Prologue

It was tempting. All Esmeralda needed to do was to say yes, and Quasimodo would help her and she would be free.

She peered down the great heights of Notre Dame, while Quasimodo remained crouched on the ledge and waited for her answer.

A quick getaway through the towers and the spires and past the pesky soldiers; they wouldn't have a clue as to what happened. Esmeralda grinned. The plan was totally impulsive, totally her.

And Esmeralda frowned in annoyance. After all, it was impulsiveness that got her into this situation.

She quickly turned to Quasimodo, "Not that I'm sorry for helping you of course!" and felt sheepish when she saw that he was understandably puzzled by what she said.

What was it the archdeacon said? "It would be unwise to arouse Frollo's anger further." If she left like this, Frollo would be angry. Maybe he would take it out on the few gypsies whom his men had caught and locked up in the dungeons, if he hadn't already. Besides, Clopin and the others may not be pleased at how she had made a ruckus today. Sure, they all had fun at the festival, but they were aware that there could be serious repercussions and a fresh wave of attack against them.

Best to stay here until her friends started missing her. It shouldn't be too long.

Making up her mind, Esmeralda said to Quasimodo, "I think we're both already in plenty of trouble. I'll lay low for a few days, and," her voice was full of mischief, "behave for once. Frollo will figure out he has better things to do and call off the guards."

Esmeralda saw how Quasimodo's face brightened up. Poor boy, all alone. She should use the time she was here to "unteach" whatever nonsense Frollo brainwashed him with and show Quasimodo that he can have a life outside this cathedral.

Quasimodo leapt off the ledge and ran back to the stairs. He waved at her to follow, "We'll get you some food. You must be hungry. After that, we'll find a room for you to sleep in."

Chapter 1

When a lover suddenly catches sight of his beloved his heart palpitates.

Frollo would not appreciate it when he got out of bed with a headache, but last night was to be the first of a series of bad nights.

He had woken up in the middle of the night on the cold marble floor. Wincing with both physical discomfort and embarrassment at himself, he had undressed and retired to his bed to try to get some proper sleep, but to no avail.

Resigned to the fact that he would not be able to sleep, Frollo began his day earlier than usual, but he was listless. He could not concentrate on his paperwork which his valet left on his desk; he could not carry out his duties in Parlement during the morning with his usual alacrity and diligence; he could not read his Bible with any measure of peace.

Fatigued and frustrated, Frollo cancelled all his sessions and audiences for the rest of day. He collected the basket of lunch which his cook had prepared for him and Quasimodo and walked out of the Palace of Justice, where his men and carriage were waiting.

Captain Phoebus, who Frollo surmised was shrewder than the open-hearted nature he portrayed, saluted.

"Good morning sir." Frollo saw an almost imperceptible twitch of Phoebus' eyebrow, as Phoebus observed him. The captain may have learnt to conceal his thoughts from most of his peers and leaders, but not yet from him.

"Are you feeling all right?" Phoebus asked.

There were times when the truth would seem so bizarre that a person would not think it serious.

"I had a little trouble with the fireplace." Frollo said and without waiting for Phoebus' response, stepped onto his carriage.

"To Notre Dame, captain." Frollo closed his eyes and tried to rest during the ride.

-0-

The imposing sight of Notre Dame did not fail to instill awe (and fear, his conscience whispered) in Frollo. He heard the bells signal mid-day. How a simple-minded monster could create such musical harmony was beyond Frollo. He had to believe that it was the Lord's mysterious hand which was guiding the boy, as he swung among the bells. Thereafter, Quasimodo would set up the table and wait for his arrival. But then, this was no ordinary day.

Frollo's eyes gazed intently at the doors of Notre Dame. If Frollo was honest with himself, he did not cancel all his sessions today because he had a headache. Any moment, and he imagined that she was at the entrance, anticipating their meeting as much as he was.

Were the visions yesterday real? Could she be as stunning as when he first set eyes on her as she danced brazenly in front of him? Were the hallucinations last night supportable?

The devil played tricks on a man's mind. Perhaps in the Lord's House, the witch's spells would have weakened and her real form would reveal itself to be hideous. Perhaps the Lord was merciful, and when he reached Notre Dame, the archdeacon would be there to inform him that the witch had been struck down by Saint Michael, for her sheer audacity in hiding in His House from His faithful servant.

Alas, the Lord was a cruel master. For he would soon find that she was not only alive, but as feisty as ever. And just as maddeningly beautiful.

-0-

Unlike Frollo, Esmeralda slept with the ease of a carefree spirit. Her bed, thin and hard to a noble, was a luxury to her. The soup, which the archdeacon remembered to ask the kitchen to give to her, tasted warm and delicious to her. Djali also seemed to be having fun, poking his nose at every corner of the bell tower.

Esmeralda could not remember when it was that she felt this safe. So this was what sanctuary meant.

Not a bad move to stay Esme. Not bad at all.

She was at Quasimodo's table, where his miniature Paris was. Quasimodo was ringing his bells, and she was waiting for him to show her more of the cathedral. It was almost like he was trying to package the whole place and present it to her. A sweet, eager boy.

Esmeralda might be quite careless (Blockheaded blindness, Clopin said), but she could see all the signs in Quasimodo. Sooner or later, she would have to tell Quasimodo that they were only going to be friends.

It was going to be tricky, Quasimodo was someone to be as gentle to as she could, because he never had any friends. That was another thing, the gargoyles did not count. For the time being, she was going to keep it casual.

As the bells chimed, Esmeralda swayed to their rhythm. Although she had told Quasimodo rather self-deprecatingly that dancing kept bread on the table, it was in her blood, and she did love it.

And so she danced.

-0-

Frollo froze at the top of the stairs when he beheld Esmeralda dancing before him. He felt that his visions were returning to haunt him in the day.

But this was different. So different. This was no vague vapors and smoke, or hellish flames. This was… her. Just her. With a private dance for him alone.

And he was helpless in the face of such exquisite delight.

Standing in the shadows where she could not see him, Frollo watched every flick of her wrist, every bounce of her hair, every sparkle in her eye, every skip in her step. Bathed in the warm sunlight, she looked almost innocent. He may have forgotten to breathe when she arched backwards, and his eyes were instantly drawn to her breasts.

Frollo was acutely aware of his arousal. Gripping the handle of his basket to gain some form of reality, he agonized over whether he wanted Esmeralda to continue dancing or whether he should end it. And go over to her and pin her to the table and kiss her all over.

Esmeralda slowed to a halt when the bells stopped ringing. Frollo found that he was unable to move or speak. Then, he saw her turn her head and smile.

"Hi Quasimodo."

Frollo felt like a man rudely awakened when Quasimodo stepped into his line of sight. How happy the boy looked.

"Did you like the bells, Esmeralda?" Quasimodo asked.

"Very much. I choreographed a dance while you were ringing them!"

"I should like to see it," Quasimodo said shyly, "I'm sure it's wonderful."

"It's not finished, so you can't see it yet," Esmeralda winked, "You should understand that as an artist."

They both giggled, like it was a secret joke they shared.

The anger which washed over Frollo was familiar. It was the same anger he felt when Quasimodo had disobeyed him and participated in the festival. It was the same anger when Esmeralda stood up against him and refused to back down.

There was also something else. Something he did not recognize yesterday. It dawned on him that he was jealous. Jealous of a fool, a pitiful fool who had her approach him and protect him. Who had her bestow her hand to him and wipe debris from his face.

Frollo lashed out, "Quasimodo! What do you think you are doing!"

A/N - Thank you for reading! The title of the story comes from Andreas Capellanus' The Art of Courtly Love. The opening line of each chapter will be one of the 31 rules set out in there. I don't necessarily agree with all the rules and not all of them are applicable to Frollo and Esmeralda's relationship, but I am inspired by them. I hope that you enjoy the story as much as I have writing it. =)