This Burning Desire by Joslinne Morgan (the gingerbread man read aloud TXT) 📖

from the public view. Like Quasimodo in his bell tower, she would not be allowed to participate in any of the common people's activities. Yea, even enter the city at all. He could teach her, as he taught Quasimodo, and perhaps she and the hunchback could even keep each other company.

And, with time, people would forget. And after they had forgotten, perhaps…

Frollo took a deep breath and clenched his hand around the crucifix that dangled from his neck. One thing at a time.

But of course, before anything else could be done, there was something that he had to take care of.

"Where to, Minister?" the driver asked, once they had pulled away from the execution scene.

"Nowhere," Frollo was already tired, and it was not even past seven o' clock. He hadn't received an entire hour of sleep the night before. Once he returned from the dungeon, he had collapsed on his bed, only to be awaken by the church bells fifteen minutes later. "Just wait here." Once again climbing out of his carriage, he muttered, "The hunchback and I have some unfinished business to attend to."

~*~*~*~*~

The staircase that led all the way to the top of the bell tower where Frollo's misshapen ward was currently housed seemed to get longer with each visit. Frollo refused to allow his age to catch up with him, convinced that his mind was the only thing that limited him. If he was convinced that he was getting too old to be climbing nearly three flights of stairs, then his body would respond to that sort of thinking. Therefore, he must not allow himself to believe that he was any less physically able than he had been nearly twenty years ago.

Finally, he approached the door that led him into Quasimodo's chamber. Pausing to catch his breath and straighten his robes, he lifted one graceful hand and knocked once, twice, three times on the door before lifting the latch and gliding in.

Quasimodo sat on the railing of the balcony, looking out towards the scene of the execution that never too place. He was not facing his master, but Frollo could tell from the set of his ward's posture that this was going to be a longer visit than he first anticipated.

"Quasimodo," Frollo took a step forward, and shut the door gently behind him. His ward did not reply. "Ignoring me will do you no good. I intend to stay here until we have spoken."

With a long, shaky sigh, Quasimodo threw a look over his shoulder. His face was wet with tears, and his nose was red, from where he had been wiping it on his sleeve.

"Master," The hunchback hung his head. "Forgive me, master, for ever doubting you."

Perhaps not so long a conversation as Frollo dreaded. His confidence reaching new heights, Frollo clenched his fist and brought it up to his chest as he glided towards his ward, who remained motionless on his perch, waiting. One by one, Frollo's long fingers uncurled and he lifted his hand, just inches away from his ward's face. Quasimodo shrank back, as if expecting a blow, and flinched again when he felt the cold, gentle touch of his master's hand on his cheek.

"My dear, dear Quasimodo." Frollo shook his head slowly, stroking the boy's face. "Dear boy, of course I forgive you."

"I was so wrong…" Quasimodo choked, and sniffed. He glanced out back at the sunrise that was slowly giving way to blue skies. "Esmeralda, is she…?"

"Alive and well," Frollo purred reassuringly. "The flames of Hell came to confront her and, like all things either good or wicked, she recoiled. She recanted, then, and now her immortal soul as well as her mortal flesh are both spared." Mortal flesh, he couldn't help but think. How very mortal, how very soft, how vulnerable she was…

"How could I ever have thought you would be so evil?" Quasimodo wept in despair, the hot tears spilling over his cheeks even faster, now. "Master, you really are good."

Frollo lifted his chin, and a humorless smile spread across his lips. "Now do you see, dear boy, why I had to do all that I have done? If I had not, the gypsy would have remained on her wicked path, and surely would have died in sin."

"But how could I-"

"A young mind is The Enemy's favorite tool. It is soft, like new clay, and can be twisted and warped if not guarded properly. Thankfully," he rested a hand atop Quasimodo's ginger hair. "You have me, who will guard and protect you against the evils of this world. God has forgiven you and so have I. Let it rest in the past."

He wasn't quite certain if the boy had comprehended all he had just spoken, he thought disdainfully. But his point was still across. The boy was properly chagrined and repentant, and Frollo had his hold on him once more, perhaps as tightly as ever before.

"What will happen to her?" Quasimodo asked. "Are you going to let her go?"

"No, dear boy, that would not be very wise of me. She is a traitor to her people now; they will not listen to her testimony and will kill her before she can get much further than the palace."

"Oh," Quasimodo sighed, disheartened.

"She must be educated. I will teach her, as I have taught you. She might even come up to visit you time and again. Would you like that?"

"Oh, yes!" Quasimodo replied, enthused. "I would like that very much!"

"Good," Frollo brought the conversation to a halt with an affectionate pat on his ward's cheek. "We shall see what happens then, shall we?" he began his path towards the door. "Oh, and Quasimodo."

"Yes, master?" Quasimodo looked up.

"I'm going to talk to Luc about having these removed," he tapped the top of the fat gargoyle's head with a fingernail. "So do not be surprised if he comes up here."

Quasimodo's mouth fell open, and he began to stammer a protest, but his master was already out the door.

Chapter Four: The Scoundrels of Paris

Clopin stormed furiously around the perimeter of the small room, fists clenched behind his back just to keep him from victimizing the nearest inanimate object. Of course, once Esmeralda had been released, once she had betrayed all that Clopin had ever taught her to stand for – he had been able to use a fancy bit of lockwork to free himself and as many of his fellows as he could. He left Phoebus there to rot, as far as he was concerned, the former captain of the guard was all part of the web that had eventually brought Esmeralda down.

The betrayal still stung him, like a poisoned barb in his soul, he just couldn't accept it. He would have rather burned atop her ashes than to see her knuckle under like that. It was the Minister's doing, of course. He had tortured her, beaten her, probably – and who knows what else – and finally weakened her mind into believing that he was her only salvation. With a pang of sorrow, Clopin remembered the look on Esmeralda's face when she had screamed her recantation. That woman resembled in no way the beautiful child who had been like a daughter to him for nearly thirteen years, since he had found her wandering the streets at the age of seven.

It only made the betrayal all the more bitter. And worse was to come, he realized with a grimace. With Esmeralda neatly ensnared in the enemy's trap, she could prove to be a well of useful information. If they could get her to betray her clan in one way, why not in another? Who knew what Frollo would ask of her? In time, would she even tell the location of the Court of Miracles?

He couldn't have it. She was now, as far as he was concerned, an outcast. She would no longer be welcome in the place that she had once called home.

As far as he was concerned, she was an aid to the enemy, now, and must be disposed of.

"What do you think, Francis?" he asked, tugging the ends of his pointed black beard and turning to face the rather garishly clad figure in the chair across from him. Jean-Francis Troillefou leaned back in the chair, placing his polished back boots up on the table in front of him. His cornflower blue eyes peered out from beneath the shade that his wide-brimmed plumed hat had to offer, and despite his pleasant, boyish features, his mouth was set into a grim serious line. Jean-Francis was the city's most accomplished thief, and consequentially Clopin's youngest cousin.

"I think it can be taken care of," the hard, cold tone did not match the angelic face. "If I can manage to infiltrate the Palace of Justice, it's all cake from there."

"They are going to need a replacement Captain of the Guard," Clopin tapped his chin pointedly. "I can trust in your acting skills to make sure you fill out the requirements for the position?"

"Considering their past record with captains, they should find me a God-send."

"You must get to Esmeralda before Frollo does," Clopin pressed. "If she gives away any vital information about our hideaway, or even about some of the shelters we have spread around the city…"

Jean-Francis held up a gloved hand to silence his cousin. Clopin would not tolerate such a gesture from any of his flock, but from his cousin, it was acceptable.

"From what you've told me of Esmeralda, she doesn't sound like the kind who would betray you purposefully."

"So I thought, too." Clopin moaned. "But now I just don't know anymore. She's betrayed us already, and I'm not willing to take a risk. All I can say is – thank God I have you, this is one job I just couldn't perform myself."

"The one, and only time you will ever admit you need me." Flashing his cousin a brilliant smile, Jean-Francis stood, sliding his boots away from the table and sweeping his cape to the side. "Don't worry over it any longer, cousin. Your orders are given, the deed shall be done, you just need to relax."

"Relax!" Clopin muttered.

"Go play with your puppets," pressing gently on Clopin's shoulder-blades, Jean-Francis ushered the smaller man from the room. "They always cheer you up."

"Don't patronize me!" Clopin quipped, but didn't resist when Jean-Francis thrust a hand puppet in his arm and directed him towards a group of children.

"They've had a lot of excitement," Jean-Francis continued. "They'll be happy to be distracted."

"Yes," Clopin admitted with a small sigh, slipping the puppet over his hand. "They will be."

The children flocked around him immediately as soon as they noticed he was walking their way. They all glanced up with expectant faces, and the fear behind their wide, pleading eyes tugged on his heartstrings.

As if it were second nature to him, Clopin began to do what he loved to do the most. When he stole a moment to glance over his shoulder, he noticed that Jean-Francis was gone.

Chapter Five: The Palace of Justice

Jean-Francis tugged nervously at the collar of his white linen shirt as he approached the entrance to the Palace of Justice. The cool parchment of his application rested against his chest, and he was certain his heart was thudding a little louder than necessary. It annoyed him to no end, but nonetheless, he was determined to see this through. He was Jean-Francis Troillefou,