near him and watch.
And of course he should be here. Clopin Trouillefou, standing in the corner, surrounded by an audience as usual. They laugh loudly at whatever he's saying and pound their fists on the table, hold their sides in uproar.
Of course it should be that he shows up wherever I go. Or perhaps it's just that there are few places in this city that gypsies can go and no matter which one I go to, he will be there.
He notices me but does not halt in his tale for an instant. The black eyes sparkle with excitement as he raises and lowers his voice, whatever he is telling obviously getting interesting.
"What'll you have, miss?" I hear a low voice say behind me, slightly laughing.
"She would have answered you a moment or so ago," Ferdain says, "Had she not been occupied with our friend Clopin over there." The man with the low voice laughs. I turn to them.
"Nothing at all, sir. I think I'll be carrying Ferdain home, so I best keep my wits about me." I reply quickly. Ferdain rolls his eyes and takes a swig of his drink.
"Just sleep with the man and get it done with, Evalyne. Stop being so damned repentant." I glare at him.
Why would I? Clopin is charming, surely. Golden and consistently cheerful.
He is no great handsome man. He is lean and wiry, normal dark gypsy features. He is constantly teasing me even though he has only met me a few days ago. He is horribly arrogant. He is nothing I have not seen before.
And what in the name of heaven is so interesting about me?
I am another gypsy beauty. I am poor with a lazy brother. I play the fiddle like the devil. Perhaps better than the devil. I am stubborn, proud, and sometimes weak. I am nothing that he hasn't seen better examples of.
"I am not going to jump into bed with every swaggering gypsy I meet, Ferdain. Especially not this one."
"Just because he's had as many swaggering gypsies as you have? Please, Evalyne." Ferdain mutters, downing the rest of his drink and motioning for another.
"Men throw themselves at you. Women throw themselves at him. Possibly you interest each other because neither of you are throwing yourselves at each other."
"If you're so keen on the idea, why don't you go after him? Make yourself useful for a change." Ferdain makes as though he's going to spill his drink on my fiddle.
"I've only just met the fool." I murmur.
"You only just met all the other fools you've ever bedded, and that never stopped you. Besides, Clopin is a good deal less of a fool than the rest of them."
I hate it when he talks like this. He only remembers that which makes a good story. My repentant, chaste-er self is not as interesting to him now, so he only recalls the days in which I was entirely wanton and free.
"I am no type of fool at all." Clopin says in a dignified tone from between us. He stares at me with those bright eyes, arms folded in front of him and the curling feather in his hat making him look a cross between entertaining and mysterious. Ferdain watches me with half-drunken eyes.
"You must forgive him. He is a perfect idiot. And on top of it, he's drunk." Ferdain groans and shakes his head, muttering to himself. Clopin perches atop one of the seats in between us, leaning back on his elbows.
"You don't think me a fool." He says without any hint of teasing in his voice.
"No, I don't think you a fool at all." He smiles.
"Finally, a favor from the lovely Evalyne!" He eyes my fiddle lying atop the bar, surrounded by drinks and their owners.
"You worship that piece of wood, yet you treat it as though it can take care of itself."
"Is there a reason you like to criticize me so much?" He ignores my question and continues on.
"What has brought you to Paris anyways? Surely you can gain a coin wherever you go." I look over at Ferdain, now drunkenly arguing with another man near him. Clopin follows my gaze and laughs.
"Point taken, Cherie."
"I won't be here for long."
"Oh is that so?" He says, raising an eyebrow as if he doesn't believe me. "What if there was something to keep you here?"
"And I suppose you think that something is you?" Clopin rolls his eyes.
"Mademoiselle, I will stop trying to convince myself that you are merely playing hard to get. I think I shall abandon the idea of receiving a kiss from those pretty lips." He leans in, closer to me, so close that his goatee brushes against my chin.
"Am I still permitted to talk to you despite this resignation?"
A friendship with a man that will not ultimately lead to my breaking a heart. It's a new idea and I'm willing to try it.
"You're very good at convincing people of something. Or persuading them. Or getting them entirely off the subject." He grins.
"I would not be a very good King, much less a gypsy, if I wasn't a conniving trickster, would I?"
"Clopin," The bartender with the low voice leans in again. "It's coming near the guards' time to be making their rounds. I suggest you and your people finish up." Clopin frowns.
"Damned be the Parisian guard." He mutters under his breath. I shudder.
I would not dream of cursing a guard, even behind his back. I am deathly afraid of anything with such an 'official' air about them.
Clopin makes no move to leave.
"You are truly a fool if you stay and wait for them to drag you out." I say, beginning to collect my things.
"Don't tell me the sharp little fiddler will not stay and entertain the Parisian guards with her wit." Clopin says, eyes widening in amusement.
"Only if I had a death wish."
"I have no death wish, Cherie." He replies, inspecting his gloved hand with an air of indifference. "I simply don't have a habit of groveling to those burly apes."
As if on cue, a group of black guards walks in the door. The tavern grows silent at their entrance. Clopin does not show any kind of discernable emotion. He keeps on picking at his glove, humming a tune to himself.
One walks over to the bartender, grabbing him by the collar.
"What have you been told about allowing this kind of scum into your tavern?" He growls. The bartender says nothing, merely stares defiantly at them.
I keep my eyes to the floor.
The guards walk from patron to patron, looking them up and down. I freeze when they get to me, thinking that any moment they will take my fiddle, smash it over their knee, slit my throat and my brother's.
But they pass on. I'm just another gypsy girl. I breathe again.
Inevitably they pause in front of Clopin. He pretends they aren't there, keeps humming and examining his glove.
"Show some respect!" The guard snarls, kicking Clopin's chair out from under him. Clopin stays standing, muscles tense as he holds himself in the same sitting position, completely ignoring the guards.
I don't know whether to think him incredibly brave or incredibly stupid.
"Stealing my chair, how rude! I think you should get me another." Clopin says indignantly.
"Gypsy scum." One of them sneers, lifting a hand to cuff Clopin across the face. Clopin immediately dodges the blow, grinning up at the guard. This only infuriates him further and he goes to strike again.
Clopin is too fast, too springy. He dodges that blow without having to move from the bar.
I hear laughter very near to me, low drunken laughter, and I get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.
"Stupid black beasts." The voice slurs, and his head, wet with ale and his own sweat, glances up at them. Ferdain.
Ferdain, dear God, you fool.
Clopin pauses, watching the guards very carefully.
They do exactly as they did in my nightmares. They yank my brother out of his chair. One slams his fist into Ferdain's stomach. The other kicks him in the back. Ferdain falls, the wind knocked out of him. He can only let out small choking noises.
The other three guards draw their swords, daring anyone to help Ferdain.
I whimper, reaching out for him, too afraid to take an actual step forwards.
"He's drunk. Leave him be. Fight a sober man if it's a fight you want." Clopin says simply. His voice is like iron, unflinching and unnerved. The guards ignore him and continue beating poor Ferdain.
With every hit and moan of my brother I jump.
Clopin thinks clearly. His eyes go round the room, counting the number of gypsies and the number of guards, calculating in his head who would win and how much damage would be done.
Slowly his hand goes to his pocket.
"You there! Keep your hands where I can see them." Clopin grins manically.
"As you wish, Monsieur." There is a brilliant flash as Clopin throws down whatever was in his hand. Smoke fills the tavern, and I hear the guards coughing and rubbing their eyes. I see the feet of every gypsy running toward the exit under the cover of smoke. Clopin grabs my arm and together we drag Ferdain out the door.
"I knew you were good at getting into trouble, little fiddler." He says dryly as we move back towards the Court of Miracle with Ferdain on our shoulders.
The sun in quickly setting over the buildings of the city, and I want to get back to the Court and be with my fellow gypsies. Ferdain and I move around too often. I have only him, and after our entire lives together, irritating each other and knowing every little mood and idea we have in our heads, he is dull company.
Antessa interests me. The life of a normal gypsy woman interests me: married, with children, never getting out, never having to perform for her coin.
I love my fiddle, but I wish it was not my source of income as well as my only joy.
"Wait!" Ferdain says, grabbing my arm and stopping in front of a bright tavern. "Evalyne, let's go in!"
I know most of the ideas in my brother's head, and most of them are fool ones.
"Already forgotten last night, have you?" I say a little angrily. Sometimes his foolishness makes me angry that I have to constantly watch him. "Besides, what makes you think they serve the likes of us?" He glares at me and throws his hands up in the air.
"I have money and I want a drink. Why would they refuse me?" Ferdain learns nothing. He listens but doesn't understand. He sees things as he wishes to see them, not as they are.
"No, Ferdain, I have money. You do not." His eyes grow pleading.
"Fine." I sigh. He smirks, as if he's triumphed. I let him because he has nothing else to feel triumphant over.
We enter the tavern. Surprisingly there are a number of gypsies already in it, mingled in with the common Parisians, though the two aren't associating. Ferdain immediately abandons me for the bar. I wander over to a seat near him and watch.
And of course he should be here. Clopin Trouillefou, standing in the corner, surrounded by an audience as usual. They laugh loudly at whatever he's saying and pound their fists on the table, hold their sides in uproar.
Of course it should be that he shows up wherever I go. Or perhaps it's just that there are few places in this city that gypsies can go and no matter which one I go to, he will be there.
He notices me but does not halt in his tale for an instant. The black eyes sparkle with excitement as he raises and lowers his voice, whatever he is telling obviously getting interesting.
"What'll you have, miss?" I hear a low voice say behind me, slightly laughing.
"She would have answered you a moment or so ago," Ferdain says, "Had she not been occupied with our friend Clopin over there." The man with the low voice laughs. I turn to them.
"Nothing at all, sir. I think I'll be carrying Ferdain home, so I best keep my wits about me." I reply quickly. Ferdain rolls his eyes and takes a swig of his drink.
"Just sleep with the man and get it done with, Evalyne. Stop being so damned repentant." I glare at him.
Why would I? Clopin is charming, surely. Golden and consistently cheerful.
He is no great handsome man. He is lean and wiry, normal dark gypsy features. He is constantly teasing me even though he has only met me a few days ago. He is horribly arrogant. He is nothing I have not seen before.
And what in the name of heaven is so interesting about me?
I am another gypsy beauty. I am poor with a lazy brother. I play the fiddle like the devil. Perhaps better than the devil. I am stubborn, proud, and sometimes weak. I am nothing that he hasn't seen better examples of.
"I am not going to jump into bed with every swaggering gypsy I meet, Ferdain. Especially not this one."
"Just because he's had as many swaggering gypsies as you have? Please, Evalyne." Ferdain mutters, downing the rest of his drink and motioning for another.
"Men throw themselves at you. Women throw themselves at him. Possibly you interest each other because neither of you are throwing yourselves at each other."
"If you're so keen on the idea, why don't you go after him? Make yourself useful for a change." Ferdain makes as though he's going to spill his drink on my fiddle.
"I've only just met the fool." I murmur.
"You only just met all the other fools you've ever bedded, and that never stopped you. Besides, Clopin is a good deal less of a fool than the rest of them."
I hate it when he talks like this. He only remembers that which makes a good story. My repentant, chaste-er self is not as interesting to him now, so he only recalls the days in which I was entirely wanton and free.
"I am no type of fool at all." Clopin says in a dignified tone from between us. He stares at me with those bright eyes, arms folded in front of him and the curling feather in his hat making him look a cross between entertaining and mysterious. Ferdain watches me with half-drunken eyes.
"You must forgive him. He is a perfect idiot. And on top of it, he's drunk." Ferdain groans and shakes his head, muttering to himself. Clopin perches atop one of the seats in between us, leaning back on his elbows.
"You don't think me a fool." He says without any hint of teasing in his voice.
"No, I don't think you a fool at all." He smiles.
"Finally, a favor from the lovely Evalyne!" He eyes my fiddle lying atop the bar, surrounded by drinks and their owners.
"You worship that piece of wood, yet you treat it as though it can take care of itself."
"Is there a reason you like to criticize me so much?" He ignores my question and continues on.
"What has brought you to Paris anyways? Surely you can gain a coin wherever you go." I look over at Ferdain, now drunkenly arguing with another man near him. Clopin follows my gaze and laughs.
"Point taken, Cherie."
"I won't be here for long."
"Oh is that so?" He says, raising an eyebrow as if he doesn't believe me. "What if there was something to keep you here?"
"And I suppose you think that something is you?" Clopin rolls his eyes.
"Mademoiselle, I will stop trying to convince myself that you are merely playing hard to get. I think I shall abandon the idea of receiving a kiss from those pretty lips." He leans in, closer to me, so close that his goatee brushes against my chin.
"Am I still permitted to talk to you despite this resignation?"
A friendship with a man that will not ultimately lead to my breaking a heart. It's a new idea and I'm willing to try it.
"You're very good at convincing people of something. Or persuading them. Or getting them entirely off the subject." He grins.
"I would not be a very good King, much less a gypsy, if I wasn't a conniving trickster, would I?"
"Clopin," The bartender with the low voice leans in again. "It's coming near the guards' time to be making their rounds. I suggest you and your people finish up." Clopin frowns.
"Damned be the Parisian guard." He mutters under his breath. I shudder.
I would not dream of cursing a guard, even behind his back. I am deathly afraid of anything with such an 'official' air about them.
Clopin makes no move to leave.
"You are truly a fool if you stay and wait for them to drag you out." I say, beginning to collect my things.
"Don't tell me the sharp little fiddler will not stay and entertain the Parisian guards with her wit." Clopin says, eyes widening in amusement.
"Only if I had a death wish."
"I have no death wish, Cherie." He replies, inspecting his gloved hand with an air of indifference. "I simply don't have a habit of groveling to those burly apes."
As if on cue, a group of black guards walks in the door. The tavern grows silent at their entrance. Clopin does not show any kind of discernable emotion. He keeps on picking at his glove, humming a tune to himself.
One walks over to the bartender, grabbing him by the collar.
"What have you been told about allowing this kind of scum into your tavern?" He growls. The bartender says nothing, merely stares defiantly at them.
I keep my eyes to the floor.
The guards walk from patron to patron, looking them up and down. I freeze when they get to me, thinking that any moment they will take my fiddle, smash it over their knee, slit my throat and my brother's.
But they pass on. I'm just another gypsy girl. I breathe again.
Inevitably they pause in front of Clopin. He pretends they aren't there, keeps humming and examining his glove.
"Show some respect!" The guard snarls, kicking Clopin's chair out from under him. Clopin stays standing, muscles tense as he holds himself in the same sitting position, completely ignoring the guards.
I don't know whether to think him incredibly brave or incredibly stupid.
"Stealing my chair, how rude! I think you should get me another." Clopin says indignantly.
"Gypsy scum." One of them sneers, lifting a hand to cuff Clopin across the face. Clopin immediately dodges the blow, grinning up at the guard. This only infuriates him further and he goes to strike again.
Clopin is too fast, too springy. He dodges that blow without having to move from the bar.
I hear laughter very near to me, low drunken laughter, and I get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.
"Stupid black beasts." The voice slurs, and his head, wet with ale and his own sweat, glances up at them. Ferdain.
Ferdain, dear God, you fool.
Clopin pauses, watching the guards very carefully.
They do exactly as they did in my nightmares. They yank my brother out of his chair. One slams his fist into Ferdain's stomach. The other kicks him in the back. Ferdain falls, the wind knocked out of him. He can only let out small choking noises.
The other three guards draw their swords, daring anyone to help Ferdain.
I whimper, reaching out for him, too afraid to take an actual step forwards.
"He's drunk. Leave him be. Fight a sober man if it's a fight you want." Clopin says simply. His voice is like iron, unflinching and unnerved. The guards ignore him and continue beating poor Ferdain.
With every hit and moan of my brother I jump.
Clopin thinks clearly. His eyes go round the room, counting the number of gypsies and the number of guards, calculating in his head who would win and how much damage would be done.
Slowly his hand goes to his pocket.
"You there! Keep your hands where I can see them." Clopin grins manically.
"As you wish, Monsieur." There is a brilliant flash as Clopin throws down whatever was in his hand. Smoke fills the tavern, and I hear the guards coughing and rubbing their eyes. I see the feet of every gypsy running toward the exit under the cover of smoke. Clopin grabs my arm and together we drag Ferdain out the door.
"I knew you were good at getting into trouble, little fiddler." He says dryly as we move back towards the Court of Miracle with Ferdain on our shoulders.