#freak writes

It was something he was unsure of sometimes. A witch, a heathen and all. Or simply a fantasy created by the Devil. Frollo had felt the heat of her skin before, when he had grasped her, when he had run a finger over her jaw…it felt so long ago. But he had never heard the sound of her being real. He had been subjected to nothing but her insults, her disgust with him. 

Frollo had never imagined a woman could do such things to him. Twist him in such ways. He thought it impossible and once in old age, he thought the desire that so many spoke of would finally disappear. 

But it had hit him. Hit him harder than he ever imagined and when he least suspected. 

Focus. 

Frollo tried once more to train his eyes upon the paper. 

“For a man not tempted by the flesh of womankind you burned down a whole city for one.”

Her voice sliced through him, unbidden and unwelcomed. 

The headache that had dulled hours ago, when he had been with her, began creeping into his mind once more. Frollo set his ink pen down upon the table and stood up, cradling his head with one hand. 

Of all the things that plagued his mind daily: his niece and nephew, Jehan, the Chancellor, the King and himself…nothing but the Gypsy Girl consumed his mind. 

What is your plan?

Why is she here? 

Why do you torture her so?

His fingers slid across the desk as he pivoted and turned to the window behind him, barring him from the outside world. He reached out, his digits gliding over the velvety material of the curtain before withdrawing…as if it had burned him.  

Usually, he would stand before the window to gaze over the landscape of Paris, to calm his mind, to see how sprawling the world was and how his thoughts weighed so little in comparison. 

He couldn’t do it today. 

“I can save you from the flames of this world and the next…” 

Had he lost his mind? Whatever scrape of his sanity was left? How could he promise such a thing? 

A growl passed his lips before he could silence it. Even while in the private place of his own study, he felt…not alone. His gaze drifted upwards towards the dull ceiling. 

He lifted his hands and dug his fingers into his scalp. Some vulgar thought within himself hoped he would draw blood. I am sane. The alternative was impossible. Yes, he had torched some homes. Certainly. The Gypsy Girl knew the cost of denying him and she should have turned herself in.

She forced his hand very literally. If she had never shown her face at the festival, the city would have been spared. There would be no need for a witchhunt, no need for investigations, torched buildings, none of that nonsense. And she knew that provoking the Minister of Paris would have a cost. Oh, how she smacked his hat and had pranced off with that mischievous gleam in her eyes. 

She knew. 

Yet she had the audacity to blame him? She may be a witch…a dagger of the mind….but he would not let her have this. Never have this. The only way to best a bewitcher was to force her onto his territory, onto his own field, just as he had done. And it had rattled her. 

Inwardly, a sneer pulled at his lips. 

He had the upper hand here. She could prance around Paris all she liked, but her and her wiles could never harm him again…within here. 

Frollo stalked towards the fireplace where he had lamented many nights before, his hunger for the Gypsy reaching a breaking point. The memory pushed at a dam within his mind but he dismissed it. 

The oblong cross gazed down at him while he pivoted on his heel and began to pace back and forth before the fireplace. The stones were cold under his feet yet his mind was aflame. 

The upper hand. 

Despite this, he had given into her requests. Far too many all at once. How he hated himself for it. Hated himself for his own blasted generosity. It was truly his undoing. 

It had begun with Jehan, all those years ago, his own wretched generosity. When their parents had died, all those years ago he had taken the boy under his wing. He was a man of 19 years of age when he had done so. Jehan had been an infant and grew into the rowdy and loud man he was today. He had always been and despite Frollo’s best efforts the boy grew up to become a nuisance—a drunk, a gambler, a fiend that would torment. It was everything that Frollo had despised and detested: the dregs of humankind. 

Yet he had a brother in one and still at his grand age of 47 years his brother was still acting like a child, a fool. Fourteen fateful years ago, his brother had eloped with a harlot or as his brother liked to call her, a woman of the night. They bore two children of illegitimate birth and guess who was saddled with them? 

Frollo had agreed to care for his niece and nephew, partly because Jehan asked and more so, to ensure they were brought up right. He did not consider himself to be the most loving father but one that would command obedience. It is what would make them fine and fit adults one day. Jehan naturally named his youngest and his first son Jehan Junior despite the boy having no legacy to live up to. 

The daughter or the oldest of the pair was named Suzanne, a shy withdrawn girl. Frollo had to admit, she did remind him of his younger self. Frollo as a child wasn’t one to talk much. He preferred the company of his books rather than the scorned sneers of his peers. Jehan, however, thrived in such an environment of debauchery. 

It exasperated Frollo to no end. 

Even now, he had fallen to his brother’s level. 

It had already been bad enough to house three illegitimate children. Quasimodo was born of Gypsy heritage and was therefore bound to be illegitimate. 

And now it was the Gypsy girl.

Frollo raised a hand to his temples. It ached, pain pounding at his skull. He was not a man of debauchery—far from it, the farthest if possible, perhaps next to the Pope. What an indulgence it was. How sinful it was to have the woman of his desires quartered in his home. 

Then why don’t you just end your torture? Let me go then. You can save us both a lot of pain and suffering. 

He couldn’t. She knew that as well as he. It was as if to ask the sun to rise in the dusk. It could not be done. The second that he had set his eyes upon her, it was inevitable. 

For a witch that had planted these licentious thoughts of her own making, why did she resist so? Was this all a game to her? To thwart the great Judge Claude Frollo, the beacon of justice, the light of retribution? 

He did not understand her. She had the choice on the stand to either come hither or to dance for the crowd alone. And she had chosen to draw near, to leap across the tables and into his tent…to trace his jaw and grace his skin with her supple lips. Yet after that, she had seemed so hostile, so strange. The Gypsy had disobeyed him and she knew there was no hiding from the law, from him. 

You must understand her. 

His gaze glanced up towards the empty fireplace, a yawning abyss of darkness. 

Frollo couldn’t live like this much longer. No, no, there had to be a solution. These tensions with the Gypsy had to end on his terms. If he was to save her and keep his promise, he would have to change strategies. The woman lacked direction, lacked discipline, she both craved enlightenment yet rejected it. 

Paradoxical, strange woman. 

She cast these spells upon him yet cringed at his touch. His hand moved from his temples to his silver hair and he tugged at it. In the abyss of the fireplace he swore flames licked at the darkness, rising out of the ashes of the fire many nights before. The conflagration which had begun the fire of all fires. 

You must understand her. 

She is a Gypsy. 

A Gypsy in need of your help, your guidance. 

Frollo growled and paced back and forth. 

Do you not want to help her? 

He reached into his cloak and he withdrew the misshapen, frail and scorched remains of the scarf, the very scarf she had once held between her slender fingers. The Bewitched raised it towards his nose but all he could smell was a scalding nasty scent akin to the burning of bodies. Disgusted, he threw the rag to the floor. The stars had been burned away and the purple fabric muted with color. He remembered when he had fished it out of the fireplace and his eyes glanced down at the small burns on his hands. 

His fingers ran over these welts…sensitive and painful to the touch. Redden and swollen and gloriously hideous. 

You must understand her. 

Esmeralda pressed her mouth to her reddened wrist. It was branded with Frollo’s touch, stinging and burning all the same. Her head was spinning with far too many thoughts at once. Her teeth grazed over the sensitive skin and she sucked on it subconsciously. It did nothing to lessen the pain throbbing in her wrist but it provided the illusion nonetheless. 

She had no idea how long she stood there, but eventually she drew her wrist away from her lips when the door opened once more. Instinctively, her shoulders tensed, expecting to meet those dark eyes again. 

But all she was met was with the bored stare of Pierre. His gaze adjusted when he looked at her: the way her shoulders were hunched and how she still had her back pressed to the wall. 

“Are you alright?” He cocked his head and opened the door a little wider. 

“I’m fine,” she said quickly and crossed the room. For a second she glanced back to the desk. Without another word, she slipped past him and into the hall.

Jehan had been waiting at his desk for a little over 20 minutes for his uncle. He had his cheek propped up with one hand as he rehearsed the lines he had read over and over again. His eyes skimmed over the words a few times before his mind began to drift. Uncle Frollo had forbidden him from leaving the Palace of Justice—-at least for the time being—and the boy missed his friends dearly, what few he had. Many of the children in his classes were afraid of him. Not him, specifically but his uncle’s wrath should they somehow hurt Jehan in a way. 

It was what sent Suzanne away. Not because she had inspired his wrath but rather the whole ordeal itself. He missed his sister, his friends. He wanted to see them all so badly. Jehan loved his uncle dearly but even his uncle couldn’t hide everything. His uncle had been ruthless his whole life but…burning down an entire city? It was unheard of. 

No one had told him his uncle had done this, of course. The servants always kept a tight lip around Jehan. But even then, the veil of secrecy could not cover the destruction of an entire city. The entire staff, in hushed whispers, had been speaking of it for the past week. 

And how could he not know there was a witch living within his home? More than the city burning, it was that. People knew Frollo’s fury and more than a few were familiar with his viciousness when it came to delivering justice. Jehan had rarely been subjected to this famous ire that his uncle held. Only a few times, but it was enough for Jehan to be well out of the way when his uncle came home. 

Yet there was a gypsy witch living in their home—eating their food, sleeping in the room across the hall. His uncle had not said a word about this woman. It terrified Jehan more than anything else. He dug a hand into his scalp and tried to look back at the words. The woman’s name was Esmeralda. She was beautiful. She couldn’t read. She had a sharp tongue. And she denied all claims of being a witch.

His uncle was late today. To every lesson this week. It looked like he had barely slept whenever he saw him. While he always had eyebags, they seemed deeper, heavier, carving into his face. His hair was disheveled more than usual. He would spend hours in his room. And that one night, that dreadful night he could hear his uncle raging in the other room. Jehan shuddered at the thought. How his uncle screamed and yelled and raged in such a ragged and animalistic way. It had been the night before he burned the city. 

While the witch denied all claims, there was no other conclusion to draw…she had bewitched him. There was no other explanation. How could his uncle become so…unlike himself? So insane? So unreliable? It wasn’t like him. 

Even now, the witch’s spell hung over his uncle like a cloud, ripe with thunder and lightning. 

But the one thing he couldn’t understand was…if she was hurting him…if she was causing him to be like this…why was she still here? Why was she being brought to his uncle’s study?

Why? 

Why didn’t he burn her? Why spare her if she was bewitching him? 

If he knew. 

Jehan chewed the inside of his cheek. He desperately wanted to ask his uncle all these questions but knew better. He needed to speak to someone, anyone. He didn’t know how much longer he could stand his uncle’s misery and torture, even if willing induced. 

The door slammed open and Jehan jumped in his chair. His uncle stepped over the threshold and he had a book tucked under his arm. Uncle Frollo walked towards his nephew and settled himself in the chair beside him. He ran a hand through his silver hair and set the book upon the table: Macbeth. 

“Are you alright, Uncle?” Jehan tested. 

His uncle spared him a glance before answering curtly, “I am quite fine, my boy. Now…” he opened the book before him and began flipping through the pages. “Where did we leave off? I fear I have been quite busy as of late.”

Jehan cleared his throat and looked down upon the page before him, “I am in blood / Stepped in so far that, should I wade no more, / Returning were as tedious as go o'er."

“Ah yes. Act 3. The point of no return,” A rare smile dawned on his uncle’s face. 

Jehan looked away and focused on the words before him instead, “And why can he not return?” 

Frollo paused for a moment and then spoke, “He is far too deep in guilt and blood. He can no longer be saved.” 

“So…he has just resigned himself to his fate?” Jehan looked over to his Uncle’s wrinkled and pallid face. “He would rather continue killing and murdering rather than face his own actions and repent.” 

“Well, he has faced his own actions but he is a guilty man. He is so deeply immersed in violence that he cannot escape any longer,” Frollo waved a casual hand. 

Jehan folded his hands in his lap and contemplated. “But Uncle…” he turned to his uncle, twisting his body and fully facing him. “Then why kill in the first place? Wasn’t he promised the title of King? If chance will have me king, why, chance may crown me / Without my stir." 

Another wry smile crossed Frollo’s face. It was beginning to unnerve Jehan. The eerie calmness while he visibly looked so disjointed. His uncle had yet to notice that his hair was not well kempt, that his silver hair which usually lay so flat on his head was wild. “Well, man is impatient. Man cannot wait nor could his woman. If you do remember, it was Lady Macbeth who convinced him to take fate in his own hands.” 

“By bullying him…?” 

“Yes, by bullying him. Mocking his manhood. Dragging his dignity through the mud.” Uncle Frollo answered, his eyes flashed. 

“She is not a nice wife,” Jehan remarked, a bit sulkily.  

“No, she is not and that is perhaps why he married her. Ruthless. Cruel. Calculating. If you do remember, Macbeth was quite a cruel warrior himself. A formidable foe,” Uncle Frollo idly rubbed at his jaw while speaking. 

For a few long moments, they did not speak. A silence lay over the pair like a dark veil. 

“Uncle…why make me read this?” Jehan motioned towards the book upon the desk. “It is nothing but gore and violence.” 

“It is a cautionary tale of regicide. A warning to those who disobey the King,” Frollo reached out a hand to cup his nephew’s cheek. His nephew did not lean into his touch but did not pull away. “It is for your good, John,” His uncle referred to him as his nickname, one that Jehan did prefer over his father’s name. Uncle Frollo smiled fondly as he spoke, “Under my roof, there shall be no traitors or betrayal if I can help it.”

Esmeralda bolted up in her bed, her heart pounding against her ribcage and her hand over her chest. Instantly, her hands went to her throat yet nothing was there, no smooth scales, no slithering creature, no snake. 

It was just a dream. 

Her heart, however, kept hammering against her chest and sweat still slid down her temples. Esmeralda’s hands fisted the sheets, feeling the smooth, almost unnatural surface underneath her fingernails. She could feel her breath, could feel the shaky inhales and exhales. 

The Roma finally relaxed her fingers and touched her temple with one hand, feeling a hot steady pulse, like a drum under her skin. Esmeralda looked outside to the windows and the day was gone, obscured by the dark angry clouds of fire and ash that still lingered. She wondered when it would finally dissipate. 

Then she felt it…crawling, something slithery on her skin. She let out a cry and began to swat at her skin frantically, she felt it everywhere, everyplace. And then stopped. 

Nothing was on her. Nothing in the slightest. She ran her fingers over her thighs and along her arms but nothing was there at all. No slithery creatures of the night. Panicky and her pulse quickening, she peered over the side of the bed expecting a viper to be glaring back. Yet she saw none. 

A dream. It’s a dream. You can’t lose your head yet. 

Esmeralda bent forward with her head between her knees and rocked herself back and forth. Calm down, calm down, she urged herself. 

Then she heard it, the door slammed open and her neck snapped up. Instinctively, she clamped onto the sheets and drew them over herself protectively. A shadow stood in the doorway. 

Is it…? 

“Are you alright?” She heard a voice that sounded a bit too high to be his. Once her eyes adjusted to the light flooding in from his lantern, she knew who it was: Pierre. “Miss?” 

“Yes. Yes. I’m fine,” Esmeralda barked. “Just leave.” 

“Are you sure?” Pierre cocked his head. 

“Yes!” she shouted again, her grip on the sheets tightening and her toes curling. 

The door quietly closed behind him and then was left in the darkness of her room again. Esmeralda let out a sigh of relief and then groaned with dismay. Great, now he has guards at my door. It was expected—especially after the escape attempt—but it wasn’t all too comforting to have one of his goons so nearby. 

Esmeralda let herself fall back onto the bed. Her raven hair cushioned her head and she folded her arms on her stomach as she gazed towards the ceiling. She had to sleep…she needed her strength tomorrow. 

Tomorrow would be the same battle, their voices rising, the suffocating study. At least she had gotten something out of him, even if it was small such as seeing her friend again. She would have to nettle him little by little but not too much lest he catch on. Esmeralda was honestly surprised that she had gotten something out of him so soon. All she needed to do was wear him down…he was old and while smart, he certainly did not have the patience he claimed to have. 

Restlessly, she turned over on her side, gazing at the mirror across from her. A ragged face stared back and instead she opted to turn on the other side, facing the windows. 

Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to imagine she wasn’t so alone. If she thought about it long enough, she could almost feel her hands running through Phoebus’ hair again—the softness of his lips, the fabric of his shirt. She tried to imagine him next to her…she shifted her body deluding herself into feeling there was a dip in the mattress behind her.

To feel that he was behind her, holding her and sleeping next to her. She wondered when she would ever see him again. Esmeralda could count the times she had met him on her hand…but she knew he was hers. His dashing smile melted her cold heart and his hands were deceptively soft. She curled up even more underneath the covers as her thoughts flitted to their first meeting: the church, the fight, the barbs. 

A small smile crossed her face. 

“I was just imagining a rope around that beautiful neck.”

His voice slashed at her thoughts, unbidden and cutting, souring the smile that dawned on her lips. 

She screwed up her face and her eyes flew open again, exposed to the darkness of her room once more. And the bed felt far emptier. The chill that ran up nerves made her involuntarily shiver. Her grip tightened on the covers and she drew them more around herself, cocooning herself in a fortress of sheets. The unnatural softness of it pressed into her sides, it felt like she was suffocating. She could feel him…the ghost of his fingers on her neck. Hands that had never bore hard labor nor hands that were gentle. The way that he pressed at her windpipe, his cold rings brushing over her exposed neck. 

A sneer contorted her face. 

Control yourself. Don’t let him get to you. 

Esmeralda tried to breathe easier and rolled over to stare at the ceiling once more. 

Don’t let him get in your head. 

Turning over again, she prayed for rest. 

Esmeralda didn’t sleep for the rest of the night. 

In the morning, she considered dancing, for no audience but herself. Her muscles longed to be stretched and for so long, she had been sedentary. Esmeralda slowly got out of bed, throwing the sheets carelessly off her body. She had not ever gone this long without dancing, it was unnatural. While she enjoyed it, it also gave her a somewhat reputable way to live and to earn her share in the Court of Miracles. She was one of the lucky ones, not many could say the same about their profession unfortunately.  

She had been taught by an older Romani dancer by the name of Lovey. And back in the day she truly was a lovely thing or so they say. Clopin had always ensured that the youth were brought up and trained to do all sorts of things in order to survive in the cruel world which was Paris. Lovey had started teaching Esmeralda when she was twelve and Esmeralda had struggled through every exercise. The relentless work, the fast turns, the quick paces of her feet. She had remembered the first few times it had made her head spin. She remembered hot red blood trailing down her skin, Lovey as she bandaged her knee. Esmeralda had fallen over more than a few times trying to master whatever Lovey taught her. Lovey’s soft smile, her comforting words filled her head and she felt cool, the pain throbbing in her temples ebbing away. 

At sixteen, she had finally gotten good enough to take to the streets. Lovey, only 30 years old, had been carted off to the Bastille on accounts of attempted murder and never returned.  

Esmeralda shivered at the memory and tried to ground herself, to feel her toes on the wood panels and to feel her breath slowly inhale and exhale. Steadily, she began slowly, one step and another. Then, she began to quicken her pace. Another step, another swish of her dress and another. Her breath came in quickly and her heart hammered against her chest, euphoria rushed through her veins as she pranced across the floor. She let her fingers ghost over the frosty panels of her windows as she twirled by the crimson skies. Her dress swished around her and for a moment, only a moment she could forget where she was. 

Dark eyes gazed at her when her eyes fluttered shut, the red dress swishing under her, the crown upon her head, her hands caressing his jawline.

No. 

Esmeralda withdrew a shaky breath and continued. She tried to imagine the cold, the rancorous laughter of her home, the smell of hay and hot food simmering nearby, the stone beneath her feet. But she was warm. It was not the Court of Miracles. 

It was different. The air did not cool her flushed skin as it used to when she danced in the Court of Miracles. She heard no cheers, no teasing remarks from Clopin and certainly no clinking of goblets. It was utterly silent and she stopped, her chest feeling heavy. Exhausted, she let herself slide down the wall and put her head in between her knees. 

She had not a clue how long she stayed in that position—her thoughts drifted without meaning and without bounds. Pierre arrived and gave her breakfast. She expected the lesson with Frollo would be predictable, the same old, droning on and on. Esmeralda’s throat felt dry as she swallowed her food and the warm broth did not bring any color to her face. Pierre was quiet, the same as before when they had first met. She wondered if he would ever become chatty again, it would certainly not hurt and it would only benefit her if he let any crucial information slip. 

Esmeralda set her spoon down on the table and took a swig of water from her goblet. She peeked over the rim at him, racking her mind for a question, any question to start a conversation. Esmeralda said the first thing that came to mind and placed her goblet next to her plate, “Why did Frollo assign you to me?” 

Pierre who had his arms crossed and his legs faced away, shifted his body to fully face her. A touch of skepticism flickered over his face until he relented, “Well, he trusts me.” 

“Why?” She arched a brow at him. 

“If you must ask, I assume it is due to my intellectualism. See I can think fast on my feet and I am a poet. I’m sure you’ve heard of me?” Pierre placed a proud hand on his chest and eagerness spread across his face. He set his forearm on the table and leaned towards her. 

But she hadn’t the slightest clue why he would be asking a Romani if she knew him as a poet. She didn’t know how to read and it was the same for almost all the Romani in Paris. 

“A soldier as a poet? I thought those professions don’t really…match…” Esmeralda rubbed her jaw, giving him a pointed, but playful look.

“Ah, well. I suppose not. My father demanded I become a soldier but he never told me I couldn’t take up being a poet as well in my spare time,” Pierre flapped his hand and then settled it back on the table. “He hates it but oh he can just piss off.” A small giggle escaped Esmeralda before she could silence it. Pierre smiled and asked, “So, you’re a performer?” 

Esmeralda replied, “A dancer to be exact.” 

“I can admire a profession of the arts,” he let out a sigh, one brimmed with disappointment. “You know it pains me that the arts are not as appreciated anymore. People see them as frivolous. Wasteful. Blasphemous," Pierre gave her a knowing look with a glance of his eyes. 

She didn’t answer and instead turned her gaze away. Esmeralda, while she enjoyed dancing, had never thought of it as an art. She could not afford art. What was art to him was a necessity to her, a way to survive. The older Romani liked to indulge in art…but she never had much time to muse on it nor did she want to. 

However, Notre-Dame and its beauty was marvelous. She would have to give the blasted Catholics that. 

“Well, we should be off,” Pierre braced himself against the table and stood up, letting out a groan as if he had been sitting there for hours. “The minister will have my head if we’re late.” 

She didn’t know if he was joking or not. 

The trek to Frollo’s study remained the same. The bustling halls, the constant staff, the hushed whispers and the rancorous noise below of the courtrooms. Fortunately or unfortunately, Esmeralda never had the pleasure to enter a courtroom. Frollo had deemed himself fit enough to judge her by himself. 

A grimace tugged at her lips. 

Pierre remained quiet the whole way. Esmeralda did not savor the silence. After a few minutes, they began their familiar walk down the hall, to the last door. She hated hearing the sounds of her bare feet slapping against the stone. It echoed far too loudly. A blessing and a curse, during her time down she had been watching every route, every open door, every empty hallway. She would have to get a hold of parchment and a pen at some point to draw out a map. Esmeralda had no idea how she would do that quite yet but tucked the thought in the back of her mind. 

Pierre knocked on the door at the end of the hall, she stayed a few feet away from him, mentally preparing herself for the long morning to come. The knock received no reply. Pierre knocked again and then again. Three times. He even angled his ear towards the door, trying to catch a sound of movement inside. 

“Minister Frollo?” he called, pressing his palm to the door.

Esmeralda tilted her head and then a small fluttery feeling jumped in her chest: did the old bastard finally drop dead? 

Pierre seemed to have the same idea, although he did not take any joy in it, and frantically wrenched the door open. Esmeralda took the liberty to peer over his shoulder and to her great disappointment saw a dark room with no one inside. Pierre rushed in anyways, wildly looking around and pacing around the room. 

Esmeralda heard him let out a sigh and he reemerged from the shadows. The Romani tried to keep her face passive, uninterested. “Well, I guess he’s running late. How about you…” Pierre raised a hand and carded a nervous hand through his brunette hair. “...just stay in there until he comes back.” 

Esmeralda cocked her head, furrowing her brows, “Why can’t I just stay with you.” 

“Uh…just protocol.” Without much prompt, he shoved her into the room. He waved at her before he closed the door in her face. As soon as he disappeared behind the oak door, she let out a groan. 

Esmeralda grabbed the doorknob and jingled it but it didn’t budge. 

Trapped again. 

But trapped in an unexplored place. A voice whispered in her head. 

Esmeralda spared a glance over her shoulder and strained her ear. All she could hear was the fading of Pierre’s footsteps as he ran down the hall—supposedly in search of Frollo. 

Her gaze swept over the room: the fireplace and mantle piece, the crimson divan, the bookshelves, the globe, the desk, the cabinet in the far corner and finally the windows. Esmeralda must admit, she hadn’t spent all that much time looking around the last time she had been here. She crossed the room and her bare feet whispered over the Persian rug.

At the center of the mantlepiece she could see the unmistakable face of the Virgin Mary, painted with whites and blues. 

For a man that despised women so much, why was she here? 

The corrupted flesh of womankind…his words—echoed in her head. Esmeralda reached out, touching the stone dress of Mary. She was far smaller than the one she had spoken to in Notre Dame. Her hands were outstretched and upon her lips was a mosaic of a smile yet her lip seemed to tremble. For stone, it awed Esmeralda how lifelike her features looked, how soft she seemed.  

Mary stood upon the mantlepiece, a figure of stone and beauty. Yet she stood alone, a solitary tower. 

Esmeralda tore her gaze away from the statue and crossed to the desk. She swept her fingers over the wood this time. A stub of a candle was at the edge and various ink pots stared up at her, dark and lifeless. Instead of sitting at the desk, she continued to the window. Her palms were pressed to the cold glass and she stared down into the courtyard. 

It was empty despite the withering life within. The willow tree had lost a few more leaves than yesterday, becoming barren. The bird with its melody had disappeared. Shadows of the smouldering clouds above cast their long bouts of despair over the courtyard. Another statue of Mary, bigger than the one in the study, overlooked the courtyard. Today, she noticed a bench underneath the willow tree but that was empty too. Windows flanked the courtyard yet no faces peered in beside hers. Her gaze wandered up towards the sky where she could see the floor above her. 

The walls stretched high into the crimson and she spied across the way, on the 3rd floor a balcony yet…it was not empty: Frollo was there. His tricorn shadowed his face but she could not be mistaken: it was him. And he was not alone. The cloaked man before him had a scroll clutched in his fist and wore a hood over his face. 

Her hand idly thumped the clasp of the window but she paused. Where would she go? In a courtyard? A box with no exit and do it right in front of Frollo, no less? 

Esmeralda’s gaze returned to the conversation yet both of the figures remained stoic, mouths moving with no emotion. She had never understood the masquerades of the upper class, it all seemed trivial and foolish. Yet she herself may have to employ it. It was dishonest, but Frollo himself was a man far from the bounds of good. He didn’t deserve her honesty.  

A frown crossed her face. She would get nothing further out of the conversation above. Just as she was about to turn away Frollo moved, sweeping his robe around him and venturing inside the double glass doors upon the balcony. The cloaked figure followed, finally showing a trace of emotion by brandishing his scroll in the air, an intense gesture. 

Is he coming back? 

The thought intruded, a small cry. God, why had she meandered so much? 

Frantically, she spun on her heel and hurried to the desk at the center of the room. She went for the bottom drawers and bent down on her knees. Her hand closed around the handle and she yanked it. It did not budge. She tried the other bottom drawer to the right and it didn’t open either. A stone keyhole was carved into both drawers. 

Esmeralda moved to the middle drawers and revealed what lay within. In the left drawer was a single rosary, tucked at the bottom of the drawer. Scraps of notes and paper haloed it with hurried handwriting. She reached into the drawer, fisting the worn delicate beads in her hand—at the noose of the rosary was a metallic figure depicting Christ on a cross, his face weathered with time. Then she imagined him, clutching the beads, the rosary wrapped around his knuckles. She dropped the rosary with disgust riddling her face. 

The Romani moved onto the right drawer and wrenched it open. Her eyes widened at the sight. Her head instinctively whipped back to stare at the windows. Frollo had not reemerged. He may as well be on his way. Tentatively she rested her hand on the encasing of the drawer, hesitating. 

Her hand reached in and grazed the hilt. It was a letter opener. The hilt had flower-like engravings that bloomed over it. Her fingers brushed over the hilt once more before she snatched it up. It gleamed blood-crimson in the light that streamed in from the windows, brilliant and blinding. The flowers in their muted shades of grey caught the colors of the outside–ruby, orange and gold. 

I need this. 

The clicking of footsteps broke her out of her trance and her gaze snapped up to the door. 

Frollo. 

Within her hand, the dagger remained. She needed it. She needed to hide it. Her hands glided over the fabric over her dress. Could she hide it in her dress? Esmeralda raised the letter opener and then she heard it…the jingle of a lock. 

Panicked, she threw the letter opener back into the drawer and slammed it shut. 

Clumsily, she stumbled to her feet, frenzied and she took a few staggering steps back. Her spine felt cool as she pressed her back against the window. Her eyes fixed on the door. 

Calm yourself. Be in control. 

A flush in her cheeks betrayed her desire. Her desire to have it. 

Steadying her breath, she tried to tame the racing of her heart. The room felt smaller, as if it were reaching out to her…knowing she had betrayed its master. 

The door clicked as it swung open and none other than Frollo stood in the door. She watched his chest rise and fall as he stepped over the threshold. The tricorn upon his head shielded his face and whatever emotion etched his features. Esmeralda tried to stand a little taller and clasped her hands behind her back, a noncombative position. 

His shadow stretched over the table. Then he finally glanced up, his brows furrowed as he looked at her. “Why are you in my study?” 

“The guard dropped me off.” she said placidly, meeting his dark gaze with equal potency. 

Frollo’s hand flew to the bridge of his nose and he pinched it, a sigh of irritation escaping his lips. “You are in here unattended?” 

She attempted to mask her nervousness as performance. “It appears so,” she made a sweeping motion with her arm, a theatrical motion. “Why, minister, do you have something to hide?” her eyes flashed with mischief. 

“I am in no mood to tolerate your pestering questions,” he replied, his voice laced with impatience. As he swept across the room, she heard him mutter, “Idiot guard,” under his breath. 

It wasn’t a no. 

Esmeralda, naturally, took a step away from him as he settled down in his chair. Behind her back, she wrung her hands, pressing her palm into her knuckles. Frollo placed his tricorn on the desk—the ribbon flitted fitfully until it was laid to rest—and pulled out the bible from the top drawer, the same place it had always been. She watched his precise movements, he always seemed to move with deliberation. His face was concealed and she could only see the back of his head and what little skin he revealed to the world. 

“Come, sit,” it sounded almost polite—by the way the words fell lightly—but she knew it was an order. 

Reluctantly, she tore herself away from the window and spared a glance over her shoulder. The leaves upon the willow faintly shook as the wind swept through them. She turned her head back to the desk and sat herself beside Frollo. Her hands fell into her lap and clasped together tightly. 

Delicately, he licked two of his fingers and swiftly turned to the first page of Genesis. “We shall begin with Genesis…” he shot her a pointed look “...without any further interruptions.” 

“When will I see Quasimodo?” Esmeralda piped up, her hands wringing in her lap. She threw Frollo a careful glance, hesitant to fully look the deranged man in the eye. 

Frollo leaned back against the back of his chair and carded a hand through his silver hair. “In two months…”

“Two months?” Esmeralda gaped at him and then quickly shut her mouth. “You can’t do that.” 

“Would you like it to be five months? I am being quite generous concerning your situation,” Frollo replied, a vicious edge to his words. The minister leaned forward in his chair, closing the distance between them ever so slightly. “And you need to show me the evidence of your faith. My time is precious and I do not do this lightly. I do it out of the goodness of my heart.” He placed a hand over his heart. 

Esmeralda almost let out a scoff but covered it with a cough. It was October now. She would see Quasimodo around Christmas time…which would be busy but not terrible. Her mind whirled but she couldn’t delay an answer for too long lest Frollo catch on to her long periods of thinking or what he might believe is scheming—which she was. Two months…she couldn’t afford to push him too much. She had already pushed him far enough by even securing a meeting with Quasimodo. Two months was manageable.  

“Fine,” she yielded. 

Frollo, for once predictable, began the same routine as before: “In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth…”

Her eyes drifted around the room settling on the statue upon the mantelpiece. Rays of slated crimson bathed the room. Her gaze shifted to Frollo who kept his eyes on the words and she watched as his mouth moved, however her mind was too far away to hear him. Esmeralda had a bad habit of tending to tune things out in her environment. She didn’t know whether she had grown used to loud noises such as being in the Court of Miracles all her life or some other reason. 

Quasimodo. 

She would see him…eventually…if Frollo kept his word. What little she knew of Frollo was that he did but he did twist the truth when it would favor him. But she didn’t exactly have the upper hand…yet. A part of her ached, something deep and ineffable. Flashes of the past few days flitted through her mind. It had all happened so fast, so quickly. A few days ago she had been a Romani dancer to the people of Paris and now…she was in the Palace of Justice, a prisoner of the notorious Judge Frollo. Her heart ached for her friends, for Quasimodo, for Clopin…for Phoebus. 

Esmeralda drew in a hasty breath. The church. The Festival. Quasimodo’s humiliation. 

“---Once I free this poor creature…” Inwardly her mind recoiled and tension began to tingle in her shoulders. How could she say that to him? She hadn’t known yet what kind of person he would be but she knew better than to say that. Even now, another pang echoed in her heart: Quasimodo’s starstruck eyes. He had never known any such kindness, no gentle touch such as hers. The world had proven that was cruel that day at the Festival. She could hear the Hunchback’s words now about how Frollo had told of its cruelty, of its dangers. 

The world was cruel, true and in some ways she wasn’t immune to its pull. No one was. Even now, was she cruel? Was she cruel for using Quasimodo in such a way? To aid in her escape? She knew the boy had feelings for her…the boy who looked at her as though she had arranged the stars and the moon. Was it cruel to even continue to speak to him? To seek out his company…when she knew she could never give him what he sought? 

She was tired of it. Sick of it even. She was surrounded by men who only saw her as something to admire. And while Quasimodo was pure of heart, a hollow feeling had settled in her chest. She had always been one step ahead of these men, these pursuers…except for one. 

“Gypsy Girl,” His voice snapped her out of her thoughts. “Now is not the time for idle thoughts.” His fingers flexed on the table, his rings catching in the crimson light. “I have set this time aside specifically to cure you of your heretic ways. Must I remind you of what is at stake?” He said flatly, with finality. 

Esmeralda let out a long sigh and steeled herself. Despite her better judgement she spoke, “If you want me to truly learn your religion, your droning has got to stop. How in God’s name did you ever get into religion with the priests sounding like that?” She crossed her arms over herself and regarded him. 

“Do not use the lord’s name in vain,” Frollo said firmly. His fingers grasped at the edge of the book and he locked eyes with her. “This is how I was taught and this is how I will teach you, Gypsy.” 

“This would go a lot better if you talked to me like a human being rather than a preacher,” Esmeralda said quite drily and stared at him, dead in the eyes, unrelenting.

“You do not have the endurance for a long attention span. That is not exactly my fault, is it?” he gritted out. 

Esmeralda bit down on the bottom of her lips, trying to restrain herself from speaking…rashly. 

“I’m sure as you know the Gypsies learn much differently than those who have the privilege of a proper education,” she continued, “We prefer learning to be conversational or to be observed rather than lectured. For teacher and student to be equal.” Esmeralda unconsciously crossed her arms and tilted her head, watching his reaction. 

She didn’t mention that the Romani were very skilled at storytelling. It was something that was obviously beyond Frollo. 

Not a flicker of emotion passed his face and he finally broke eye contact, “That is quite unruly,” is all he said. “Conversational? That is just not how it is done.” 

“Would you like me to learn or not? We both want this to work and I am telling you how I learn things.” It was the farthest thing she wanted but she supposed she had to make some sacrifices. 

“Fine. Conversational?” Frollo let out a sound of disgust. He shifted his chair slightly so his body was fully facing Esmeralda and he held up the book in his hands. “Ahem…In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth.  ­Now the earth was formless and empty, darkness covered the surface of the watery depths, and the Spirit of God was hovering over the surface of the waters. Then God said, “Let there be light,” and there was light.” His eyes flickered up, dark and unassuming, and he paused. “Any questions?” 

Oh dear God. 

“You are aware you are still reading from it?” Esmeralda clipped. 

“Is this not a conversation?” Frollo challenged. 

“Can you seriously not just summarize the story and tell me it yourself? The language in it is so…” Esmeralda paused, trying to find the right word. “...sloggish.” 

“You lack patience and the book is meant to be read and spoken as thus. It is the way of Catholicism and therefore it is the way you will be taught.”  

“It may be how you were taught but it is not what will work for me.” 

“You are…” Frollo didn’t finish his sentence and rubbed his temples with an idle hand. 

Insufferable? A witch? She couldn't help but guess. Perhaps…he would become more predictable once she spent more time with him. A detestable thought but one of survival. 

Letting out another scoff of annoyance, he snapped the book shut and placed it lightly on the desk beside him. Frollo intertwined his fingers and settled them in his lap. “I can adjust. You are after all…a heathen.” 

Internally she rolled her eyes. 

Frollo cleared his throat and he laid a hand flat atop the desktop and pivoted himself towards the gloomy world outside. Noticeably his eyes did not meet hers. His gaze remained trained on the weeping willow outside, that leaned its limber branches over the garden like a dark shadow. 

And he began to explain albeit, with a rather lethargic pace the supposed beginning of the world. How the Lord separated: the light from darkness, the morning from the night, the sky from the sea. How he created the land, the creatures all over the course of a single week. And then the humans

“God created humans in his own image. From the dust, he formed Adam, the ruler of all animals,” Frollo created a sweeping motion with his hands. He had a strange look on his face, one she hadn’t seen before. It almost looked pleasant, less severe…almost. “And thus, God bestowed Adam with a paradise to live out the rest of his days. Eden, a place where he could never go hungry, a place he could live in eternal happiness…yet the only rule God placed upon him was to never eat the fruit from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.” 

The timber of his voice dropped, growing softer, “However, despite all the creatures he ruled over. Adam was a lonely man. A man without his own kind. A king of all, yet equal to none. God sensed his loneliness and created woman, taking Adam’s own rib to form her. This woman’s name was Eve.”  

The light from the heavens cast a shade of crimson upon the sheen of his cheek as he turned his head towards her. His dark eyes found her, almost accusatory. It was a strange story to say the least but not the most bizarre. 

Esmeralda cut in, “And He created a woman to accompany Adam? Why not a man? A friend?” 

Frollo visibly stiffened, “I cannot presume why God did what He did. No one knows why. But some can speculate.” He stopped himself abruptly and stared out at the window again. The world was dead outside, or as dead as it had ever been since Esmeralda’s arrival. It was bleak and disinteresting. The tree remained static, no animals moved, the stone walls hulked over the small courtyard…it was a dreary scene. 

“One day, a serpent came along and spoke to Eve. The serpent was a clever thing and convinced her to eat the forbidden fruit. It told her that it would open her eyes and that she would become like God. She took the fruit and gave it to her husband, who ate it as well. And once God discovered this, He cursed them all: the serpent and humanity. He made the serpent a creature that would forever be cursed to slither on its belly. The man was forced to toil for his survival and food. And the woman to be cursed with labor pains and she be subservient to man forevermore. Humanity was banished from Eden and that…is the first story of Genesis” 

Frollo turned to face her, his gaze expectant, “Questions?”

Esmeralda stayed quiet for a few long moments. “Why would He purposely put a tree like that in the garden?”  

“It gave them the choice to obey or disobey them. You must choose whether you will follow God or not. It is not a choice that He can impose upon you,” Frollo said plainly. 

Ironic. Her eyes flicked up towards him and she restrained a nasty scowl from crossing her lips. She raised her hand and covered her mouth, pretending to be lost in thought. A handful of seconds passed between them. It was a horrible story to be sure…one riddled with expectations. 

“Adam chose Eve over God,” Esmeralda said, her gaze shifting to the skies beyond the windows.  

“I beg your pardon?” Frollo furrowed his brows and crossed his arms firmly. 

“He ate the forbidden fruit Eve gave to him. He knew, didn't he?” Esmeralda tore herself away from the windows, her dress swishing slightly from underneath her and turned to face him. His gaze faltered, dipping then snapped upward but the damage was already done. Underneath her skin, it felt like a million snakes were writhing there, trapped there. 

Instinctively, she stood up and moved away from him, moving towards the window that overlooked the courtyard. A nasty feeling coiled in her stomach, something that threatened her breakfast. Esmeralda folded her arms protectively over her chest and glared at him. “Why do you stare at me like that?” 

He said nothing for a moment. His jaw tightened. 

“I am not staring at you,” he shot back and stood up, the chair scraping against the stone floor. That soft glimmer that had been in his eyes before had winked out. The only sort of look that he could have for his true love: scripture, an oppressive system, one that he abused. His nostrils flared and he jabbed a finger at her, “Even now, when I am trying to convert you…you, you still bewitch me. You force me to do these things. To think such despicable things” he clutched at his neckline as if he couldn’t breathe. 

“Oh dear God, you’re impossible!” Esmeralda spat back and at her sides, she balled her hands into fists. Her nails dug painfully into her palms and she glared at him. She was so sick of him. His hypocrisy. His pathetic excuses for his own lust. “When will you understand that your thoughts are your own fault?” 

“My fault?” Frollo advanced with carefully measured steps. As he drew closer, she stepped back and her back bumped into the stone wall behind her. Trapped. Frollo stopped just a few inches in front of her, almost nose to nose, the same as their last meeting. Her eyes darted around the room, first the middle drawer and then to his hand, his fingers flexed and then closed into a fist. “Do not deceive me any further, woman. You are fully aware of what you are doing.” 

“I am not doing anything. You are. You assaulted me, you hunted me down like an animal, you tried to murder me, you trapped me in here with you,” Esmeralda bared her teeth, “Don’t you dare try to play the innocent. This is all your doing and you know it even if you try to delude yourself.” 

His hand shot out and grasped her wrist, pinning it to the wall. Esmeralda hissed. She considered hitting back. 

Oh God, why did this always happen? 

“I am not delusional. You delude me. You twist my mind. You make something I am not,” Frollo said. His breath was hot on her face, far too close for her liking. Esmeralda turned her neck away but she could still see him, his dark gaze. His gaze burned into her, she could feel its heat, threatening to sear at her skin. 

Her green eyes flashed and she whipped her head back towards him, spitting, “Then why don’t you just end your torture? Let me go then,” she said, trying to break her wrist from his grip. Her other hand grasped at the front of his robes and pulled him closer, roughly. The soft fabric did nothing to lessen her iron grip. “You can save us both a lot of pain and suffering,” she said. 

Something flickered across his gaze. Something she couldn’t name. To her surprise, he let go of her wrist and he pulled away from her. Her hand fell to her side. He pivoted and his robes swished behind him. 

Frollo spoke, his back to her, “I cannot.” 

Esmeralda blinked. Her hands relaxed at her sides and she stared at him, truly did. Nothing of his posture betrayed what his face said. She opened her mouth to speak. 

“You are dismissed,” Frollo crossed the room, still facing away from her, opened the door and slipped through. For a few moments, she stood there dumbfounded like a statue with its mouth agape. 

What?