February 21st
Brother Rocher walked through the infirmary, tidying beds and checking for dust. One of his novices approached him.
"Brother Rocher, I went up there as you asked. Today's basket was untouched."
"What of yesterdays?"
"The bread is missing." The novice passed the basket to the monk.
"Thank-you. Please tend the rooms on the east side of the hall."
The novice nodded and stepped down the hall. Brother Rocher looked into the basket. A baked apple remained untouched. He returned to the kitchen.
Once again, Quasimodo stepped out of Notre Dame. He'd fastened his cloak, ensuing his face was covered as much as possible while permitting him to look about.
The square was open, a lean figure standing near the entrance to the cathedral.
"Goo... Good morning." Quasimodo approached, his steps halted.
The figure turned around suddenly. Clopin grinned.
"Quasi! What are you doing out so early?"
Quasimodo jumped back, his eyes wide.
"I'm looking for a loaf of bread."
"Notre Dame has its own kitchens."
"I must go to the baker and buy bread." Quasimodo's words were firm, his voice wavering.
Clopin raised his eyebrow at the bell ringers' tone.
"Very well, then. Good day, Quasi."
Clopin wandered off, leaving Quasimodo to orient himself in the square. The bakery was nearby, the closest open shop.
A wooden sign hung over the doorway, a crude picture of tarts and loaves carved into it. As Quasimodo opened the door, a blast of humid, aromatic air moved over him as a hot wave. He stepped inside. Motion drew his attention upward to a string and a coil of metal attached to a bell no bigger than his fist. The room was uncomfortably hot.
Quasimodo looked at the racks of breads, breathing in the lovely smell. Every beat of his heart grew stronger, his skin growing cold in the stifling heat.
A large man, the baker, turned to face him. Quasimodo turned his head, looking up at him over his right shoulder. The baker was clean shaven, his apron and sweaty shoulders dusted in flour. He carried a large paddle filled with loaves.
"Why are you here?" The baker sneered. He slid the loaves onto a table, driving them into those that already lay cooling. The paddle remained in his hand.
Quasimodo looked from the baker to the table. He reached into his basket, pulling out a few coins.
"Are you wanting to buy something?"
Quasimodo nodded, his tongue refusing to move.
"Can you speak boy, or are you also dumb?"
Quasimodo remained silent, taking a step back. His eyes fixed on the baker, who towered over him.
"Just... I've come for just one..." Quasimodo raised one finger.
"One what?"
"One loaf of bread." Quasimodo's voice squeaked.
"One of these?"
Quasimodo gestured to the table, his hand shaking.
"Yes please. One of th… those. S… Sir."
The baker snatched a coin from Quasimodo's hand. He tossed a loaf into Quasimodos basket and passed him a few different coins.
"Thank-you."
Quasimodo's words were soft, and trailed off as the baker had already turned his back to him, and was back at his oven. Quasimodo looked to the loaf and the coins. He left the shop. He assumed the bell announced his departure.
As he left the shop, others approached it. He hurried his pace, remaining on near the closed shops on his way back to Notre Dame. His heart pounded in his chest, the same sick feeling he'd had the day before. He felt the cold air blowing on his skin, yet his skin felt uncomfortably warm, like the bakers shop.
He nearly tripped into Notre Dame. He closed the door behind himself, leaning against it. He lifted the loaf from the basket. It was still warm, and smelled amazing.
Father Vanier walked by, raising his eyebrow. Quasimodo remained with his back against the door, nearly out of breath, clutching a bread loaf to his chest with both hands.
"Dare I ask?"
"I went to the bakery and spoke with the baker. I bought this." Quasimodo held the loaf out. Its crust cracked in his grip, shedding crumbs onto the floor. He didn't notice.
Father Vanier shook his head at the crumbs and smiled.
"It looks delicious. Maslin is an excellent choice."
"Why is the baker selling bread on a fast day?"
"Bread, vegetables, fruit and herbs are eaten regularly during Lent, Quasimodo."
Quasimodo blinked a few times. He returned the warm, crusty loaf to his basket.
"Water and bread after sunset, nothing more."
Father Vanier looked to Quasimodo, and his worried expression.
"My son, only on black fast days."
He paused, his words stalled. He placed his hand on Quasimodo's left shoulder and guided him away from the door. They walked toward the north tower steps. Quasimodo placed his foot on the first step, before turning to Father Vanier.
"I shouldn't have this."
"Do not worry yourself over such details, not now. We will discuss this later. Enjoy the bread with what's been left in the tower for you. After none, you are needed for a few chores. I will see you then."
Quasimodo nodded and walked up the steps.
Brother Rocher approached Father Vanier, who stared at the crumbs on the floor.
"I never thought I would have seen such a thing. The Lord works in unusual ways."
"Those are breadcrumbs."
"Our bell-ringer was excitedly traumatizing maslin."
"A healthful choice." Brother Rocher distracted the priest from the crumbs. "There was an apple left over from yesterday. He is not following orders."
"Bring him to the dining hall. He will feel compelled to follow."
"His friend, Semilda. The woman with the goat, she is of good character?"
"Most certainly." Father Vanier raised his eyebrow. "Very clever. Phoebus and Esmeralda will be following the practices of the populace, and not the church. They may effect a greater influence on him."
"I will leave this with you, Father."
Father Vanier nodded. Brother Rocher returned to the infirmary.