For two years, she was undisturbed.

And then, an awakening.

The water pitcher slips from her hands the moment she sees him across the courtyard. The shattering barely registers in her ears as her eyes now gaze upon his face.

His robes are gone. That was the first thing she thought as she saw him.

The black shapeless robes. Gone. The pointy, ridiculous chaperon. Gone. The only thing that he had kept were his rings, the same rings that had caused goosebumps to rise on her neck as he languidly caressed her throat.

She's paralyzed. Part of her wants to run. Part of her wants to fling herself at him, beat against his chest with her fists, and scream why?

And part of her wants to melt against him.

The contradictory feelings swirl within her. Why? Why?!

She barely hears the chiding, the scolding of Lady Ari, the head bitch as the other handmaidens call her. Her shrill voice does not reach her ears; she only hears his charismatic baritone as it floats across the courtyard. He speaks; he purrs like a self-serving feline as he speaks with one of the sultan's advisors about God-knows-what. She feels slighted, and though its petulant, she thinks, Talk to me.

Look at me. Do you see me? She thinks viciously.

It is only Lady Ari's sharp pinch at her forearm that wakes her from her trance. "Clean up this mess!" she hisses in broken French.

She now bends down, sweeps the broken china into a cloth.

Claude Frollo is now walking aimlessly past the fountains. He trails his pale fingers in the water, an act that surprises her with its idleness.

She watches him. Despite herself, despite the rules, she attempts to lock eyes with him.

Claude feels the eyes burning into him. He looks up, and sees one of the handmaidens on her knees, sweeping broken china.

She looks lost. She doesn't seem like the others. Probably not well trained, he thinks.

She's a bold thing, to look at him so intently. He cocks his head to the side, wondering if she'll mimic him like a charmed snake. Or perhaps he is the charmed one. The thought strikes him as amusing, and a smirk touches his lips.

Esmeralda sees the wicked smirk. It holds traces of that leering smile that so frightened her before. But... it's more humorous. More mischievous. Beneath her veil, her lips purse in a frown.

Lady Ari is still admonishing her, slipping into her native tongue to berate the gypsy for her stupidity.

She's still sweeping. The other woman is scolding her mercilessly. Claude notes that she seems unmoved by the chastisement. Perhaps a little more discipline would take care of that. He smirks again.

Esmeralda sees the facial muscles twitch in his face, and knows he is still as arrogant, still as high and mighty as he was before. It makes her blood boil to know that after all this time, he still can stand there, proud as a rooster, simpering at all the beggars at his feet.

Her eyes narrow and she knows that he will not keep strutting about, preening himself as if he were some exotic bird. Not if she has anything to say about it. She slowly gathers the shards of china, and walks out of the courtyard, still not listening to Lady Ari's shrieked insults.

Claude Frollo still smirks as she leaves. Her boldness is actually refreshing to him.

The sultan strolls beside him, a huge entourage of women and guards in tow. They all bow their heads, not daring to meet eyes with their ruler. "Frollo, I must say, your advisement on the courts was quite revelatory. I must thank you, friend."

They are not friends. Only men with common interests. Well, men who had common interests. As Frollo sees more of Persia, and of the sultan's rule, he cannot help but feel that he has changed. The gaining of power... once so sweet a prospect, now seems fruitless.

"I am glad to be of service," Frollo drawls, his low voice rumbling deep from somewhere inside of his chest. He always relished the power of his voice. Especially on the gypsies, those lowborn races.

He had so much pride. So much potential to be the greatest of men. Squandered. Because of...

He instantly banishes thoughts of her from his mind. He can't even bring himself to enunciate her name.

The sultan never catches that his guest's mind is somewhere else. "Truly, your services are valuable. Of so much value... that I must give you a little prize," he says boldly.

He snaps his fingers and a veiled, scantily clad woman steps forward. Despite where he is, despite the pressure to follow custom, Frollo finds himself shaking his head. "No reward is necessary. You have done enough for me already," Claude says. His jaw clenches. He holds back the insults, the sermons of piety from erupting out of his mouth.

"My friend... I insist. If you wish, you may pick whatever woman you want. Even one of my daughter's handmaidens. Do you want a thin one? A fat one? A virgin to deflower? A whore? A dancer?"

Dancer. She danced.

The sultan sees a look of panic, of pure fear pass over Claude's face. With a devious grin, the man says, "Oh, do I have a beauty for you!"