One day in glorious Paris, the archdeacon of the church was walking down the cobblestone streets. She greeted her neighbors with a sincere bow of the head and lifted her robes so they would not get dirt on them. She was a simple, educated girl, well-respected by her fellow Frenchmen.
As she entered the courtyard in front of Notre Dame, she was greeted by a crowd drawn by street performers. Lydia, the archdeacon, heard the strings of a guitar and the patter of feet on the pavement. There was a band and a dancer…an elegant and beautiful dancer.
She dressed in scarlet red with bells on her anklets. Her hair flowed down her back wildly as she pranced around with her tambourine. Lydia stayed silent as she watched her.
“Witches!”
“Monsters!”
“Devils!”
People were yelling from their balconies and windows. Lydia held her tongue as the men next to her started to laugh. “What a joke,” they said. “Can you believe it, mademoiselle archdeacon?”
“No,” Lydia sighed. “Filthy gypsies,” she muttered, in earshot of the dancer who ceased her merriment. She grabbed her hat full of coins and shoved off with her band.

That night, Lydia kneeled before her bed, heart heaving. She bowed her head and prayed to a friend from above.
“Saint Maria, I beseech you. I fear a great evil has taken me,” Lydia confessed. “When I saw that gypsy girl today, my heart- it felt something… I know I cannot have her, for she must be wicked, but still this pain in my chest is crushing me,” the archdeacon cried. “What shall I do?”
Lydia waited for an answer. Then she thought she may receive wisdom in her sleep, yet her dreams resisted her. She spent the night tossing and turning. All her thoughts were consumed by the idea of the gypsy girl’s dancing.

In the morning, Lydia was still struck with the look of the gypsy girl as she turned away from her yesterday. Surely, she cannot give up her faith for a gypsy.
Lydia could not eat the breakfast her servant provided her with. Though she was hungry, she could not eat. The servant thought perhaps she was ill. Lydia told her she only needed fresh air.
Lydia took a stroll down the street and found herself yet again in the courtyard of Notre Dame. It was surprisingly bare.
Then drums chanted from the streets as men were running into the area. They jumped around with drums and bells and whistles. There were acrobats and performers parading around. Two of which placed a table in the middle of the square and laid an embroidered blanket on the top of it. They bowed and clapped. Then they pulled back the blanket and on the table stood the gypsy girl.
“Rosella! Rosella!” The performers cheered her name. Confetti was tossed in her honor, adding wonder to the joyous celebration. Lydia was frozen in thought as she saw the gypsy standing there in the middle of the festival. Time stood still until the music blared out like an army of demons. That is when Rosella danced.
Lydia saw every frame of the gypsy’s dance. Composed, strategic, and graceful. With power and courage, the gypsy overtook even the most intriguing of movements, all at a speed Lydia’s heart could barely stand.
“Silence! Silence!” The Captain of the Guard shouted, scaring half the performers away. “What is going on here?” he demanded.
“A celebration,” one man next to Rosella bowed and awed. “Today, Rosella is a woman.”
“I don’t care for your parties,” the Captain growled, sitting on his high horse. “Be gone from this courtyard or I shall have you hanged.”
“No!” Lydia yelped from her hiding spot. She cowered in the alley when the guard arrived. Sadly, she was in talking distance from the Captain. She was forced to confront him. “You shall not hang them… not unless they confess to witchcraft.”
Rosella scoffed at Lydia’s words. “We’re mere performers, your liege,” Rosella mockingly bowed, setting a fire in Lydia’s heart.
“You bite your tongue in the presence of a noble,” Lydia spat at her.
“Why? Is it unheard of for a lady?” the gypsy snarled.
“I’d be quiet if I were you,” the Captain warned, pulling on the hilt of his sword.
The man with Rosella gently took her by the arm and ushered her away with the other dancers. The celebration was over.
“Wicked scum, aren’t they?” the Captain eyed them cold heartedly. Then he turned to the little archdeacon. “Shall I send my men after them?”
Lydia, lost in thought for a moment, came back and said, “Need not bother. They’re only wanderers. What harm can they do?”
“You must jest?” the Captain told her. “I’ve seen villages torn to saunder by devil folks like these.”
Lydia’s chest burned. “Excuse me, I must go pray.”
“Pray the gypsies away, young lady,” the Captain bowed his head as she returned home.

“Ooo,” she growled, marching around her den. “That witchy woman.” Technically yes, she was now a woman as the man said. “It’s not possible, is it? The girl has been sent to test me,” Lydia groaned. “She will not win. I will… I will… I must- I must have her,” she sighed and fell to the floor. “She will be mine,” Lydia vowed in silence.

Lydia and her servant spent the day...