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Chapter Text

“It's damp and dark and stinks of sewage.”

“Exactly! It's the perfect place because the gadjes will never think to look there!”

“And what of disease? Or cave-ins? It would take nothing short of a miracle to get the place even remotely livable!”

“Well, there will need to be ventilation shafts reinforced or dug anew. But I've got ideas for all that too! Ideas to make miracles happen! Trust me, my friend, this is by far the best option for our tribe.”

Rom Baro stroked his beard as he studied the overly eager young man before him. The kid was barely out of his teens, with a pathetic smattering of stubble where he apparently hoped to grow a goatee. He was a lowly grifter in the tribe. But a talented one. He had perfected the role of a doddering, stumbling old man, which he used to beg for coins or to distract a mark while stealing food. Sometimes he would get so deeply into character that his “old man” became a senile, slobbering mess that had women wailing over his poor, decrepit state. It was such an effective game that he had ceased to be known even among the tribe by the name his mother had given him, and was much better known as le Clopin Trouillefou—the stumbling, mad fool. And yet the very next hour after his signature act, that same “mad fool” would be dressed as a clown while juggling, tumbling, performing puppetry for local children, making them laugh uproariously, and earning still more of the people's coin. He was bright, talented, and full of energy and ambition. This lad was sure to go far.

But as things stood now, Clopin was barely a name in Rom Baro's consciousness. While all of his people were of lowly birth compared to the Europeans surrounding them, Clopin was almost as low ranking as a Rom could get. If they still exercised the caste system that their ancestors had been subjected to in their homeland, Clopin would be considered an untouchable even among the untouchables. And the plan he had now was, frankly, every bit as mad as his namesake character. But it was also the only plan that had yet been offered. And it was just the sort of plan that was mad enough to work.

“Alright, lad, we'll try it your way, at least until something better comes along. But...you are to take the lead in guarding our new home from the gadjes. If they come looking for us...”

“I promise you, Rom Baro, they will never find us!” Clopin held up a hand in an oath.

“Mmm,” Rom Baro grunted. “So you say. But if they do, you will have a very special role to play.”

Clopin's face lit up. “And what's that?”

“You, Clopin Trouillefou, are to surrender yourself as the King of Gypsies.”

“Ah...what?” Clopin's smile melted into a look of utter confusion, his brow furrowed.

Rom Baro smiled deviously. “It's simple, really. The gadjes want to know exactly how our people's leadership structures work, and they are convinced that they will destroy us by capturing our leaders. If they are equally convinced that they have our 'king' in their possession, they will be content to ignore the rest of us, believing we will fall apart and be easy to pick off later. Meanwhile, the rest of the tribe escapes to live another day, little worse off for the loss of one of our lowly members.”

“Ah-huh,” Clopin mumbled, suddenly much less sure of his brilliant plan. He'd felt so proud discovering this new hiding place. Surely it would net him some points with the head of the tribe. But all that sense of accomplishment wafted away as his ego deflated. He was still just a lowly beggar, and always would be. And now, he was considered totally expendable.

Rom Baro clapped a hand on the young man's shoulder. “Don't worry, lad, you'll only have to throw yourself on the mercy of the gadjes if they find our new hiding place, which you've assured me they never will.”

Well. Clopin admitted to himself that that was...fair. Or as fair as things could get when his people had been living in permanent survival mode for much of the last three centuries. But then he smiled as another thought came to him. He had to get in the last jab.

“Well, Rom Baro, every king needs a court. And since it will take a miracle to make our new home a home to be proud of, we shall call it...the Court of Miracles!”

Rom Baro pinched the bridge of his nose and then ran his hand down his face, releasing a longsuffering sigh as he did so. This boy survived on pure audacity alone. The Romani leader could only hope and pray that Clopin managed enough of that audacity to spare all of them a grisly fate at the hands of their enemies.
….....................................

Fifteen years later, Clopin had indeed managed to grow a fine goatee. The Court of Miracles thrived against all odds, and Clopin was not humble about it. Not even remotely. To hear him tell the story—complete with puppets—one would think he'd singlehandedly saved his entire tribe from a great holocaust. Despite his often insufferable ego, Clopin had a charisma and charm that endeared people to him against their better judgment (and they'd openly admit it). He steadily rose in the ranks, and even impressed high ranking members of nomadic tribes that passed through Paris. Yet he retained his title of Gypsy King, appointed to the role of bearing the penalty for his people's sins should the Parisian law ever come to call them to account. And with Judge Claude Frollo presiding over all of Paris' courts and legal proceedings for the past decade, life was more dangerous than ever for the Roma.

It was Rom Baro's hope that if Clopin were ever caught, the fact that the Court of Miracles was his baby would be more than enough to keep him from giving up the rest of the tribe. Of course, the fact that Clopin now had children to look after also meant that Rom Baro would be obligated to put at least some effort into mounting a rescue. Young Esmeralda had no one else, and was shielded from the cruelties of life, even within the Court, solely by her elder cousin's sheer stubbornness and determination to be relevant. To say nothing of Clopin's own offspring, who had been left without mothers themselves at very young ages. The Court's ironic king-jester was all they had left.

These truths didn't stop Rom Baro from secretly hoping Clopin would get dragged off by the zealous judge just so he wouldn't have to deal with the younger man anymore. But they did add a modicum of guilt to such thoughts. Clopin wasn't a bad sort, after all. He'd proven true to his word to build and protect the Court, and he guarded them with the same zeal with which Frollo hunted them.

So the first time Clopin had to cash in his title, it didn't come as a surprise to Rom Baro. But it did impress him so much that he decided to do something insane: He gave Clopin a major promotion.

Clopin had returned from working in town when he saw some of Frollo's guards sniffing around the graveyard that served as the entrance to the Court of Miracles. He knew he had to distract them, and he dove right into doing so. He darted back and forth, in and out of the headstones and trees, calling out to the guards in mocking, sing-song tones. For a long time, the guards were never able to see more than a glimpse of the slippery man, and soon they lost all trace of their purses, belts and small weapons. And then the horses “mysteriously” spooked and ran off.

That ticked the guards off, and while some of them got dumber, one got smart. And Clopin got caught.

But he'd prepared a contingency plan.

“What are you doing in this old graveyard, Gypsy?” one of the oafish guards demanded, snorting in Clopin's face as he spoke.

Clopin gagged at the man's breath, but collected himself. “Why...I was simply visiting my old friends who were left here by the dear old undertaker. I wasn't hiding my loot or anything. I swear!”

The guard took the bait. “He's got stolen goods hidden around here! Find them!”

After that it was a game of reverse psychology. “I'll never tell you where they are! But they're certainly not anywhere near the big cross. Oh, darn it, I meant to say they're not to the left of it!”

The guards unearthed the cache Clopin had buried. He kept a pained grin on his face as they proceeded to confiscate his entire day's earnings, including the food he'd brought back for the kids' supper. Today, at least, not one bit of his loot had been stolen, and he'd worked hard to earn it.

“This is going straight to Judge Frollo,” the oafish guard needlessly announced as he shook the bag in front of Clopin's face. He then ordered the guards to haul Clopin away.

The first time Clopin was brought before Frollo, he had a hard time understanding why anyone should be intimidated by the grumpy, gloomy old man who looked like he'd aged 20 years in the ten he'd been in his position of power. And then Frollo opened his mouth, and Clopin couldn't help but shudder at the baritone voice that clearly meant business. He idly wondered if the judge did any singing in his spare time. Surely he had a decent set of pipes.

“You have one minute to save your life, Gypsy. Now, tell me, where is your so-called Court of Miracles, and who leads it?”

Straight to the point, then. Clopin rolled his eyes. But in the back of his mind, he was concerned that this gadjo even knew what the Court of Miracles was. Who had talked? Clopin was going to fillet them alive later.

“Never heard of it,” was his reply.

“Don't play coy with me,” Frollo growled. “Our intelligence has revealed an underground nest of your kind, and I want to know where it is. I can assure you, if you cooperate, you will at worst spend your life in prison. But if you're uncooperative, it'll be the noose at dawn.”

“That long, eh? Not afraid I'll escape in that time?”

Frollo leaned back and smiled. “Not in the least. You'll be in too much pain from the interrogation in our specialized chambers.”

Clopin was successful at suppressing a shudder, though it took considerable effort.

“Now, where is this Court of yours?”

“As if I would ever tell you.”

“And why not? What could possibly inspire such loyalty to what is surely a terrible place to exist in squalor?”

“It's my job to protect them,” Clopin said simply, looking straight at the judge with a matter-of-fact expression.

“Your job? You're one of the guards?”

“No.” Clopin bit his lip. This was his reckoning. “They call me King of Gypsies. It's an elected position, but it bears great responsibility, as I'm sure you can imagine.” Frollo's interest was piqued, so Clopin continued. “We prefer not to deal directly with the likes of you, but if left with no choice, I'm the one who represents them. I also run the supply chains, which will be harder now that your goons have discovered my most recent cache location.” He said the last bit under his breath, then winced and looked up sheepishly at Frollo. It was more bait, and Clopin waited to see if Frollo would be hooked.

He was. The judge smirked. “I've heard you in the square, and I must say, you don't seem to know how to speak quietly.” He waved the guard out. “Take this...King of Gypsies to the dungeon and prepare the gallows for the morning. We'll continue this interrogation into the night, and in the morning, the Gypsies will find themselves short one 'royal' leader. Scour the grounds of the graveyard for anything he may have left behind, then move on. We will find that hideout eventually.”

A night of beatings and whippings later, Clopin was roughly hauled out to the gallows. He was proud of himself. After all that, he hadn't given up anything of value. At most, his tale of how he became the Gypsy King got more elaborate with each retelling, and had evolved into an epic fantasy that Clopin would've written down if he'd had a prayer of writing legibly even in the best of times (not that he couldn't write; he just wasn't very good at it). It would've made the best puppet show ever.

And yet he couldn't stop the cold sweat that came over him when he saw the executioner loop the rope over the gallows and tie the noose. The man did it in a very showy manner, too, as if to drive home the point that today, Clopin Trouillefou would die.

A priest was there to offer last rites, but Clopin pointedly ignored him. He had no use for priests. Their religion and stories weren't for him. They were for Europe, not for those whose origins traced back beyond the highest mountains in the world. He may not have known what lay beyond this life, be it heaven, hell, reincarnation or oblivion, but he certainly hoped it wasn't boring. Moreso, he hoped someone would step up and take care of Esmeralda and his other little ones. After all, the Court owed him. He was effectively taking the punishment for his people's many transgressions. Like breathing and eating and generally existing. Not that he was bitter or anything.

The noose was placed around his neck, snapping him out of his thoughts. The trap door was opened, replacing all his thoughts with panic.

And suddenly Clopin landed in a pained heap on the ground below, which replaced his panic with bewilderment, irritation and utter relief.

It took him less than a moment to process the fact that he wasn't dead. He looked up to see a hatchet embedded in the gallows beam. Had to be the work of Pavel, one of the newer members of the Court. He was prized for his unequaled aim with most any small weapon.

Clopin had no time to dwell on this as he made a mad dash in the direction the hatchet had clearly flown from. Years of parkour really came in handy, especially with his hands still bound behind him. The hooded figures in the crowd were unmistakably Roma. His brethren embraced him quickly and cut his bonds.

“Let's get you home, your majesty,” Pavel teased, his eastern accent thick but not unintelligible.

As they ran, Clopin spun briefly and shouted, “By the way, judge...I lied! About everything! And you owe me one day's wages, earned fair and square!” He gave a cackle before flipping back around and breaking into a full on sprint.

The sounds of Frollo raging at the world in general were sweet music to Clopin's ears as they faded into the distance. Yes, that man did have quite a nice set of pipes on him indeed.
…..................................

Everyone in the Court wanted to hear Clopin's story, and he was glad to oblige. So long as they let him have his wounds tended to in the meantime. He'd come to be rather proud of the stripes he now bore. His kids swarmed and glomped him, forcing him to clench his teeth against the pain as they accidentally aggravated his injuries. Esme in particular fussed over him and announced that at ten years old, she was more than mature enough to oversee his wound care.

She wasn't wrong, actually.

Clopin was fed a hot meal and praised, with some of the older women fussing over him almost as much as Esme was.

As Clopin was regaling everyone around mouthfuls of bread and soup, the crowd parted for their tribal leader. Rom Baro required a cane now, but still carried himself with the dignity owed his position. He stopped before Clopin.

“Well done,” he said, a genuine smile shining behind his silver whiskers. “The lengths to which you continuously go to prove yourself are nothing short of incredible. And your success has given you a terrible ego.”

The crowd chuckled while Clopin blushed a bit, then shrugged. “It's well earned,” he said.

“True. Just don't let it trip you up. Because it could very well cost the Court greatly to lose you again.”

“What do you mean? I'm just a lowly puppeteer. I'm very nearly expendable.”

“Ah, some humility at last,” Rom Baro said with a teasing smile. He addressed the crowd. “I'm going to do something highly unconventional. Today, I am choosing my successor, who will be my apprentice. And when I am no longer fit to lead, he will take over as your new Rom baro. When I am gone, you will rely on the guidance of Clopin Trouillefou.”

Clopin's jaw dropped, and the roll he'd been munching on suddenly became a much-welcomed offering for the first dog that saw it land on the floor.

The audience was equally shocked. Suddenly applause and cheering went up. The Roma praised their leader as crazy, but wise. Clopin was, apparently, simultaneously the worst and best choice to succeed Rom Baro. Though some of the elders did grumble, as convention would've seen one of them come to the position next.

Clopin sat dumbfounded for a good minute. In a split second, he'd gone from mid-tier to top of the pack. He boasted about deserving more than he was getting all the time, but even he never saw himself in such a lofty position at his age.

Rom Baro winked at him. “I suppose now you'll have to choose a new Gypsy King,” he said.

Clopin hummed for a moment. “Actually...I think we need a few more safeguards. I'll stay Gypsy King for now, at least until we can set up a chain of command that won't leave us without a leader if someone in authority gets caught.”

Rom Baro's eyebrows went up. Clopin never failed to surprise him. There were times he seemed every bit the fool his stage name said he was. And then there were others he seemed to be wise beyond his years, and intelligent beyond his education. “Excellent idea,” Rom Baro said. “Well, finish your meal and get some rest. Your apprenticeship starts in the morning.”

Chapter Text

Another ten years passed. Rom Baro slipped away quietly in his sleep one night, and Clopin was in charge of the funeral. It was as opulent as a beloved leader deserved, yet Frollo was none the wiser. Clopin had carefully maneuvered everything so that the funeral remained a secret, even though it was above ground. Rom Baro was buried in a carefully hidden graveyard used just by the Court of Miracles, and his worldly possessions were returned to him on a pyre that should've attracted the attention of Frollo's men, were it not for a larger controlled burn that was conveniently happening elsewhere outside the city. After all, the Roma may not have been native to the land, but surely they should still be good stewards of it. They couldn't let all that underbrush become so hazardous it threatened the ecosystem. Even if it was winter, and it was purely a coincidence that the burn was happening on the day of a very important funeral, and they lacked the appropriate permits, meaning the guards had to deal with such an infraction immediately and couldn't be bothered to deal with an old Gypsy who had already assumed room temperature. All just serendipitous happenstance, Clopin swore.

His official title now was Rom baro—the big man. He was easily the youngest Rom baro he had ever personally known, and a few of the elders weren't shy about saying he was the youngest such leader they'd ever known too. And by now, Clopin wore many hats. Father (both adoptive and biological), leader, jester, puppeteer, king of truands (that one was a gift from various criminal gangs and black marketeers that the Roma dealt with), master of ceremonies for the Festival of Fools...and King of Gypsies. He had kept the role and organized a robust hierarchy that had a whole line of potential successors, all of whom also acted as Clopin's advisors and enforcers, ready to take command in the event he himself were ever captured or killed. They were fiercely loyal to him. Third in line for Clopin's position was the hatchet marksman Pavel, who had become one of Clopin's dearest friends. But it would remain primarily Clopin's job to sacrifice himself for the tribe. Others had plenty of opportunities, and despite Clopin forbidding it, there were still a handful of “Gypsy kings” who went to prison and even to their deaths swearing they were the leaders of the Court of Miracles. It was a testament to how effective and beloved Clopin had become as a leader. A boy of lowly birth, who had started out as nothing more than a scapegoat with an overbearing sense of humor that utterly replaced any sense of personal space he might otherwise have had, had grown into a fierce protector whose title of king was becoming less and less tongue-in-cheek by the day.

And then Clopin's greatest failure happened.

After years of being exceedingly careful about guarding his hideout, Clopin had taken all the guards off the entrance in one moment of lapsed judgment, all because they'd caught an especially lucrative prize. It should've occurred to him just as readily as it should have occurred to the ex-captain of the guard that Frollo would be using his hunchbacked bell ringer as bait to lead him to the Court of Miracles he'd sought so long. That one mistake had cost the Gypsy King his home, his life's work and his dignity.

And this time, Frollo made sure no doubts remained as to Clopin's authority in his tribe before he was sent to the torture chamber. The Rom was reduced to begging Frollo to punish him alone, and his pleas fell on deaf ears. Esmeralda's execution by burning at the stake was to move forward as planned, followed by the hanging of every adult Romani. The children would grow up in prison and be hanged at sixteen. The infants would be raised in orphanages and taught to hate their heritage, then they would be sent out to ferret out all the rest of the Roma in France. Frollo was not hesitant to lay out his plan to completely eradicate the Parisian Roma, and Clopin couldn't tell if it was the plot for genocide or the fresh lashes on his back that made him more nauseous. But he was breaking, and Frollo was giddy about it.

It was only when Frollo decided to turn in for the night that Clopin was finally returned to his cell. The Gypsy King lay on his stomach in utter despair. He was supposed to be the scapegoat. He was supposed to take everyone's torture and everyone's wounds. He was supposed to sacrifice himself for them. But he'd failed. He had acted like some sort of demigod of mischief for so long that even he had seemed to forget he was merely human. His ego had cost him everything. His ego had condemned his people to death.

So Clopin couldn't tell if it was more fitting or more ironic that his people's salvation came out of the church. In the form of a half-Romani young man with severe kyphosis and facial deformities, true, but he still literally came out of the church to save Esmeralda and kick off the battle for Notre Dame.

Clopin's mood began to pick up at that point, and he'd even been able to hum a little reprise of his “Topsy-Turvy” song while getting acquainted with his new favorite weapon of all time, the scythe.

The battle won and Frollo now dead, the Roma suddenly found themselves free to mingle with the crowds of French Parisians. Tensions arose, but Phoebus returned to his role as captain of the guard to establish a sort of peace between the two factions. The Roma couldn't return to the Court of Miracles. But Phoebus and the Archdeacon both worked with Clopin to establish a quarter within the city for the Roma to settle. It was run down and unwanted, and it was the only place the French Parisians could be persuaded to let the Roma live. But Clopin had chosen a worse fixer upper and made it thrive. He could make this one work too. Especially since he had Esmeralda to help. She was turning into quite the capable leader herself, and would likely make a great addition to his chain of command within mere years.

There also wasn't too much need for a King of Gypsies anymore. The title became an artifact more than anything. Especially since any Romani of any status was ready to take on the role of the scapegoat for their tribe. Clopin sometimes threw his title around to remind someone that it was his job alone to make sure that any government wrath toward the Roma fell squarely on him. But part of him was relieved it wasn't his job in practice to bear that burden alone anymore. He just couldn't do it. He was just a man.

How any one man could ever play that role alone was beyond him. There was a time it wasn't unimaginable, but that time was long past.
…....................................................

As the years passed, the Roma settled into a fairly easy rhythm. Clopin's oldest, a son who had been saddled at a young age with the nickname Chat due to his tendency to find himself in many a predicament while feigning ignorance as to how he got there, had decided prior to Frollo's demise that he wanted to become a lawyer, and eventually a judge. Clopin found it laughable, and at one time had even considered it grounds for ejection from the Court if Chat didn't come to his senses. But if Chat was anything like him (and Clopin was seeing more and more as the boy grew that he was in many ways very much like him), he had the sheer audacity to achieve what he wanted despite the odds stacked against him. And so Clopin allowed Chat's studies. He could potentially be a boon to the Roma just by being well versed in French law. And Chat had always taken much more naturally to both reading and language than Clopin ever had.

That led first to Chat spending an inordinate amount of time in church and school (the Archdeacon happily tutored the boy in Latin), which then led to Chat carrying stacks of books practically everywhere he went. And where Clopin lacked a sense of personal space or an indoor voice that wasn't intended for drama, Chat lacked the ability to keep literally any new factoid he found to himself. So Clopin found himself very begrudgingly learning Latin and law despite his best efforts.

“Hey, Papa, listen to this bit about the scapegoat. It says here that the Israelite priest was to put the sins of the people on a goat meant to bear their sins away from camp. It was part of a sacrifice ritual. And this commentary here says it was a messianic prophecy.”

Clopin tried to resist. He really did. But his mouth voiced that teeny tiny inkling of curiosity purely against his orders. “A what prophecy?”

“A prophecy about the coming Messiah. Which is the Hebrew title for Christ. Like, it's literally a translation. Christ is Greek, Messiah is Hebrew. So the scapegoat prophesied Christ.”

Welp, he was hooked. He wanted to know more about this scapegoat. He had idly wondered where the term came from before, and this was his chance to find out. Clopin walked over to peer over Chat's shoulder. The texts were all in Latin and Greek and other languages Clopin didn't recognize, so he was not at all sure what he was supposed to gain from this.

Chat smiled that satisfied type of smile one associates with a cat that has finally caught an elusive mouse. Yeah, there was good reason for his nickname, even now. “See, Christ is the King of the Jews, but He was born in a lowly stable and raised as a carpenter's boy. And then He became a teacher in His community and led no fewer than twelve men, spreading His message wherever He went and accomplishing great things. But He stayed humble through it all. And then He was taken and beaten and flogged, and then killed on a cross by the Sanhedrin and the Roman government, to atone for our sins and take them away. He was King, but He became the scapegoat for His people, and for all the rest of the world.

“I know you don't think too much of it, Papa, but I thought it was interesting. This whole bit about being a scapegoat and being called a king, and even the lowly birth...well, it reminded me of you. Christ did...a lot of what you did to try and save our people. Except He saved the whole world. And, well, as we all know with Easter coming up and everything, He didn't stay dead, but rose as a way to seal the deal. But...I just figured maybe you could relate to Him at least a bit.”

His impromptu sermon finished, Chat sat back in satisfaction and watched his father mentally ruminate over all of the new information.

It worked. Things clicked into place in Clopin's brain. Suddenly he got it. The stories the church drilled into children from the cradle weren't just for the people of Europe after all. They were actually for his people too. He stared at the mess of textbooks wordlessly for some time. And then he left just as silently.

Hours later, Esmeralda found him in the last place one would expect to find Clopin Trouillefou if he had literally any other option left: The sanctuary of Notre Dame Cathedral. Either Quasimodo or the Archdeacon had snitched on his location, and Clopin didn't really care which it was (though it was probably Quasimodo, since he'd sent for Esme). The Rom was staring quietly at the large crucifix above the altar. As the world entered the Easter season, the altar was decorated with flowers, and the crucifix had a purple sash draped over it.

Esme sat quietly next to her cousin-slash-foster father and wrapped an arm around his shoulder. After a few moments, she said, “When Frollo trapped me in here, the Archdeacon naturally suggested I pray about my situation. So I took his advice. It did help. I thought that maybe, since they say God became human, that maybe He could understand what it was like to be an outcast. And then Chat told me some time later that God didn't just become any human, but a Jew specifically. Which meant He must've absolutely been an outcast once. Since the Jews are in a pretty similar situation to us. I don't know what Frollo believed, but I don't think he actually believed in any of...this.” She waved a hand in the direction of the altar. “He was probably God in his own mind. But...I like to believe that maybe Jesus Christ, whatever His title or role might've been, would've been on our side in our fight against Frollo. In fact, I'm pretty well convinced He was.”

“What makes you so sure of that?” Clopin asked, very softly for once.

Esme sighed as she recounted the tale. “When Frollo was trying to kill us upstairs, he was perched on one of those gargoyle spouts. And he had a sword, and...he raised it up...and then he said, all dramatically, 'And He shall smite the wicked and plunge them into the fiery pit!'” She deepened her voice in an attempt to imitate Frollo. Clopin couldn't help but chuckle.

“And then the gargoyle cracked,” Esme continued. “And Frollo plunged into the fire down below. Well, the molten...whatever it was that Quasi dumped all over. But it was like God Himself said, 'As you wish.' It was perfect, honestly.”

Clopin smiled. He returned Esme's embrace. “I'm told He knows what it's like to be a scapegoat king. That apparently He was the original scapegoat King. So...I'm forced to admit that maybe He's more on our side than I ever would've thought. But at any rate, it is nice to be understood by the divine.”

“It sure is,” Esme agreed. “Especially for a couple of lowly Gypsies.”

“I sincerely hope He doesn't call us Gypsies.”

“I don't think He does. I think...He doesn't call us by some group label at all. I think He calls us individually, by name.”

“...That's a nice thought. I like that thought. I might just hold onto that thought.”

And Clopin did. The scapegoat king held onto that thought for the rest of his life.