STILL 1506…

Réne had spent every night of the past week staring at the map, and it was beginning to frighten Theresa. He barely spoke to her, and it felt as though she rarely saw him. He seemed to work longer hours; he came home after dark and turned to the map immediately. When he wasn't poring over the map, he was obsessively counting his earnings.

As his wife, it was her duty to give him all of the coins she had earned, and she did this without a second thought. She had been avoiding the marketplace and the main roads; Réne had seen the Captain's wife in the marketplace. If she saw and recognized Theresa, she would tell her husband and he'd execute her. Theresa did not make as much money dancing in the side streets, but she didn't complain. It was more than nothing.

"I'm going to go to Marseille," said Réne one evening. Theresa stared at him. It was the first time he'd spoken in hours. "It shouldn't take more than a few days to get there," he said, "I'll be back soon."

"Why are you going?" asked Theresa.

"I want to buy a house for us before we move there, of course."

"Oh."

He had told her that he wanted to move, that it was a necessity, but hearing him talk about it so casually terrified her. It seemed to make the impending event more real. What was worse, he didn't seem to care much about it. There was the chance that she'd never see her family again. She went to the window, staring out at the darkened street that ran past the house.

She and Réne lived in town in a small house; her parents lived on the outskirts in their caravan. She had never really minded this before, but now she was struck with a sudden longing to be close to them. She wished that she could go and visit them, but she would have to wait until morning; Réne did not trust the streets after nightfall.

Réne had insisted that Marseille was not far away, that her family would be able to come and visit them. Her father's horse had died earlier in the year. Unless he bought a new one, there was no way her family could come to Marseille. How far away was Marseille? It did not look terribly far on the map. On the map, everything was tiny and squished together. Paris was a few days away from Lyon, but on the map, they looked so close together.

She had not heard Réne approach her, and she was startled when he put his arms around her waist. "I won't be gone long," he whispered. "One or two days, I swear." "I know." She leaned against him and let the curtains close.

~xXx~

He had never considered himself to be lazy. He had never been active, but he did not think that he shied away from work. It was occurring to him, though, that he had never worked particularly hard before; he had not done much manual labor. Pierre was smaller and weaker than most of the other roustabouts. The others made fun of him. Some of them were kind enough to do it when they thought he was out of earshot, but the majority of them openly laughed when he failed at what was, to them, a simple task.

He hated pitching the tents. There were three of them; a large one and two smaller ones. The large one provided the stage for the main show, while the small ones housed the Freak Show and the Carnival of the Animals. The Carnival of the Animals was relatively new to the act, and Pierre secretly did not think that it would last very long. It made enough money; people were more than willing to pay to see exotic animals. The animals themselves were quite unimpressive.

The animals consisted of a mangy lion, an equally mangy tiger, two white horses with black stripes, and a chicken that Hans had painted blue. He called it the "blue bird of happiness," and it sat in a cage and clucked miserably at everyone who looked at it. There had originally been two tigers, but one had died shortly after they'd left France. The remaining tiger lay in its cage, staring sadly out at the world.

The largest tent required at least fifteen strong men to pitch it. They had to erect a giant wooden stake and then use ropes to hoist the tent up around it. The bottom of the tent was secured to the ground with smaller wooden stakes, which were hammered into the ground. The ropes used to hoist and secure the tents were thick and rough, and they left Pierre's hands raw and red. No matter how tightly he gripped them, they always seemed to slither out of his grasp, like snakes, burning his palms.

The others had determined that Pierre's job would be to hammer the stakes into the ground. He wasn't the only one to do this, of course; the hammer was abnormally large and heavy, though. No matter how hard he pounded it into the ground, no matter how much effort or force he put into each blow, it seemed to take forever for the stake to actually sink into the earth. The weather would slowly grow colder, and the ground would begin to harden, making the task all the more difficult.

The circus seemed to acquire a new batch of roustabouts at every town it stopped at. Most of the roustabouts never stayed for long; they used the circus as a way to earn money while traveling from one place to another. They were, for the most part, bored young men who were looking for a quick adventure or men who were fleeing from something. Pierre had noticed that there were very few Gypsies, and at first, this had not bothered him. Some of the other roustabouts watched him warily, while others avoided him altogether.

"Come on," Hans was shouting, "I want the tents up before noon! We give our first performance tonight!"

Pierre hefted the hammer and swung it. It struck the stake, hitting it with a loud 'thud.' It had rained recently and the ground was moist, making the job somewhat easier. Pierre lifted the hammer again, wincing as pain shot through his arms.

"What, you can't use your witchcraft to do that?" one of the other roustabouts asked, eliciting snickers from the rest of them.

Pierre glared at him, shifting the hammer. "I'd rather use it on you," he said, striking the stake again. "Your hair's thinning, you know."

The roustabouts laughed as the man ran his hand through his hair. He spat, a thick glob of white spit landing on Pierre's arm. "Damn dirty Gypsy," he muttered. He glared darkly at Pierre and stepped away from him. Pierre swung the hammer again, trying to ignore the man as he walked away, muttering more vulgar insults as he did so. It would not do to start a fight. The man was bigger than Pierre, and he had friends who would probably be more than willing to assist him.

~xXx~

The journey to Marseille took longer than he had expected, but that was due to the weather. It had rained, turning the roads to mud and making it difficult for the horse. Still, he had made it, and, better yet, he had a place for them to live.

The cottage was much smaller than their current house, but it was warm and dry, and very cozy. It contained two rooms. The front room held a hearth, and the rear room served as a bedroom. The hearth was very large and produced a fair amount of heat. It would come in handy once winter settled and the snow began to fall. The only real downside was that the cottage was a mile away from the town itself. There were a few other houses in the area; the cottage was surrounded on three sides by a thick forest and was relatively isolated.

Surely Theresa wouldn't mind. The cottage wasn't a terrible one. In time, they could probably earn enough money to rent a room or buy a house in town. The cottage was only temporary. True, it was isolated and lonely, but it was also peaceful and quiet. Perhaps the tranquility was something they both needed. Theresa would get used to it and eventually grow to love it.

~xXx~

Captain Jean-Claude Frollo attended Sunday Mass every week without fail, and he came to confession twice a week. Clotilde wondered what sins he could possibly have committed; he was such a righteous man. He had a reputation for strictness, but he followed the law to the letter and never strayed from it.

Perhaps he viewed every little vice and misdeed as a sin and felt the need to confess. Perhaps the act comforted him; it brought him that much closer to God. He was a good man, a fair man, and Clotilde knew that if she could talk to him, she could convince him to let Réne come back to Paris. Every soul was redeemable through prayer. Surely a man like Jean-Claude Frollo would know this.

It had been difficult for Clotilde to forgive Réne for his actions. Jean-Claude would probably not be quick to forgive him. He was a deeply religious man, though, and surely he would be able to see the value of forgiveness. After all, didn't God forgive those who sought it? If Clotilde could convince Réne to seek forgiveness, then surely Jean-Claude would be willing to grant it.

~xXx~

The bed he shared with Tess was small and stiff; it was nothing more than a lumpy, straw-stuffed mattress with a blanket tossed over it. It was barely big enough for two people. Tess had to sleep nestled in his arms in order for them both to fit. It was not a comfortable arrangement by any means, but Pierre was usually too exhausted to notice. The caravan was relatively large, at least, it seemed that way. Oxana had been forced to leave the circus after becoming pregnant. She was begrudgingly living somewhere in Germany with the baby's father. Pierre, Tess, and Morgana were the only ones in the caravan, making it a bit more spacious.

Frieda was actively looking for a replacement for Oxana. So far, she hadn't had any luck. It was actually a relief to finally get rid of Oxana. She was loud and wild, up at all hours and usually in the company of a drunken stranger. Tess had not liked Oxana, and she didn't seem to like Morgana very much either. Morgana was snooty; she looked down her nose at both Tess and Pierre. She kept to herself, though, and never said anything particularly mean.

Pierre had noticed the way everyone else looked at him and Tess when they were together. It was a look that seemed to combine astonishment and disgust. Men seemed to silently wonder why Tess would willingly give herself to a Gypsy. Pierre supposed that the others were jealous of him. He saw the way they looked at her, and he remembered Giovanni commenting on her limber legs. He wondered why she had chosen to be with him.

He was not tall or strong, traits which women seemed to seek in men. He did not consider himself particularly handsome either. He was poor, and had been branded a thief. Tess had never commented on his missing finger or asked about it, but Pierre assumed that she knew what it meant. It meant that he was dishonest enough to steal and stupid enough to get caught.

"Tess?" he whispered. She shifted in his arms, tilting her head towards him. "Are you awake?"

"Yes." She lifted her head up off of his chest. Even in the darkness, he could feel her eyes on him. He stroked her hair. "Is something wrong?"

He shook his head. "No," he said. "I just can't sleep."

He felt her fingertips on his cheek. "Then something is wrong," she whispered. "Whenever I can't sleep, it means that something is wrong."

"You've never asked me how I lost my finger."

"Hans told me it was an accident when you were little."

He was momentarily surprised that Hans would lie about something like that, but he was also grateful. If Hans was willing to lie to Tess about his finger, then it meant that he hadn't told anyone else the truth either. Pierre did not assume that the other roustabouts and workers were honest men, but they would have more of a reason to hate him if they knew that he was a thief.

He felt Tess's lips against his hand, pressing against where his finger used to be. "It doesn't matter to me."

"Do you care that I'm a Gypsy?"

"No." He could hear hesitation and dishonesty in her voice, and it made his heart sink. He could not see her face clearly in the dark. Her head was bent anyway; all he could make out was the shadows of her curls.

"Really?"

"You're sweet," she said, kissing his hand again, "you're not like other Gypsies."

"Oh."

"Other Gypsies lie and steal," she continued, oblivious to the hurt in his voice, "and they eat children."

Pierre rolled his eyes and glared angrily up at the ceiling. It was obviously too dark for her to see him, otherwise he was sure she would have apologized right away. "That isn't true."

"Well, that's just what everyone says," said Tess quickly. Her voice was casual and surprisingly unapologetic. "I know that you don't. Only the bad ones do."

"No one eats children. They taste terrible."

Tess giggled, muffling the sound with her hands. "You're funny!" She paused for a moment, trying to stifle her giggles. "I know Gypsies don't really eat children."

"So it doesn't bother you that I'm a Gypsy?"

"No," she said. She was quiet for a while. The laughter had died from her voice. Pierre could feel her staring at him. "Why do you think I'm bothered?"

Pierre shrugged. "Everyone else is."

"Oh, I don't care what everyone else thinks!"

"I see men look at you. They want you, you know, but then they see you with me and they wonder why you chose me instead of them."

"Do you wonder why?"

"Yes."

"It's because you're sweet," she said. Her vagueness was starting to irritate him. "And you're not like other men. Other men can't control themselves." She suddenly fell silent, and Pierre was about to ask her what she meant when she spoke again, interrupting him before he could even open his mouth. "Usually, when a man wants a woman, he just takes her, but you aren't like that. You're so sweet."

He stroked her hair. "I'd never hurt you." He suddenly found himself thinking of his mother, and he had to suppress a shudder. He had always hated them men who'd hurt her, the nameless, faceless monsters who had tortured her. He hated himself even more for not being there to help her. He should have been there. He should have saved her. He should never have let her suffer so.

"I know." Tess's voice was sleepy, and it pulled him from his thoughts. She kissed his hand again. "You're very sweet."