February 23rd
Phoebus walked through the bell-tower as noisily as possible, allowing his armour to clatter. He stepped heavily, feeling the boards tremble as he walked. He looked through the tower, between the columns of late afternoon light that entered the tower. Movement drew his attention upward. Quasimodo was high in the tower, straddling a beam. He appeared occupied with one of the bells.
Rather than stand waiting, or risk startling Quasimodo, Phoebus sat on an overturned bucket and looked through the tower. The floor was swept. Few traces of woodchips or dust could be found behind beams or statues. Chimeras, clearly from outside, dotted the interior. As the sunlight increased, shadows fell on the many carvings in the beams and wooden walls. Natural wood grain transformed into images of birds, livestock and fantastical creatures only found in Bestiaries. Phoebus looked away from the many carvings, directing his attention high into the tower.
Phoebus scanned the beams for Quasimodo, who was climbing down from above the bells. He inspected the model city, while waiting. Most of the townspeople had been replaced. A blue unicorn stood among the horses. Quasimodo's own model remained in the model cathedral. It was damaged and chipped. He rolled it about in his hand, noting the improvement in Quasimodo's skill between this figure and the most recent ones.
Phoebus felt the floor shake. He turned.
"Good day, Quasi. Forgive me, I didn't announce myself. You appeared busy after ringing the Vespers. I didn't want to distract you."
Quasimodo smiled and nodded.
"What were you doing up there?"
"One of the pulley ropes was wearing. I had to replace it."
"How would know that?"
"I could feel it in the rope. She felt stiff, hesitant."
Quasimodo lifted the thick rope that fell short of the floor.
"Everything may be felt through this."
"Like a rein on a horse."
"I… I wouldn't know."
Phoebus looked to the rope, which swayed gently among the rows of shadows.
"I could teach you. It could get you out of this place."
Quasimodo shook his head.
"What possible reason would there be for that?"
"Try something new?" Phoebus shrugged. He raised his hands, his palms turned upward. "Esmeralda asked me to take you to Pomme d'Eve before the crowd starts to build."
"Pomme…?" Quasimodo looked to Phoebus, his right eyebrow raised.
"A tavern. It's rainy, what else is there to do?"
Phoebus laughed. His smile faded quickly as he beheld Quasimodo's shocked expression.
"It would be fun. Ale and beer are acceptable, both may be consumed during Lent."
Quasimodo looked away from Phoebus for a moment. His gaze drifted to the model city, its figures disturbed. Phoebus placed the small wooden Quasimodo into his palm.
"I… I can't. That place is busy."
Quasimodo placed the figurine back into the model Notre Dame.
"Hmmm…" Phoebus sighed. "Well… maybe Marcel is still around."
"Who is…?"
Phoebus was already walking toward the door and motioned for Quasimodo to follow. Quasimodo wrapped his cloak over his shoulders and followed.
The square was busy, yet passable. Citizens and travelers rushed about. Horses pulled carts and carriages. The rain started to fall as droplets of ice.
Phoebus stood a few paces away from Notre Dame. He gestured across the square to a tiny little shop crammed next to the farthest visible bridge.
"Just in case we get separated."
Quasimodo nodded. He drew the hood of his cloak close to his neck and stepped away from Notre Dame, toward the tiny shop. He focused his attention on Phoebus. He stepped around dogs, children and carts. He soon found himself struggling to locate Phoebus among the growing crowd.
With widened eyes, Quasimodo looked for Phoebus. He saw him a few paces away, with a group of slow-moving elder ladies between them. He stepped in Phoebus' direction. He felt himself shoved forward, his feet falling behind him. He lay on the cobbles, in a puddle. His nose pressed into the wet stone. His wind had left him, he gasped and choked.
Around him, he felt the light dim. He closed his eyes.
People are gathering.
He pushed himself up from the cobbles, still struggling to draw breath. He could see the shoes of others to his right. He looked to his left, a horse's hooves stepped near his left hand. He pulled himself to his knees. The rider, a soldier, dismounted. Skirts moved around him. The ground shook under his knees and palms.
An overweight soldier pushed through the elderly women, their skirts flapping. He felt a heavy hand drop onto his hump, causing a wave of pain to move through his spine. He looked to the soldier.
"Devil!"
Quasimodo watched as the soldier drew a chain from his belt. He could feel the hems of the womens' skirts brushing up next to him as they once again surrounded him.
Suddenly, the soldier stepped back.
He looked to his right. Phoebus held out his sword, its' tip pointed toward the soldier.
"Lieutenant Etoile, what is the meaning of this?"
"This… devil. He was going to attack these ladies."
"Mesdammes, was this man bothering you?"
"Heaven's no!"
"I didn't even notice him until he fell."
"Patrick, you brute!" A gray-haired lady swatted the soldier with her cane. "Your mother will know of this!"
Phoebus guided Quasimodo to his feet. Quasimodo wrung the water and mud from his cloak and clothes.
One of the ladies touched Quasimodo's wrist with her gloved fingers.
"You're soaked. You'd best find someplace warm quickly, or you'll catch cold."
He looked to her and offered a half smile.
"I will."
The elder ladies grouped together. Quasimodo watched their rapid words and hand gestures, unable to discern what they said. Phoebus stepped toward the soldier.
"Return to the Palace of Justice. You are to complete Renards' job this afternoon and clean the stables. I will deal with you tomorrow."
Lieutenant Etoile turned, to mount his horse. Phoebus placed his hand on the stirrup.
"Walk back. Every stall must be spotless, every water bucket and manger filled."
Phoebus turned to Quasimodo, who remained dripping wet. The ladies nodded to him and continued on their way.
"Are you injured, Quasi?"
"No."
Quasimodo looked to his wet clothes and back to Phoebus.
"I should have known that something like that would happen."
"Lt. Etoile will not bother you again."
Phoebus placed his hand on Quasimodo's shoulder. Quasimodo nodded. He felt his jaw clench slightly. He lightly bit his tongue, and drew a deep breath.
"Where were going? The sooner we get there, the sooner we can leave."
They remained next to each other while crossing the square. Quasimodo pulled his hood over his eyes and watched his shoes as he and Phoebus walked through the busy square in bends and curves. When they stopped, Quasimodo looked up to his own rippled reflection in the glass window.
"Marcel makes the best treats."
"This is a Patisserie. It's for the nobility."
"It is. Anyone may shop here. Marcel makes the most delicious pretzels." Phoebus drew Quasimodo into the shop and toward the trays of thin, twisted ropes of glistening, golden bread.
"Plain bread will suffice, Phoebus."
"Nonsense. These are only baked this time of year." Phoebus leaned over slightly, his nose hovering close to the tray of pastries. "These are coated with honey and almonds. They are the best of the lot. These contain bits of dried fruit with honey. Over here, these are crunchy and heavily salted."
"I've never seen such things."
"We'll meet Esmeralda later & enjoy them together. Djali will have to fend for himself."
Phoebus waved at Marcel, who took a few coins and wrapped an assortment of pretzels in a cloth.
As they left the shop, Quasimodo found himself looking at his reflection. Phoebus paused.
"You know, left is right and right is left. What you see in your reflection, it isn't what others see."
"A mirror never lies."
Phoebus raised his eyebrow.
"Those ladies couldn't see well at all, could they."
"Not likely. Not that it matters." Phoebus smiled. "All of them are gossips. Madame Bellamy will have Lt. Etoile's mother after him before the sun goes down. She'll beat him with a spoon until he can't sit."
Phoebus laughed to himself. He grew serious when he noticed Quasimodo walked along, shivering slightly from his freezing clothes.
They returned to Notre Dame. Once inside, Father Vanier directed them toward the mess hall in the abbey.
Phoebus and Quasimodo hung their wet cloaks on a rack, allowing them to drip onto the stone floor.
"It's not Pomme d'Eve."
Quasimodo gestured to a painting of Adam and Eve that hung on the wall.
"Well, then."
Quasimodo filled three wooden mugs with diluted beer. He passed one to Phoebus. They sat on a wooden bench next to the fire.
"It's laughable that he thought that chain would hold you."
"I've never seen a soldier chain anyone."
"You don't remember Lt. Etoile?"
"Why would I?"
"At the Feast of Fools, he was the first to throw fruit." Phoebus looked into his mug. "He's employed by the City, I can't remove him from duty. I will re-assign him to the stables or armoury."
Quasimodo watched Phoebus' words. He held his mug, in silence.
"It's not just how he's treated you, Quasi. He's been rough with a few other citizens."
Phoebus gently nudged Quasimodo's shoulder.
"It's not that."
"Not really. I broke my promise. I didn't speak to anyone new today."
"You said something to Madame Bellamy."
Quasimodo's worried expression rapidly melted into one of relief.
"Esmeralda should be here soon." Phoebus began to stand up.
"Father Vanier will direct her to us." Quasimodo spoke into his mug.
The door opened and Esmeralda stepped inside, her hair dripping wet.
"Where's Djali?" Phoebus offered her a mug of beer.
"Clopin took him home for me." Esmeralda sat on the bench. "Quasi, you're soaked through."
She glanced to Phoebus who held his fingertips near his lips and shook his head side-to side. He lifted the pretzels with his other hand.
"Where did you get those? They're lovely!"
"Phoebus and I went to a Patisserie."
Phoebus set a stool between the bench and the fire. He laid out the cloth from the basket, revealing the pretzels. Esmeralda lifted a shiny, nut-encrusted pretzel from the makeshift table. Phoebus pinched the left side of the pretzel while Esmeralda held it. She guided Quasimodo's hand to the right side of the pretzel. They pulled it apart, into three uneven sections.
Over beer, and near the warm fire, they enjoyed the pretzels.