The cane fell from Frollo's nerveless fingers. She stood huddled against the wall, her back, her behind, her thighs all scored with red. What had he done? For how long had he been marking her like this? Time had flowed away from him and some other part of him had taken control. Something wild, primeval.

Going to the pallet in the corner he took up a sheet and hurried to wrap it around her, gathering her away from the wall and into his arms. If he held her tightly, he thought with a guilty flush, she would not be able to look at him, and he would not see the pain in her eyes. 'Petite bohémienne,' he said in a strangled voice. 'Are you all right?'

To his surprise she huddled closer to him and pressed her cheek against his chest. When he dared to look at her face it was not etched with pain or reproach, but some higher, almost beatific, emotion.

Frollo led her to the pallet and bade her lie down, meaning to back away again immediately. But she pulled him with her, her little fists gripping his cassock. He could not seem to resist, and they lay together, his arms around her swathed body.

'My heart is pounding,' he whispered, his feverish eyes dancing over the stones before his face. 'I don't know why I – you must think me –'

'Shh,' she murmured, and reached up to stroke his brow, and he realised that she was comforting him. 'Thank you, Father.'

He pulled away a little and looked at her, and her expression was sweeter than the Madonna's. How fitting, in this place. Notre Dame. Our Lady. 'You thank me for this?' he asked.

'I am marked like you,' she said, solemn now. 'I feel as you feel. When you suffer I want to suffer. When you feel joy I want to feel it, too.'

His heart swelled, for as he looked into her face he felt her pain, her joy. How was this? Was this love that he felt for her, or something baser? He was not meant to feel any love but God's love. It was written so. But by what right, he thought, suddenly defiant, did those authors of long ago have to deny any man this strange, beautiful moment?

Frollo's hand fumbled through the sheets that enfolded her and he pressed his hand against her breastbone. 'Your heart beats as mine beats,' he murmured. A little black tendril of thought unfurled in his mind. If I feel differently later I can repent. But that is a matter for later.

Already his mind was springing forward down other avenues. That joy, that unity that they felt, that was what marriage meant. Oh, how he wished that –

But he pushed that foolish, yearning thought from his mind and looked at the little gypsy in his arms. Her wounds must be smarting. He had not drawn blood but the marks were many and a vicious red colour. Extricating himself with a murmur, he went to his workbench and pawed though canisters and vials and wooden boxes with little compartments. His personal apothecary was always well stocked, and he ground up a soothing balm with chamomile flowers, calendula and hazel water.

When he knelt by the pallet with the mortar in his hand and bade her uncover her back, she frowned up at him.

'Do you anoint your marks, Father?'

'No. I must bear them as a reminder to myself of my penance.'

'Then I don't want to be anointed either,' she protested.

His forefinger traced her soft cheek. 'But you must allow me this, my child, because I can bear my pain, but I cannot bear yours.'

She angled her head against his palm, her eyes half-closing. Then she rolled onto her belly.

Frollo worked slowly, starting at the tops of her shoulders and smoothing the cooling mixture over each mark that adorned her back, her waist, the swell of her behind, her thighs. A woman's naked body was a mystery to him, and what perfection he found it to be; a landscape of soft, warm curves and tempting valleys.

When he was finished he just sat and looked at her, the mortar forgotten beside him. She turned her head to look at him, a dreamy smile on her face.

'How sad you look,' she whispered. 'Almost lost.'

He felt lost, or at a loss. What was he to do with her? With himself? She was not for him. She was for some other man who could give her joy. Give her all of himself. He turned his face away and made to stand. 'I must go.'

But she rose up on one arm and grabbed his hand and brought it to her breast. He breathed in sharply. What felt like this? Not down, nor soft-risen dough, nor the most expensive furs.

'Why must you go? Stay with me. Here,' she said, moving back toward the wall, 'there is room for two.'

And so Frollo lay down again and she nestled herself against him once more, her head pillowed on his arm. She fell asleep within minutes but he could not follow her so easily, and he remained awake for many hours, twisting and retwisting one of her curls around his forefinger, and thinking.

…

She felt him ease himself away from her sometime just before dawn, and his lips pressed against her brow. He whispered for her to stay where she was, and sleep. 'Rest here today, will you? For me? I will be back at dusk.'

Tired still, she nodded, and closed her eyes. She heard him moving around the room, but was asleep by the time he departed.

Gauging by the bright light at the window it was many hours later when she woke again. Beside the pallet she found a flagon of watered wine, bread and soft cheese, and a little plate of sweetmeats. She smiled when she saw them; he must have gone out specially for such an indulgence.

It was not her habit to stay indoors all day and she thought once or twice about leaving. The door was unlocked; she was not a prisoner. But she was curious, too, about what he had planned for her at dusk, when the cathedral would be shut once more and his duties would be over. She amused herself by sitting on the windowsill and looking down into the square, still wrapped in the sheet, and then by flicking through his books and papers. Their contents remained a secret: she could not read.

Just after dusk she heard his step outside, and the door opened quickly. The archdeacon looked around, his face relaxing into a smile when he saw her as if he'd feared she might have fled.

He put a stack of folded clothing and linen to one side and then came forward to examine her shoulders. She twisted her head and looked up at him, liking the brush of his fingers and the solicitous frown on his brow.

'It is all right. They are no longer swollen, and they do not pain me,' she assured him.

He turned her toward him and rested his hands on her shoulders, and looked deep into her eyes. 'I want to baptise you,' he said. 'I – it is something that is good and right.' She noticed how his voice lay heavy on the something.

'Yes, Father,' she said.

He watched her closely. 'Are you sure that you want this?'

'I want to understand what you do, and what you are.'

He looked rueful. 'You may regret that, as the knowledge may not bring you comfort. But I want this for you, even so. I must have some assurance that you have been saved.'

His hands gripped her tightly, and she smiled at him. Last night he had attended to her body. Tonight he would attend to her soul. 'Then I want it, too.'

'Come down into the cathedral. Just as you are.' He took her hand in one of his and she followed him downstairs, her other hand clasping the sheet to her bosom.

No light filtered through the stained-glass windows, but there were dozens of lit candles clustered around the font. Esmeralda peered into its cold, murky depths.

The priest pulled the sheet from her body and cast it away into the darkness. Naked and barefoot on the stones, she shivered a little, but made no move to wrap her arms around herself. He began to speak in Latin, his expression lofty and remote. His hands moved in practiced motions, dipping into the font, drawing a cross with his wet thumb over her forehead several times.

It was over quickly, and then they stood in silence with the gulf of a foot between them.

'I am baptised?' she asked, and he nodded.

His eyes refocused, and it was as if he descended from somewhere on high and felt his feet on the ground once more. He put out his hands and drew her to him. His eyes were on her body now, and she saw the heavy rise and fall of his chest. 'What is your name, petite bohémienne?'

'Esmeralda,' she whispered.

'Esmeralda.' He said her name slowly, like it was something foreign and mysterious. His hands gripped her hips tightly. There was that hungry look in his eyes again, and the candlelight glimmered in their depths. 'Will you call me Claude?'

'Yes, I will. What will we do now, Claude?'

His gilded gaze flicked to hers. 'Something that will make us penitent, no doubt.'

...

Whew, I just loved writing this chapter. What did you think?

Thanks as ALWAYS to Nine Bright Shiners.