It was just another beautiful evening in the city of Notre Dame; the luminous orange and pink rays of the sunset ricocheted off of the windows of the church's cathedral, sending multicolored reflections of light out across the city; large Vs of geese flew South; merchants whom were earlier selling their goods had closed up shop and were all conversing about today's sales; and children were playing in the streets, dawned by the looming shadows of the surrounding buildings. Ever since autumn had come around the corner, things have been much more peaceful in this particular city. There was almost no crime, the people got along, and the general feeling of Notre Dame was completely different. It was as if they had come out of their personal Dark Ages.

It was then, the sound of an arrow or two hitting a stone wall was heard. Bolting out of an alleyway was a woman with short dark red hair and with glasses upon the bridge of her nose. Over her glasses, she wore a white Venetian mask with blue markings. She wore a maroon, orange and brown outfit with a one would only see at the Carnivalle in Venice. She also had a matching hat with a large feather on it. She held a long, thin, black box to her chest for dear life. Almost right on her tail was two guards with sturdy-looking crossbows. They pulled one more arrow each out of their quivers, and strung it to the bow string, pulling them back to lock the arrow into place until firing. Taking deadly aim upon the backs of her calves, they fired. The arrows had made cuts across her skin, but it was not a hit. The two guards cursed at their second miss.

The woman headed into the town square; for she was sure that the large crowd would make it easier for her to escape…. Unless of course, the guards called out, "Saisissez l'italien!" meaning, "Grab the Italian!" All may be right between the people of Notre Dame, but this was a rough time between the French and the Italians. The only reason the guards were after her, was because they had orders to capture and interrogate all Italians residing in Notre Dame. And the only reasons they knew that she were Italian, was one: because she could speak English and Italian only, not French; two: she had quite a thick Italian accent; and three: because all of her physical features showed it.

She ran headstrong into the large crowd around the water fountain, shoving and pushing people to let her blend in with them. She guessed that many had already figured out that she was Italian, for they gave her accusing looks. But luckily enough for her, they did not think much of it at all. Other people just stood there with dumbfounded expressions upon their faces, watching her go.

She eventually made it to the other side of the crowd, and had stumbled into an alley. Tripping on a wooden crate, she fell forward, stretching out her arms to not let any harm come to the box she possessed, and knocking the wind out of her entirely. Moaning a little in pain, she stood up and looked over her shoulder back towards the crowd. She let out a small sigh of relief when she realized the guards had lost her. She walked a little further into the alley, and sat in between two large carts that had hay stacked upon them.

She decided to open her box. With a broad smile, she carefully opened the lid. Inside was perhaps the most beautiful flute anyone had ever seen. Even without the light of the sun or moon, it glimmered, reflecting its own light in small proportions. Not only that, but it was spotless, too. She pulled a cloth out of her pocket and laid it atop the flute for cleaning after she played it later. Closing the lid, she held the box to her. Right now, nothing else in the world could make her happier than her flute did.

"Hey Piper!" A voice was heard that she knew all too well. Sighing, she turned to face the end of the alley opposite of the end she had run in from. Standing there was a red haired man, about six foot two. Giorgio Flarenze. "Are you still running?"

"Yes." She answered him with a groan. "Why, Strings?" She decided to play his nickname game.

"Ha ha, yes, that was me." He chuckled.

"You still are." She said flatly. "I do not see how you could have possibly given up such a lovely violin. Was it truly worth it?"

"Yes… and no." He scratched behind his head. "I had no choice, for I wished to make a living. And now I have a family to support."

"We did make a living." She protested. "And we had a family… brother…"

"Do you now? No. You constantly refuse to be interrogated only once, and you hang on to that flute like it's your lover!" His expression softened. "Times have changed, Piper. No one wants to listen to music anymore. Especially not in this city if they have to pay for it. And… we were siblings only through music. Remember that, Piper."

Infuriated by his words, she stood up and walked over to him, ready to slap him clear across the face. He recognized the anger in her eyes, and quickly looked for a solution. But, finding none, he decided to just leave. Making it to the end of the alley, she looked around to find him in the main street, but he was gone like the wind. Sighing in disbelief, she walked out into the open. Taking another quick look around, she noticed a man sitting on a bench being cast over by rays of the setting sun.

He wore a long black truss, a bulbous black and green hat with a red ribbon, black shoes, and a few bejeweled rings upon his long, pale fingers. He had pale skin most likely from lack of sunlight, short grey hair, and a long face with small shadows under his eyes. He sat with his head in his hands, looking down with a very depressed look upon his face.

The moment "Piper" saw him, it was as if a rock had slammed into her chest, and a song instantly sprang into mind. She held her flute tightly to herself, and slowly approached the stranger.

A tall man dressed in a black truss walked through the streets of Notre Dame at sunset. He adjusted his large hat and looked down, inspecting the tiny grey mice that had gathered at his feet. He let out a sigh and continued walking, scaring the mice away, making them scatter in all directions. He was in no mood to deal with much of anything this particular day.

Many merchants who were closing up shop stopped what they were doing and looked at him, wondering if he wanted to buy anything. They called out to him in a friendly tone, but one look at his face told them that he was not to be disturbed from his train of thought. But, to their utmost surprise, he looked at them, and without smiling, waved to them.

Looking back down, he continued walking to no chosen destination whatsoever. He stopped once and looked up. Somewhere in the distance, he had heard the sound of two crossbows being shot, and then the sound of two arrows hitting a stone wall. Uncertain of what to make of the noise, he kept on walking, only this time, with his head held up. His eyes darted around as he scanned the area, making sure that there was no suspicious activity. Notre Dame these days may have almost no crime, but one could not be too careful, for there were Italian refugees, escapees, illegal immigrants, and spies in Paris.

He sighed once again and cursed himself for ever allowing France's battalion to ever try and go claim Italy. It started with only the Southern island, Sicily, for its fertile land and beautifully delicious tomatoes. The people of Sicily had given in when they saw the French battalion, so there was no struggle and no killing whatsoever. That was a good thing, and he counted it as a blessing. Then the tides began to change, and the battalion had taken an irresponsible action without orders to do so. They had moved north into the mainland, setting a course for Rome.

Rome was once the unmatched Roman Empire. They had ruled ninety percent of the world, and to this day, although the Empire no longer exists, it remains unmatched. The leader of the battalion must have believed that the Empire still existed, and if they could claim it, they would claim that ninety percent of the world. He guessed that they were sorely disappointed when they realized that the Empire had fallen, and Italy was its own country.

The next move they made was going into Florence. He always believed that the French admired and appreciated art the most, so he believed that it was Florence's museums and fine architecture that had driven them there. Not to mention Milan. He shuddered at the thought of all the fine artwork that must have been stolen, and will be brought back to Paris.

And lastly, as if to only make it worse, the battalion had attacked the Venetians during Carnivalle; the most loved time of the year for the denizens of Venice. What was in Venice besides a gorgeous opera house, he was not sure, but he knew that it was a bad idea. Since he was out of touch with the leader of the battalion, there was nothing he could do about it. He hated the thought of all of the innocent, friendly Italians being slaughtered for no reason. He had no choice but to blame it on himself.

Another thing that has him depressed is the fact that Esmeralda, the gypsy woman who had actually stolen his heart, giving him a strange, burning desire, had left the city six years ago, and has not been seen since. He no longer felt for her, which in his opinion was a good thing, but he could not help but wonder about her. What she was doing, where she is, if she is happy, so on and so forth.

He felt that her leaving had caused him to be a better person all together. Thinking back on himself, he had found out exactly how cruel he had been to everyone around him, and it made him feel sick. He wanted to apologize to everyone he had been a jerk to, but he had not the courage, and he did not think that it would make a difference. So, he focused on changing himself, which seemed to work. Although he was greatly angered with himself for deliberately allowing the invasion of Italy, he was satisfied and happy with his new self. He was kind to everyone now, and they showed the same kindness back to him.

All of a sudden, he heard two more arrows being shot. This time, the dull thud told him that they had sank into the ground. Looking around, he found that he had somehow stumbled into the main street. He stopped in midstride and looked back over his shoulder. There was nothing but a small amount of people all scattered in the street, walking towards their destinations. He rubbed his eyes, and even thought about pinching himself, just to make sure that he was not dreaming or fantasizing the noises he was hearing.

Finding a bench, he sat down with his elbows on his knees, and held his head in his hands. He sat there motionless for a few minutes, until he heard gentle footsteps coming his way. Snapping his head up, he locked eyes with a woman with eyes that seemed to shift back and forth from green to hazel, dark red, shoulder-length hair, pale skin, long legs, and a decent hourglass figure. She wore glasses under a white Venetian mask with blue markings and Venetian Carnivalle clothing, and she was holding a black box to her chest. "Piper".

"Hmm…" the man studied her appearance further. He looked back up to her with a small smile upon his face. "You must be the Venetian woman the guards are so worked up about."

"Piper" felt a pain in her chest as he said those words to her. She was not sure how to take it, and was concerned if she had made a mistake of revealing herself to him.

"Um…" she was unsure of what to say. Her accent and disability to speak French was a dead giveaway. She gave up on thinking of ways to fool him, and changed the subject to the reason she had approached him. "Would you like to hear a song, signore?" She asked with a shy smile.

The man now looked somewhat amused. "I do not have any money with me at the moment." He said sadly.

"Piper" proceeded to take out her flute and put it together. "You need not pay." She said. Flashing a smile at him, she put the mouthpiece of the flute to her full bottom lip.

The flute must have been the finest tuned instrument in Paris, for the man had never heard such a beautiful sound. Allowing the music to enter him through his ears and flow through his body, he was truly moved by her playing. Not only that, but she danced as she played, moving to her rhythm, and with the emotion that the sound of her flute produced, truly entertaining him. He found himself somewhat mesmerized by the entire act, and her. He began to feel strange, but forced the feeling away.

She timed herself carefully, and slowly and rhythmically waltzed over to him. She ended it with an arpeggio followed by a low G, then a B above the scale. Feeling in the moment of the performance like she had when she was with the other musicians, without thinking, she leaned forward and kissed both of his cheeks… just like any other Venetian musician would. His bewildered expression pulled her back to reality and told her, "Big. Mistake." Suddenly feeling frightened, she backed away from him.

"Please, forgive me… I…" She could not find the words to express just how sorry she was. Surprisingly, he held up a hand and smiled at her.

"Thank you." He said kindly. "That was the first time in ages music truly touched my heart."

"Really?" "Piper" was overjoyed to hear this. "I am glad you enjoyed it, signor…?"

"Frollo. Claude Frollo." He walked over to her and kissed the back of her left hand. This sent him an adrenaline rush he knew all too well, so he stepped back a few paces. "Judge, minister… and Frenchman." She giggled. "And you are?"

In her performing days, she would only have been known as "Piper", or "The Pied Piper", "Minstrel", and even as "Treble Clef". But, since those days were over, she finally felt no harm in letting a lone listener in on her real name.

"Diorio. Samantha Diorio." She mimicked his introduction style, making him chuckle. "Musician, cook… and Italian."

Claude pondered on something for a moment, then asked. "Mademoiselle, how would you like to be my personal minstrel, cook… and Italian?" The last part made her giggle again. "You may live in the cathedral with the archdeacon and I, perform your duties, and be happy." He smiled. "It must be a hard life, always being trailed by guards, and living in fear."

Samantha was so happy; she felt she could sing two octaves above the scale. "Thank you, signor Frollo! But… how do I be your Italian?" She smiled at him.

"I shall figure something out." Claude instantly began to feel relieved for he was helping one of many people who must have lost their families, but at the same time, he felt regret. His strange feelings were coming back to haunt him. That could be a very bad thing in the future, or perhaps this experience would teach him how to control himself. He could only hope that learning control was the case. He no longer wished to feel a victim to sin… especially since he was a man of religion.