Ten years had passed since the death of her parents but Belle woke up each siku missing them. As a child she had filled her room with drawings of her parents, “so I don’t forget what they look like,” she had explained to Frollo. As she got older, however, she learned to sketch and was able to replicate a photograph she could remember from their house, of her parents on their wedding day. She had hung it on the opposite ukuta from her kitanda so that whenever she woke up she could see them smiling down at her and it always made her feel better.

Frollo had still maintained the role of her guardianship, but she had seen little of him as she had grown up. He would jiunge her for meals and sometimes allow her to go outside with him, to attend public festivals and other such spectacles that he needed to attend, but she saw the Archdeacon and the other priests of Notre Dame zaidi than she did Frollo. She had grown up knowing a life of prayers and imba from him, but the others had taught her about the other things in life; the moral of looking beyond appearances, the difference between a lifestyle that was different and a lifestyle that was “sinful” and the like. Belle was generally allowed to go out to the bookshop and would usually come nyumbani with handfuls of vitabu which she would read all kwa the end of the night. Her kusoma was encouraged kwa Frollo, although she got the feeling that a lot of the vitabu she read he wouldn’t approve of if he saw them.

Today, Belle scrabbled out of kitanda and threw an excited glance out of the window. Today was the Festival of Fools and although Frollo hadn’t invited her to come along with him as he usually did, nor had he forbidden her from going, as he sometimes did with zaidi wild events that sometimes went on in Paris. Belle was planning to watch the Festival and then go onto the bookshop. moyo racing in anticipation, she pulled on her clothes and hurried to breakfast. Frollo was absent so she ate alone, and then, stopping only to grab her basket and cloak, she skipped downstairs.

“Good morning, Belle,” smiled the Archdeacon as she walked past.

“Good morning,” Belle replied. “Are wewe going to be able to watch the Festival?”

“Possibly,” he replied. “Now wewe mind yourself out there, Belle. wewe know Frollo will only fuss if wewe get into trouble.”

“I don’t get into trouble.”

“No, no, I know that, but wewe know Frollo. Anything seemingly innocent to wewe au I counts as trouble to him.”

Belle nodded. “I’ll be careful.”

“And try to make sure he doesn’t see wewe talking to any gypsies.”

Belle sighed. “What does Frollo have against gypsies anyway?”

“I’m not sure,” the Archdeacon replied, lighting a few of the candles, “but I think he sees their lifestyle as sinful just because it’s different. We are all God’s people, however, and as far as I can see, gypsies do no wrong. Sometimes the true evil can lie much closer to home.”

Belle nodded and made for the door. “I’ll remember that.”

The Festival was a spectacle of upinde wa mvua colour and Belle smiled as the muziki lifted her spirits. All around, the crowds and performers danced in funny costumes and masks as they followed a great parade leading towards the main platform. Streamers and confetti burst around over her head as the muziki reached its peke. At once, Belle’s eyes sought out Frollo and spotted him sitting in his usual kiti, kiti cha in the stands. He didn’t see her and Belle hoped he wouldn’t, just in case one of the gypsies started talking to her. However she quickly became too caught up in the Festival atmosphere to take much notice of him.

“Come one, come all!” The imba picked up. “Leave your loops and milking stools. Coop the hens and pen the mules. Come one, come all! Close the churches and the schools, today’s the siku for breaking rules! Come and jiunge the Feast of...”

“Fools!”

Belle gave a startled half scream as suddenly a gypsy in colourful costume popped up beside her, as if from nowhere. Recovering, she laughed and looked him up and down. His face was hidden behind a purple mask and he wore a blue hat with a yellow feather in it. His costume was yellow, purple and blue in colour and he wore long black gloves. From what she could see of his face he had dark hair and a matching goatee.

“Once a mwaka we throw a party here in town,” he sang, seizing Belle’s hands and spinning her around. Belle stumbled and laughed as she found herself caught up amid a crowd of masked dancer, who, in spite of what Frollo might say about gypsies, didn’t strike her as being at all threatening. “Once a mwaka we turn all Paris upside down,” the man sang on, releasing her, and Belle almost Lost him in the crowd until he popped up again beside her. “Every man’s a king and every king’s a clown. Once again it’s Topsy Turvey Day!”

Belle smiled as a man dressed in a costume that was mean to look as if he were riding a horse tottered past, pulling a large gari with some zaidi masked dancers on it past. The dancers were so elegant and lithe and as Belle shot a glance towards Frollo, who looked completely unamused and untouched kwa this spectacle, she wondered how he could miss the exquisite beauty that was right in front of him.

“It’s the siku the Devil in us gets released,” the gypsy sang, and rather aptly too, as a man in a devil’s costume skipped past them. “It’s the siku we mock the prig and shock the priest. Everything is Topsy Turvey at the Feast of Fools!”

Men in dog costumes walked humans on all fours. Stilt walkers sauntered past with enormously proportioned heads made from sacks and paint. A man in a chef’s costume took a bath in a pot pushed kwa a man in a lobster, kamba costume. Dancers cancanned. Acrobats walked on their hands. Belle whipped her head back and forth; there was so much to see in every direction, it made her dizzy. She had never been this close to the action at the Festival before. It was rather disorientating. She found herself in the midst of the crowd as people danced closer together and suddenly panic filled her as she began to worry that she might never get out au else she might be accidently crushed kwa someone. Balloons filled with confetti popped around her and suddenly all she could see was an array of colour.

“Topsy Turvey!” the crowds sang.

“Everything is upsy daisy!” The gypsy was suddenly back beside her, and then to Belle’s surprise, he put his hands on her waist and lifted her up, setting her onto the stage. Belle hadn’t even realised they were that close to it.

“Topsy Turvey!”

“Everyone is uigizaji crazy! Dross is dhahabu and weeds are a bouqet! That’s the way on Topsy Turvey Day!”

Belle smoothed down her skirt, upindo and settled herself. Now she was out of the action she could relax.

“Topsy Turvey!”

“Beat the drums and blow the trumpets!”

“Topsy Turvey!”

“Join the bums and thieves and strumpets!”

“Streaming in from Chartres to Calais!”

“Scurvy knaves are extra scurvy, on the sixth of Januervy,” her gypsy saviour added, plucking a rose from inside his tunic, and then, to her surprise, handing it to her. Belle took it but before she could say anything, he had vanished from her sight, only to reappear behind her again. “All because it’s Topsy Turvey Day!”

He vanished amid the crowds again and Belle laughed as several clowns came tumbling onto the stage. One saw her and, mutely, began a pantomime of discovering her and trying to work out why she was there. The crowd laughed. Then, even as she protested, Belle found herself dragged to her feet kwa him, in front of everyone. The clowns looked her up and down, causing zaidi laughs, and then the four of them picked her up.

“No, no, no,” Belle began, panicked, and then they tipped her off the stage. Belle’s squeal was cut short as the crowd caught her and began to songesha her along until they tipped her onto a patch of ground as of yet unoccupied kwa anyone. Belle breathed out as her feet touched the ground, and then, turning, she saw the clowns throw themselves into the crowd and be carried to safety in the same way.

“Come one, come all!” The gypsy man, who seemed to be the leader of the Festival, came diving out under someone’s legs in a big finish. “Leave your loops and milking stools. Coop the hens and pen the mules. Come one, come all! Close the churches and the schools, today’s the siku for breaking rules! Come and jiunge the Feast of...Fools!”

This was followed kwa an explosion of red smoke and Belle clapped along with everyone else as the gypsy bowed and tipped his hat to catch the coins the crowd threw to him. He winked at Belle as she raised her head. Belle smiled and then Lost him in a sea of dancers.

The Festival went on. A procession of samaki dancing the can-can; a performance with life-sized animal puppets; a beautiful woman dressed as a mermaid singing; masked musicians; contortionists and tumblers. The whole thing was wonderful, as far as Belle was concerned, although she kept an eye out for her mysterious masked gypsy. Eventually, as the Festival finally came to a close, she did spot him, entertaining some smaller children with a hand puppet. Belle waited until he had finished and the children had left before going up to him.

“Thank wewe for the rose,” she smiled, shyly.

The gypsy smiled back. “You’re very welcome, chere.”

“Oh, very welcome indeed!” he made the hand puppet, a miniature version of himself, squeak.

Belle laughed. “You’re a very good ventriloquist!”

“Well, I was trained kwa the best,” he grinned back.

Belle glanced over her shoulder and spotted Frollo a little way off, although he had his back to her. It looked like it was time for her to make tracks. “Well, I need to get home,” she said, awkwardly.

The gypsy bowed to her. “Then I shall say au revoir, chere.”

“Bye,” Belle replied, turning. “It was nice to meet you.”

Clopin watched her leave, his moyo hammering in his chest. It was her, he was certain of it, it was the girl. But what was her name? Her father had alisema it. He cast his mind back to that siku when, at the age of seventeen, he and his family had been begging in the streets for food, and he had been entertaining some of his younger cousins with his puppetry skills when a young girl had come up and put a sandwich, sandwichi in his hands. He had been surprised, he remembered, and she had alisema with a smile “You look like wewe need this zaidi than I do.” Her father had laughed and then handed his uncle a five franc note, saying “I’m afraid this is all we have to spare, but I hope it goes some way to helping wewe out.” Her mother had then added “You could get quite a lot for that if wewe go to the Busy Bee Bakery, it’s still open tonight.” Clopin had then alisema “Thank you” to the girl, who had chirped back “You’re welcome.” Then her father had alisema “Come along...” what was her name? He racked his brains hard. It began with “B”, he was certain of that; Barbara? Beatrice? Bridget?

The sound of the Notre Dame bells roused him and then he clapped a hand to his forehead. Belle! That was it. “Come along, Belle,” her father had alisema to her. Belle! What a name for one so beautiful as she!

As it was, Belle made it to the bookshop and then hurried back to the cathedral with her basket filled with books. However Frollo had a few things to say to her.

“I know wewe were at the Festival, Belle,” he said, sternly, “and I have to talk to wewe about that.”

“Oh, I am so sorry that they dragged me up on stage,” Belle began.

“Oh, think nothing of it,” Frollo replied. “It wasn’t your fault, child. Many a time I’ve been almost dragged up there against my will kwa those gypsy vermin. No, I saw wewe talking to one of the gypsies earlier.”

Belle thought quickly. “Oh, yes, I was reprimanding him for the actions of his friends, dragging me up the stage like that. Of course, he just laughed it off, so I left. Hateful man.”

Frollo looked surprised, but pleased. “That’s my girl.”