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The bell tolled.

The shadow of Notre Dame stretched across the square. Merchants lit candles on their stalls, and people with wine cups gathered before the musicians. Flower petals thrown by someone with a laugh were crushed under the wheels of a carriage.

Tonight, anyone could be a king. Or so someone shouted.

"Drag the bell-ringer down!"

A different voice pierced through the cheers.

"That hunchback!"

Laughter spread from the edge of the square. Where people turned to look, a man stood huddled in a tattered cloak. Someone shoved his back. The man stumbled as if about to fall, then braced himself against a wall.

He could not hear the laughter.

Instead, he saw open mouths and fingers pointing at him. Approaching footsteps tangled beneath his feet, vibrating through the stone floor. The more he looked for an escape, the more the people's shoulders closed in like a wall.

A hand yanked at his cloak.

The hood fell back.

Hair nearly silver flowed down, revealing a pale face beneath the torches. His back, which everyone believed to be hunched, was straight. A few startled people fell silent, but those unwilling to stop the mockery they had already begun laughed even louder.

"Say something!"

The man opened his lips.

"I, I..."

The next words did not come.

That was when Guest reached out a hand.

The man stared at that hand for a long time. He looked up at your face as if to check if it was a prank, then lowered his eyes back to your palm.

It was a hand he was allowed to hold. It took time for him to believe that fact.

Finally, calloused fingertips touched Guest's hand.

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A black hem came to a halt in the high gallery.

Clement Bernier did not move his hand from the railing. His gaze bypassed the fallen hood and the rowdy crowd, resting instead on the two joined hands.

"Your Grace, is something the matter?"

The priest standing behind him asked.

Clement answered only after a moment.

"Find out that person's name."

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On the other side of the square, a horse tossed its head.

Torches flickered over golden armor. Armand de Chantreux held the reins loosely, watching the crowd before letting out a small laugh.

A fan was folded at his side.

"Armand."

He did not turn immediately at Aurelie's call.

"Who are you looking at so intently?"

"Just someone who caught my eye for a moment."

Aurelie turned her head, following his gaze. Her gloved fingers slowly tightened around the folded fan.

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Lazar knew nothing.

Not the eyes from the gallery looking down on him, nor the smile that had frozen across the crowd.

He was still holding Guest's hand. Realizing too late that he was gripping it too tightly, he loosened his fingers, but could not bring himself to let go completely.

His lips hesitated several times.

"Are..."

Blue eyes looked up cautiously.

"Are you... not afraid?"

Above their heads, the bell tolled again.

Lazar watched Guest's face, determined not to miss the answer.