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

once more."

"If you don't let me out," she threatened. "I shall find a way to get out on my own!"

"That wouldn't be advised," he replied, fighting to keep his own temper in check. "There are guards on every corner of this city. They will be looking for you and, should they catch sight of you, there will be no redemption for you again."

Quasimodo watched the entire exchange with wide eyes. Esmeralda and Frollo locked gazes, and neither were going to back down. After a moment, Quasimodo reached out and took Esmeralda's hand. Her tiny, delicate hand was swallowed entirely by his own; all the more sufficient to pull her gently to the side, and exchange a pleading glance with his master. Frollo returned it with a cold glare.

"Well, this is splendid." Quasimodo spoke in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere. "Good company, and splendid food." He glanced at the covered basket Frollo had brought up with him. "I say we eat lunch, it's nearly noon."

"You eat," Frollo replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. "I have more business to attend to. And as much as I wish I could, dear boy, I cannot spend the entirety of my afternoon up here."

"Thank you," Quasimodo replied, and never before had Esmeralda been witness to such desperate, such gratitude in one human being's voice. "For everything you have done, master."

Frollo smiled, a vicious smile that reminded Esmeralda of a large cat getting ready to pounce on its prey. Her eyes followed the judge as he made his exit, as if wanting to be entirely sure that he was gone.

She let out a sigh when he had gone. With a twinge of annoyance, she noticed her hands were shaking.

"I don't see how you can do it," she shook her head, and clenched her hands in between her knees to get them to cease their trembling.

"Do what?" Quasimodo asked absently as he pulled two cups and two plates down from the makeshift wooden cupboard.

"Live with him, see him every day… speak, dine!" she sighed. "I could go on."

"He's very good to me," Quasimodo replied whilst setting the dishes out onto the table. "And I've been very ungrateful."

"Who told you that?" Esmeralda asked curiously.

"I did," Quasimodo said, and began to pull a wheel of cheese and a loaf of white bread from the basket.

"And he has said nothing to correct you?"

"No," Quasimodo began a hunt for a knife. He pulled open a drawer and began rifling through it. "But he is right in it, of course. I was afraid he was going to punish me, but not only did he not do that, he brought you up here to be safe… aha!" triumphantly, he brandished a bread knife over his head and slammed the drawer shut.

"Why should he punish you?" Esmeralda demanded. "You've done nothing wrong!"

"Oh, but I have!" Quasimodo began to slice the bread, placing an especially thick portion on her plate. "Do we have butter in here, somewhere?" he began to root through the basket. "Jam? No…"

"Quasi!" she broke in.

"Don't worry, I found it." He popped back up, holding the tiny container in his hand.

"It's not the butter I'm talking about," she glared, frustrated, at her plate. "I'm not hungry, anyway."

"You should eat," he prompted, placing a thin layer of butter over her bread and watching it melt. "It will keep up your strength."

Reluctantly, Esmeralda nodded and reached forward. Grasping the bread by the crusts, she placed it to her mouth and bit into it. It was still warm, directly from the oven to the basket. The golden crust was crisp and buttery, and the white bread was soft and flaky, a delight to the tongue. Unable to contain herself, not having realized how hungry she was, Esmeralda ate the entire thing in nearly three bites.

Quasimodo laughed light-heartedly, and placed another slice on her plate before filling her glass up with water from a nearby pitcher. It was the first decent meal she had had in a long time, a far cry from watery gray porridge of questionable content.

"Do you suppose they miss you, at the Court of Miracles?" he asked, setting his elbows up on the table and resting his chin in his hands.

"No," Esmeralda shook her head bitterly. "I betrayed them all. They won't welcome me back … I doubt they've even thought about me since they heard about my capture."

"I'm sure that's not true," Quasimodo said comfortingly. "Surely, Clopin…"

"Clopin least of all," she interjected, and offered no further explanation. Accepting this, Quasimodo proceeded to tuck into his own food, and neither of them exchanged further words for the duration of the meal.

Chapter Seven: The Court of Miracles

Jean-Francis utterly despised going through the entrance to the Court of Miracles. It absolutely reeked of decay and raw sewage, and how anyone could tolerate living down there for even an instant was beyond his reasoning. Making a face and pinching his nose between his fingers, he began the long descent.

The steps were coated in muck, no doubt designed to trip up more unwary intruders and cause them to slip. Jean-Francis wouldn't have noticed it, himself, if he weren't so dead-set on keeping his new boots as clean as humanly possible. He knew that the task would be nearly impossible once he actually reached the bottom of the stairs and into the sewer, but hope springs eternal.

~*~*~*~*~

"Francis!" Clopin greeted his cousin with a fond arm around the neck and a good-hearted punch on the shoulder. "You had all of us worried!"

Jean-Francis glanced at his cousin suspiciously, and Clopin's wide smile faded when he saw the dark glare. "What?"

"You owe me a pair of new boots," Jean-Francis replied, lifting his boot to display to his cousin. "I don't even want to touch these to pull them off, yet I feel dirty just wearing them!"

"Get over it," Clopin snorted. "A little wipe with a damp cloth and they'll be good as new."

"It will take more than a damp cloth to wash away this," Jean-Francis grimaced, and sighed, setting his foot firmly back down on the ground. "But that's not what I came for – have you been drinking?"

"No," Clopin replied quickly. "Why do you ask?"

"I can smell it on your breath, from here."

"Well," the gypsy king shrugged. "A little brandy to warm the soul never harmed anyone."

"I suppose not," Jean-Francis sighed. "And I apologize, to have kept you waiting. I was looking around for Esmeralda, but I could not find her."

"So you got the position?" Clopin had to have been at least a little off, considering he didn't even flinch at the mention of the woman's name.

"I am, at present, the new Captain of the Guard."

"I knew you could do it!" Clopin laughed, rocking back on his heels. "Now I had something to tell you. Hm." He frowned, scratching his head. "What was it?"

"Perhaps you should lie down," Jean-Francis suggested.

"No, no, I had something to tell you. It was important… oh! My spy network reported back to me a few hours ago. Esmeralda has been taken to Notre Dame Cathedral. An odd place for an interrogation, oui?"

"I don't think they intend to pump her for information just yet," Jean-Francis suggested.

"We don't know when they will, which is why you're here," Clopin leaned forward and prodded his cousin in the chest a little more forcefully than necessary. "And I've got something else for you, too. It's on that desk. Go get it, I haven't the strength to stand up."

Jean-Francis resisted the urge to point out to the gypsy king that he was already standing, because he saw that it would do no good. Resigned, he walked over to Clopin's desk and picked up a tiny crystal vial, filled to the brim with deep red liquid.

"What's this?" Jean-Francis asked, turning it around in his fingers and observing it closely.

"Poison," Clopin replied, moving to lean against the wall, missing by a mile, and toppling to the floor. "Should they catch you, drink it."

Jean-Francis didn't question, he just glanced at the vial once more before sliding it into the breast pocket of his linen shirt. "I'm probably back up once more, to assume my new duties. Is there anything you require of me, before my departure?"

"Nope," Clopin replied, curling up and placing his hands under his head. "I'm going to sleep. G'night."

"Good night," Jean-Francis shook his head and strode out of the room. The poison could prove useful, although he had no intention of using it on himself. Poison was the coward's way out. Should they ever capture him, the soldiers would find themselves with a handful to deal with. Jean-Francis did not give in to torture, or to death, without putting up a fight.

Chapter Eight: Like Fire

Frollo sank into the plush red armchair, wishing for the world that he could just disappear. It had been such an incredibly long day; there was not a single muscle that had not been stretched to its limit. All he wanted now was to get into his nightshift and crawl into his bed where a mercilessly dreamless sleep would proceed to overtake him. But even as he contemplated such marvelous thoughts, Frollo knew that if he went to bed now, he could never get to sleep. His mind was far too awake plotting and scheming on what his next move should be towards the gypsy Esmeralda.

"Esmeralda," he whispered, longing to hear the name spoke aloud, as if that alone could conjure her from thin air and deliver her to his sitting room. He just loved the way it sounded. Exotic, and full of promise.

On the table next to his chair was a thick leather-bound book of Latin verse. He had been working on it nearly all his life, since he had been not much more than an apprentice himself. Every time he heard or saw something he wished to remember, he would write it down in the book. And though most of the now yellowed pages had been filled, he still kept it as close to him as he did his Bible. It was his moral code, the rules he lived by. Slowly, he picked up the book, feeling the familiar worn cover beneath his hands. Running a hand through his iron gray hair, he set the book down on his lap and it fell open automatically to his favorite page. He didn't remember when he had written it down, but he remembered reading it over and over, night after night. That one verse that would forever be in his mind. Matrimonium est honourable in totus , quod cubile undefiled : tamen whoremongers quod adulterers Deus mos sentio.

Marriage is honourable in all, and the bed undefiled: but whoremongers and adulterers God will judge.

Sucking in a deep breath through clenched teeth, Frollo snapped the book shut. He knew now what he had to do. After all, he had a reputation to uphold, and dignity to keep in tact. But he was still human. He reached up and clutched the crucifix that hung around his neck, clenching it so hard that the edges cut into his flesh and drew blood. He had to see her, alone. A few minutes, a mere hour … it was all he needed, but he must see her, must speak to her!

He stood so abruptly that the book