Wrapped in a voice as smooth as silk, clear as glass, beautiful as the water lillies. Her exotic features tease the crowd as they listen to her sing.
Painting colorful words in the air with her voice, clothed in a magenta garment. For an evil gypsy, according to folk-lore, she was as pure as an angel.
The notes drifted to a close, the picture fading. The woman bowed and collected the golden coins scattered at her feet as the crowd sadly dispersed.
The clip-clop of hooves on cobbled stone approached and the woman began to tremor in fear. The soldiers were coming.
The woman fumbled with the coins, shoved them into a hidden pocket sewn into the hem of her dress and ran.
Her bare feet padded noiselessly, yet the anklet she wore jingled as she raced through the streets of Paris. The black velvet blanket of night slipped over her head, and the alleyways became darker with every racing breath she took.
Her magenta gown billowed out behind her, and she cursed the jingle of the bells. Ahead, the bells of Notre-Dame chimed as the evening mass began.
She knocked on the first door she came to, shouting Sanctuary. No answer. She tried the next door with the same results. Beginning to grow weary, all hope she had drained as the horses neared. But still, she ran.
Around the next corner, the doorstep of Notre-Dame herself loomed in front of her. She was almost there.
But alas, the poor gypsy woman's efforts were in vain. A soldier sprang from behind and grabbed her. She gave a yelp of fright, and the man laughed.
Arrangements were made. The next day, as the sun shone high overhead, a crowd gathered in the main Town Square. The woman was tied to a post, still wearing her dark magenta gown. Her heart was black with grief and despair, and she wondered how the sun could still shine upon this evil.
The man who caught her the night before stood before her, dressed in silver armor. He asked if she wished to repent her evil ways, and in answer, she spit in his face.
He dropped the torch he held at her feet. The orange flame licked her gown, dancing for the crowd, dazzling the heartless people of Paris.
In an hours time, all that was left of the woman was the foul smell of burnt flesh, gray ash, and a megenta scarf caught in the wind, dancing through the streets of Paris.
[This was inspired by the Disney movie The Hunchback of Notre-Dame]
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