Plotted starter for @thetollofthebells
She was late getting back. She was late getting back, and Quasi would worry, and Father would be cross, and—her foot caught in a crack and she stumbled, knocking into a heavyset man who had stopped to admire the pastries. ““Sorry, sorry.” Tugging her hood up higher, she turned away and hurried down the street. Maybe he hadn’t seen her. Maybe, maybe, maybe. He hadn’t shouted, and people usually did, so. Maybe she hadn’t caused a scene. Maybe no one would complain to the Minister of Justice about seeing a demon in the streets. Maybe maybe maybe.
She ducked down side streets and back alleys, holding tight, tight, tight to her basket. Inside set the supplies she’d bought earlier that morning—several loaves of bread and wedges of cheese and a dozen eggs. Tucked beneath the good, she’d nestled the fresh pots of paint she’d also bought, and the two bags of coins Papa had given her. One was for supplies, and only supplies, and came from Father himself. The other was money she’d earned herself, taking in washing—and some mending, though that took longer, because of her hands. That was hers, and Papa let her keep some of it to do with as she liked.
She arrived at the side door of Notre Dame several minutes later. Panting from the dash, she tugged the door open and stepped inside. Claudine paused, blinking in the dim light. The church was cool, and the late afternoon sun streamed in through the rose windows. Squinting in the flickering light from the candles, Claudine started for the stairs that led to the bell tower.
“Well, there you are. We’d began to wonder where you were.”
Claudine flinched and turned to the far door. Her adopted father, the Minister of Justice, Judge Claude Frollo, stood in the doorway, arms folded.
“Y-yes, there was, there was—” Claudine began, but fell silent when Father raised his hand.
“A great crowd, I know, I know. That’s what happenes on market day.” He smiled at her, chuckling quietly when she ducked her head.
“Yes, sir,” she mumbled the words, staring at her shoes to hide her suddenly hot face. Of course there was a crowd. Of course there was. It was market day. It was—and she was being stupid again.
Her father crossed the foyer and held his hand out. “Let me see.” She held the basket out to him and he took it from her, lifting out items and putting them back. “Good, good, you’ve gotten everything on the list.” A pause and then, “Well, what’s this?” He lifted out one of the pots of paint.
“I, I bought that myself. With, with my money.” She made herself look up at him as she spoke, like she was supposed to.
“Did you? Good.” He picked up both bags, the one much lighter than the other, and tucked both into his robes. “Go on.” Papa handed her the basket back and nodded to the stairs. Then, a few moments later, he called, “Claudine.”
Claudine turned to go. When she reached the steps, she paused. “Yes, sir?” Turning back, she looked up at him.
He held one of the bags of coins in his hand. “If there is one sou unaccounted for, you and I will have a conversation, there will be consequences, and I can promise you, they will not be pleasant. Do you understand me, child?”
Claudine swallowed, twisting the fingers of one gloved hand in the other. She had grabbed the right bag. She had, she had, she had. Hadn’t she? What if she hadn’t? Already she could feel her father’s belt against the back of her legs. But she had to say something. She had to. What if he took her silence for guilt? So she managed, “Yes, yes sir, I understand.”
“Good. Go on with you then.” He nodded to the doorway.
Claudine tugged the door open and climbed the stairs, letting the door swing shut behind her. At the top of the stairs, she took the basket in her teeth, using both hands to grip the sides of the ladder as she climbed. At the top, she scrambled to her feet, hooking the basket over her arm. ““Quasi?” she called. “I’m back.”
