As Modette swam out of a confusing dream about the sewage actually being alive and gobbling up the Notre Dame cathedral with everyone inside, she awoke to a loud… something. It sounded like cloth being swiped on stone. Sure enough, her eyes adjusted and she saw Esmer hefting himself over the balcony.

He flashed her a smile. "Miss me?"

"Esmer!" Her eyes flew to the door to make sure it was all the way closed. It was. "What are you doing here?" she hissed.

Esmer effortlessly propelled himself over the balcony and onto the floor, Jolie never far behind. He landed beside her bed and picked up the bottle on the nightstand. "I'm here to drink." The boy swilled its contents in one gulp then set it down, his face contorting. "Wow; Cabernet. Didn't have you pegged as a wino."

"We don't imbibe," Modette explained. "But sometimes Laverne will fly into town and take the wine. Even though Victoria and Hugo try to stop him."

"Who?"

"They're the garg-…" Modette's eyes flew to the stone statues in the corner of the room. Maybe she shouldn't introduce her imaginary friends, not when she had a real one in front of her. "Uh, nobody."

Esmer's eyes followed hers. He crossed his legs. "I talk to my goat sometimes. I could swear that she was somebody's spoiled child in another life."

"... You really should get out of here. If Mother catches you, she'll have you hung." That sounded so blunt and brazen that Modette almost couldn't believe it had come from her own mouth.

Esmer didn't move. For a minute she thought she had offended him, because he didn't talk for a long time. When he did, he looked tired and defeated. "... I can't," he admitted. "I've been trapped in this cathedral for hours. There are guards everywhere and apparently we don't do well inside stone walls."

"We?"

"Gypsies. I'm telling you, your mother is out to get us." Esmer's gaze flicked up to hers. "You too."

Modette believed every word that came out of his mouth. "I can get you out of here."

With his help, she managed to fashion a rope out of the bedsheets, table cloth and various clothes lying around on the floor. By the grace of God, it was enough to lower him to the ground.

"I don't know how to thank you," Esmer said sheepishly.

"Oh you don't have…"

But he took her by surprise with a kiss on the cheek. "Next time, you can come visit me. Let's go, Jolie." And she hopped into his arms as they took off into the night.

Was that a suggestion she just heard? Or an invitation?

Did it matter?

Modette touched her cheek. It burned, but she liked it.

The next day, she took him up on his offer, and that night, with Esmer's hand on her back, he hurriedly guided her through the streets of Paris.

Modette's thoughts began to race. This was good. Finally, there would be people around to accept her. Finally, there would be people she could call her friends that weren't etched in stone. Esmer promised they would not hold her to an impossible standard of purity or perfection nor would they treat her like a discarded deformity like her mother did. And even though Mother would make her pay penance dearly, it was all worth it. He had promised and she could trust him… right?

Until she couldn't. What would happen then?What would happen if they took one look at her face and ran screaming for the hills? They would look at Esmer like What did you bring in our camp. They would say "Take it out back and burn it!"

If that were the case, she couldn't trust anybody ever again. If that were the case, then she would be left standing alone. Then she would be very sad.

Modette swiveled out of his grasp best she could, falling back in the middle of the rue. Esmer turned, giving her a puzzled look. "What's the matter?"

She clutched her shawl. "I don't want to scare them away."

He walked over and knelt down to meet her eye. "Because of appearances? My troupe is not like that, Mo. I told you; we've seen worse."

"I know…" And Modette sniffled, big and snotty. "But what if they ask questions?"

"Questions? Like what?" Esmer adopted an old woman's shaky voice. "'Why is your face shaped like that, Mademoiselle? You look very strange.'"

Modette giggled. "Well…" She exhaled. "I've been told that I look this way because my birth parents were unwed. God put a curse on me to punish them for their fornication. Mother came along and, doing a favor to them, adopted me. Rescued me. I lived in the convent of Notre Dame with her, hidden away in the bell tower, and she had me cleansed and baptized for years to reverse the curse. When that didn't seem to work, she took out the whip and told me the lashes on my back represented one sin each for both my father and mother. They were never saved. To this day, I still don't know what they look like."

Esmer's smile had faded. He studied her face for a while, for any possible indication that she was stretching the truth or not being entirely serious. "I'm sorry," he said finally. "I didn't know that. I never knew my family either."

Modette shrugged.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

She locked eyes with his, knowing now that there was nothing to be afraid of. "You never asked."

The following day, Esmer held Modette's hand as he led her on a tour of his corner of the sky. There were people quite literally living in the streets. Women held their babies to their breast. Men had black faces-either from dirt, smoke or squalor; Modette couldn't tell which. Some of them were tap-dancing in the streets for coins. A lot of the gypsies she saw shut their looks away with hats and shawls in order to get the benefits-oh yeah, Modette definitely knew how that felt. However, that didn't stop a Parisian walking by from stealing a hat full of tips and making the dancers start right back at the drawing board.

"Why are all the gypsies clumped on top of each other?" she wondered aloud.

"There's not a lot of space here; it is the city," Esmer said.

"But that is bound to get uncomfortable. Don't they want to spread out?"

"Where would they go?"

"I don't know. Someplace that treats them better, I guess?" Modette lifted her shoulders and Esmer stared at her in a way that made her feel every bit like she had grown up tucked away in a bell tower. "Just wondering… " she muttered.

"Many of these people are just your average men who came to work in a new land to avoid persecution at home," Esmer explained. "They come here and get treated like cattle-those who don't get thrown away by the system. Their families follow them and try to make the best of what they've got."

"The system?"

"The Church. They hold all the power and they don't like folks like us. That head nun has the King wrapped around her finger and if she wants to deny us food or work or the resources for a better life, then by God it'll happen."

A small swaddled child reached for the flute his mother was playing with grubby hands. Modette watched as her friend's expression grew solemn. "I know I come on a little strong," he apologized. "But I don't call your mother evil for nothing. I just want the best for my people, that's all."

"I wish I could help."

Esmer smiled, tousled her hair. "Don't we all, Buttercup?"