Modette was panting, but not because she was tired. Dear God, what had she done? She had knocked her own mother into the swamp's jaws. She hadn't meant to. She had been sent over the edge as Esmer was in the middle of being hung and Froella was laughing. It just came out of nowhere. He would never forgive her for this. How could he?
Modette felt a lump grow in her throat as she thought of all she was responsible for. A hand came down upon her shoulder. She turned around. Esmer smiled down at her, like she had done a noble thing.
Well in that case… maybe it was. Esmer was hardly wrong before.
Meanwhile, the townspeople and the gypsies regarded each other in a mixture of joy and utter confoundment. Suddenly, Phoebe pushed her way to the front. "Oh, wow. You guys sank my master?"
"Cousin!" Fleur-de-Lys rushed to her side. "I thought you were dead."
"Nope. Never was."
"I thought the gypsy boy killed you," a rich old townslady said.
"Trust me; as much as I hate the gypsies I cannot tell a lie. 'Twas Froella who stuck the stake into my heart. If my heart were on my right side, that is."
"What a miracle!" de Gondelaurier cheered.
"Oh shut up. You knew I was alive this whole time."
"True…"
"Disperse, people!" Clopine called. "Nothing to see here." And the people dispersed.
"Well," Phoebe pondered. "Since things can't get any weirder around here, I guess this isn't beneath me. Hey, sexy!"
Esmer whipped around.
"When you get back to town, call me."
He smirked. "I'll do what I will."