Author's Note/Disclaimer: Disclaimer and warnings from Chapter 1 still apply. Additionally, beware of cheesy jokes.

When Clopin came to, he thought he was at home. The cot he was lying on was the same type he himself possessed. The ceiling above him was brightly colored cloth, a tent. And he caught a faint scent of some sort of broth cooking, a common smell in the Court of Miracles. But the person who was sitting on the stool by his bed was like no one he had ever seen before.

The person was wearing a bright, flowered skirt, an orange shirt, and a canary yellow bodice. The person's hair was long, flowing, and blond, and the person had several beaded necklaces and a pair of gold earrings set with sky blue stones. The person also had a luxuriant beard.

Clopin stared for a moment, wondering whether he should address this apparition as 'sir' or 'madam'. The stranger saved him the trouble.

"Oh, good," it exclaimed in a deep baritone, "You're awake. I'll go get Marcel."

Then it exited the tent.

The recent events came crashing down on him, along with a vicious headache. He wondered how far from home Marcel and Henri had taken him. He groaned unhappily and placed his hand over his eyes.

"Careful," came a voice from the doorway, "You don't want to pull the stitches out."

Clopin glanced to the side and saw Marcel enter, followed by Henri and the strange person he had seen moments ago.

"Where in God's name am I?" he asked the boy.

"You're safe. Don't worry. You're in our camp. We dressed your wound, and you should be well enough to walk in a day or two."

"A day or two?!" choked the gypsy, "I can't stay here that long! I have to find Pylades, and Esmeralda is--" he struggled to sit up.

"No you don't!" said Henri, rushing forward to push him back into a horizontal position, "If you don't lie still, the stitches will pop loose and you'll start bleeding again. Besides, I doubt you're strong enough to walk yet."

Clopin glared at him, but returned to his resting position. Marcel approached his side. "If you'll tell us where to find your family, we'll be glad to tell them where you are, and that you're safe."

"It isn't that simple. I...I'm responsible to more people than you can imagine."

"Then you are a rom baro. I thought so. The earring gave you away."

Clopin touched the small gold hoop in his ear. It had more meaning to him than a badge of leadership, but the fact that the boy knew what a single earring meant suggested that he had been telling the truth when he had called himself a gypsy. He nodded at Marcel.

"What I don't understand," continued the boy, "is where your people are. I've only seen one or two gypsies in Paris, and they were being arrested."

Clopin smiled. "We hide well," he replied, "We have to. But where are your people?" He looked at Marcel keenly, "I have seen you only with gadje so far."

Marcel flushed a little. "These are my people," he said hotly, "Henri here, and Gizelle, and all the others in the carnival."

A carnival, thought Clopin. So that was it. It explained a great deal. One of the few places gypsies and non-gypsies managed to work well together was in a traveling carnival.

"I see," he answered, "You're travelers, then. Just arrived here? That explains why I don't recognize you. And if there are both gypsies and gadje here, that explains why I've never seen you in the Court of Miracles. Only a few gadje are permitted there."

"And why is that?" asked Henri, a bit defensively.

"Because so many of them are spies for the Judge." replied Clopin with a smirk.

"Listen," began Henri angrily, "I haven't done anything to make you think ill of me. Quite the opposite, in fact. If you're going to behave like this--"

"Henri, hush." said the strange person, stepping up toward the three of them. "The man's tired and among strangers. If you had been hunted like he has, you'd be wary, too. Try not to be so defensive."

The stranger's voice was deep and soothing, and Henri seemed mollified by it. The strange person smiled and patted him on the arm, then turned to Clopin with the words, "I'm Gizelle. Nice to meet you."

"The pleasure is mine...uh, sir? Madam?" Clopin stumbled over the words, feeling foolish.

Gizelle chuckled. "Everyone asks that. I'm a sir if you insist on being formal, but most people just call me Gizelle. Or even Zelly. I'm the carnival's bearded lady."

"Except that he's not a lady," put in Marcel.

"But he does a damn good impression of one," added Henri.

"And your name is...?" continued Gizelle.

"Clopin Trouillefou, King of the Parisian gypsies, at your service. Pardon my earlier remarks. I'm a bit disoriented."

"Nothing to apologize for," said Zelly with a wave of his hand, "I understand. You can't trust anyone these days. But now, gentlemen, if you'll excuse me, I must change for my performance. I'm on in less than an hour."

"Could you send Jorg in here, Zelly?" asked Marcel. "I think M. Trouillefou would be more at ease if he met him."

"As if anyone could be at ease around Jorg. Alright, love, I'll send him in." Gizelle winked at Clopin and left.

"Jorg runs the carnival," the boy explained, "I think he'll want to see you anyway, since you have to stay here, but he's a gypsy, too. Full-blooded."

"How many of you are there?" asked the gypsy king.

"There's eight of us in all, unless you count the animals. Three rom, including me, four gadje, and...Gannick."

"Gannick?"

"Our Dog-Faced Man. He's so covered with hair, its impossible to tell whether or not he's a gypsy"

"You'll like him," put in Henri, "He's very sweet and quiet. Everyone who gets to know him likes him."

"A Dog-Faced Man," murmured Clopin thoughtfully, "An Acrobat. And a Bearded Lady who isn't really a lady. I can see my convalescence is going to be interesting."

"We aim to please," chuckled the boy.

"And what do you do?" Clopin asked Henri. He was beginning to enjoy his surroundings in spite of himself.

"Well," began the blond man with a sly smile, "They call me the 'Human Pincushion'"

"Show him the jewelry, Henri," grinned Marcel.

Henri swept back his blond curls with one hand, revealing his ears, which were adorned with at least ten earrings apiece. He also had a slender gold hoop running through his right eyebrow. After displaying both ears, he stuck out his tongue, which had a gold stud in the tip.

"And you don't even want to know what else I have pierced. My talent is that I don't feel pain. Ever. So I get up on stage and hammer a nail into my chest, lick a red hot iron bar, that sort of thing. You'd be amazed how many people pay to see it."

"Rather ghoulish. But what about bleeding and scars?"

"Well, with a little practice you learn not to hit a vein. And if I miss I heal pretty quickly."

"He's also an escape artist," said Marcel.

Henri smiled. "Trying to be, anyway."

"You're halfway to being a gypsy, then," remarked Clopin dryly.

"So I'm told."

In her own tiny tent, Kocho tossed and turned. She was exhausted, but she couldn't sleep. Clopin was missing. Clopin. How could anyone rest knowing that? She understood why Esmeralda wanted them all to stay underground. But in the meantime, something bad could be happening to their king. She remembered Pylades' bruised face and clenched her fists. If any of those soldiers hurt Clopin, they'd pay.

Soldiers...guards...gypsies...images did a slow ballet through her mind. If none of the Court gypsies were allowed to go above ground to look for Clopin, maybe there were other gypsies that could. Other gypsies.

She sat bolt upright. Of course! The carnival. If she hadn't been so exhausted, it would have occurred to her sooner. The gypsies in the carnival might help. Well, they'd have to wouldn't they? Wasn't there some unwritten rule that a gypsy has to help one of his own kind in need? She frowned and shook her head a little. So few people followed the old rules these days. She knew one thing everybody listened to, though. There was a little box under her cot. It had a lock on it, and inside it was everything of value she owned. She opened it now and took out her money and her gold earrings. If the carnival gypsies wouldn't help search for her king for the sake of blood loyalty, she was sure she could convince them with gold. She just hoped she would be able to pay them enough. She had never been particularly well-off.

Kocho wrapped her valuables in a brown scarf and dropped the bundle down the front of her tunic. It would be safe there until she needed it. She quietly slipped out of her tent and into a side tunnel. She knew exactly where the guards in the tunnel hid themselves, and she was able to creep along quietly enough to avoid drawing their attention. Soon she was on the Paris street. She took a deep breath and looked around her.

Now, to find the carnival.

"Welcome to my Freak Show, M. Trouillefou," said Jorg companionably, "I trust you're enjoying your stay thus far?"

Clopin grinned at the carnival manager. Jorg was a charming, charismatic man, with cool green eyes, an unusually handsome face, and three arms. The extra arm, which sprouted from the right side of the man's torso, was slightly smaller than the other two, but was fully functional. At this moment, it was offering Clopin a glass of wine, which he politely refused. As Jorg set the glass on a wooden table nearby, the golden band on the third arm glistened.

"I've been enjoying myself immensely, Monsieur," replied the gypsy king, "but for the lamentable fact that I am not permitted to leave my bed."

"Not permitted? Why, sir, in my carnival you may do anything you like. Besides which, I would very much like to show you around."

"He shouldn't be moved until the wound has knitted more," began Henri.

Jorg clicked his tongue. "Let us let M. Trouillefou decide when he has healed enough to receive the grand tour. He's a grown man. I'm sure he's quite capable of telling us how he's feeling."

"I'm a very quick healer," smiled Clopin, "And I've been aching to get up and move around. Besides which, I'm unutterably curious about your performers."

"It's settled, then! Henri, Marcel, help M. Trouillefou out of bed at once."

Supported by his two rescuers, Clopin slowly sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the cot. Immediately a wave of dizziness struck him, and he shut his eyes tightly.

"I told you you'd still be weak," said Henri.

"I'm fine," protested the gypsy king, "I've had worse wounds than this. Just give me a minute."

After a moment, the vertigo subsided and Clopin stood up. "I believe I can manage on my own now."

"I wouldn't think of putting you in danger, M. Trouillefou," replied the manager, "I insist you lean on my arm. I do have a spare, after all."

Jorg linked his left arm with Clopin's and the two exited the tent, followed closely by Marcel and an anxious Henri.

"Am I the healer here or am I not?" he muttered, half to himself, half to Marcel, "If something goes wrong, I assume no responsibility for it, do you understand? I am not responsible!"

"Oh, relax, Henri," said Marcel, "He'll be fine. It's not as if he's doing cartwheels."

Henri snorted.

"If we're lucky," Jorg was saying, "We shall be able to catch the tail-end of our dear Gizelle's performance. I hear you've met Gizelle?"

"Yes, indeed I have. A very...intriguing person."

Jorg threw back his head and laughed. "He'd be delighted to hear you say that. You know, I don't believe one person who comes to Zelly's performances believes he's really a bearded lady, but he's so amusing to watch on stage that nobody cares. Ah, there he is."

As they rounded a corner Clopin saw Gizelle strutting back and forth across a small, hastily constructed wooden stage. He was dressed, if possible, even more outrageously than before, in an outfit that included a pink-and-blue cloak, lime green slippers with lavender bows, and inky false eyelashes. In front of the stage was a gathering of about thirty peasants listening raptly to the performer sing. Instead of the deep baritone that was his normal voice, he was singing in a shrill falsetto.

"Completely round is the perfect pearl the oyster manufactures," began the Bearded 'Lady', striking a dramatic pose.

"Completely round is the wagon wheel that leads to compound fractures,

Completely round is the rosy fruit that hangs from the apple tree.

Yes, the circle shape is quite renowned,

And, sad to say, it can be found

In the low-down dirty runaround

My true love gave to me."

Zelly looked toward them as they settled themselves at the back of the crowd. He grinned and waved at Clopin, then stepped off of the stage and minced delicately through the seated spectators.

"Completely square was the velvet box he said my ring would be in,

Completely square was the envelope he said farewell to me in,

Completely square is the handkerchief I flourish constantly.

As I dry my eyes of the tears I shed,

And blows my nose what's turned bright red" Here he paused and theatrically blew his nose on his cloak, then draped it lightly over the head of an audience member.

"For a perfect square is my true love's head:

He will not marry me."

Having finished making his rounds through the observers, Gizelle spun round on his slippered toes and leapt gracefully back onto the stage, where he sang the final verse with his hands on his hips.

"Rectangular was the tavern door my true love tried to sneak through,

Rectangular was the transom over which I had to peek through,

Rectangular was the tavern room I entered angrily,

And, rectangular is the wooden box

Where lies my love 'mid the mold and rocks

They say he died of the chicken pox.

In part I must agree..." He peered around at his audience, letting the note hang in the air, then finished with a leer and a shake of his head: "One 'chick' too many had he!"

The audience erupted into laughter and applause. Gizelle blew a kiss to the viewers, and disappeared behind the stage. Jorg turned to Marcel. "That's your cue, boy," he said with a wink, "Pass the hat. We'll be backstage when you're done."

Marcel nodded and hurried off, and Jorg and Henri escorted the gypsy king to a small tent behind the stage, where Gizelle was already removing his false eyelashes.

"Clopin!" he chirped in his affected falsetto, "How lovely to see you on your feet! You're feeling better now, I assume. And I see you've met Jorg. It was good of him to bring you to my show, but, really, he should have let you come by sooner. You missed my latest poem:

"There was a fair lady named Venus

Who, nevertheless, had a--"

"That's enough, Zelly!" interrupted Jorg, "I don't believe M. Trouillefou is quite ready for your poetic creations yet."

Clopin snickered, and glanced over at Henri, who looked scandalized.

"Do you think so, Jorg?" inquired Gizelle innocently, "It went over quite well with the audience."

"Zelly!" gasped Henri, "You didn't really recite that, did you?"

Gizelle patted the blond man on the shoulder and said in his normal baritone, "You're such an old man, Henri. Really, you should loosen up and enjoy yourself more. Don't you agree, Clopin?"

"Forgive me, but I'm a little reticent to express my opinions on people who routinely hammer nails into their chests."

Zelly grinned, "You've seen his act, too, then?"

"No, but he and Marcel gave a particularly vivid description of it."

"Ah. Well, you really must be sure to catch it sometime. But don't eat directly beforehand."

"I believe I'll wait until I can move quickly without getting dizzy. But when I do see it, I'll certainly follow your advice."

At that moment, Marcel ducked through the doorway, carrying the pink and blue cloak and a small wooden chest. "Good take, Zelly. Should feed us for nearly a week."

"Really?" said Jorg, peering over the boy's shoulder into the box, "Impressive, indeed. Perhaps you should be doing more than two shows a day."

"Oh, don't put me through that, Jorg," groaned Gizelle, "You know I hate to wear the corset and face paint."

"Well, it isn't as if we'll be in Paris for long. There are thousands of people here. If you're what they like to see, we ought to put you on stage more often."

Zelly made a face and turned to Clopin. "It isn't the dresses I mind. Actually, I find them quite comfortable. It isn't the performance, either, or the odd looks I get from people on the street. I rather enjoy that, too. But the paint makes my face itch like mad! And these ridiculous restrictive undergarments...I can't even begin to imagine how women can deal with wearing them all the time. Speaking of which, one of the whalebones is poking me in the ribs at this very moment, so you gentlemen had better leave, unless you'd like to watch me change clothes."

"We'll pass on that, thanks," replied Henri quickly, and exited.

"Yes, we'll leave you to your rest, Zelly," continued Jorg smoothly, "but later you and I must meet and discuss extra performances."

Gizelle sighed, "You're such a slave-driver, Jorg. I hope to see you later, Clopin. Enjoy the rest of the carnival."

The gypsy king nodded and waved as they left the tent.

"Nice fellow, isn't he?" said Marcel to Clopin, "Always very friendly."

"Bit too cheerful for my taste," muttered Henri dourly.

"Everyone's too cheerful for your taste."

"If I'm not mistaken, M. Trouillefou," Jorg cut in, "Yves is preparing for his animal show just across the way, there. Let's go to him. He's the only full-blooded gypsy in the carnival, other than myself."

The foursome entered a grassy clearing on the outskirts of the little camp. A small group of children was standing nearby, watching a man lead a bear cub on a leash around in a circle. Jorg waved his third arm at the children. "Scat!" he said, "Wait for the show, will you?" and they scattered.

"They weren't doing any harm," protested the man with the bear, "they were just watching."

"That's fine, as far as it goes," replied the manager, "But if they watch the practice, they won't come to the show. And we do have to eat, you know. Now, come over here and meet our guest."

The man made a small gesture with his right hand, and the bear cub lay down on its stomach, resting its head on its forepaws. The man gently draped the leash across the beast's back and scratched its ears briefly before loping over to Clopin and the others. As he approached, Clopin observed him closely. He was a tall, sturdy-looking man, who appeared to be in his thirties. His long, black hair was swept back in a loose ponytail, and his dark eyes shone brightly in his angular face. There was a glint of gold in his left ear. He greeted Clopin with a handshake and a surprisingly shy smile.

"I'm Yves. Nice to meet you," he said quietly, "We haven't seen many gypsies in the past few weeks. I hope you're feeling better?"

"Much," replied Clopin, "And I'm grateful for the kindness you have all shown me."

"You do realize, of course, that Jorg would charge you for it if he could find a polite way of doing so," said Yves with a sharp glance at his manager.

"Shut up," said Jorg with a scowl, "I don't want to argue with you in front of a visitor." He turned to Clopin. "Yves and I have occasional scuffles," he explained, "He thinks I'm being greedy when I'm merely attempting to look out for his best interests."

Yves opened his mouth as if to say something, then thought better of it. He sighed, then smiled at the gypsy king. "Be that as it may, would you like to see my pets?"

"I'd enjoy that very much," replied Clopin quickly, relieved that the argument seemed to be over.

Yves led them to the bear cub, which raised its head at their approach. He picked up the leash. "This is Cerise," he said, "I've had her for a month now. Say hello, ma petite."

The bear rose up on her hind legs and waved a forepaw awkwardly.

"Good girl," said Yves, stroking the little creature's furry head.

"You've trained her well," remarked Clopin, "I've heard of gypsies that had a way with animals before, but I've never seen any, unless you count horse traders."

Yves chuckled. "Well, she's just a baby still. It will be a while before she's ready to perform with the others. But thank you for the compliment." He leaned back and whistled softly, and a small black bird swooped down out of the trees and landed on his shoulder. "This is Boreas, my mynah bird."

The bird cocked its head and peered at the gypsy king with a bright black eye. "Hello," it said in a surprisingly human voice, "Hello!"

Clopin started. "It talks!" he exclaimed.

"Yes," said Yves, "Mynahs can imitate people's voices. Boreas is particularly talkative. Show him what I taught you yesterday, Boreas." He gently touched the bird under the chin.

"Tshatshimo Romano!" squawked the bird.

Clopin laughed. "What an intelligent creature! And to think that some people call birds stupid."

"What did it say?" asked Henri.

Yves grinned at him. "He said, 'The truth is expressed in Romani.'"

The animal trainer assumed a more serious expression and turned to Clopin. "It's interesting that you should mention that about birds. That people think they're stupid, I mean. I've found that almost all animals are more intelligent than people give them credit for. Like sheep. My Agnes--"

Jorg interrupted him with a groan, "Are we going to go through this again, Yves?"

Clopin glanced curiously between the two.

Yves smirked, "Jorg doesn't like to hear this story because it proves that he isn't always right. Agnes Dei is my pet lamb. I found her while we were on the road a few months ago. She had just been born, and something was wrong with her back legs. She couldn't walk. The shepherd was going to kill her. But I bought her from him, despite Jorg's vehement objections. I bottle fed her and tended her, and I made her a little cart that her back legs rest in while her front legs are free to move. So now she's able to get around on her own. She's a smart little thing, too. One of the quickest learners I ever trained. In my act, I play the flute and she sways and taps her hooves to the beat. The children adore her."

"But no one could adore her as much as Yves does," said Marcel, "He spoils her rotten."

"She's my little sweetheart," said Yves with a rather fatuous smile, "But just think, if I had listened to Jorg, I never would have gotten her."

"All right, all right, you were right, I was wrong," sighed the carnival manager, "I just wish you didn't enjoy bringing it up so much."

"Where is the lamb now?" asked Clopin to forestall another argument.

"In my tent with the other animals. Resting."

"How many animals do you have?"

"Eleven right now. There's Cerise and Boreas, of course, whom you've met, and Agnes. There's also my horse, Spaniard. Then I have a fox named Reynard, a monkey named Jacques, a cat named Artemis, and four dogs, whom I call my four angels. Their names are Raphael, Uriel, Gabriel, and Micha'el. And I hope to get some rabbits soon. Feel free to visit them anytime."

"Thank you, I'd like that. But I think I'll wait until I've met all the humans here."

Jorg grinned, "Excellent idea, M. Trouillefou."

So ends Chapter 2 of 4. Thank you, Guille, you're my only reviewer so far. ;-)