Marius Pontmercy hated waking up. There was something inherently hateful about the morning, the way the sun came in too cheerful for its own good and the sounds of Paris seemed to sing about how proud they were to be themselves. He would be perfectly happy if the world could just skip straight to the afternoon and he could start his day with lunch.

But if he skipped morning, he would miss his classes. If he even overslept a little, he would be late.

Then he remembered that he didn't have a proper clock in his rooms and scrambled out of bed, tossing his covers aside as he flung himself to his coat, which was draped over a chair. The bed, the chair, and a desk were the only pieces of furniture he owned, but somehow they managed to clutter a room that should have been Spartan. Of course, the dozens of little machines scattered across the floor didn't help with the mess, and he had to step cautiously to avoid slicing open his feet on sharp bits of metal that had been carelessly left out. He really needed to do something about his half-finished little clanks, but he just couldn't find the inspiration.

His watch was stuck in his coat pocket, but when he tugged it out, he saw that there was still half an hour before he had to be in class. It hadn't started yet, at least, but there was hardly enough time to get dressed and arrive unless he took a carriage. Of course, he barely had enough money to feed himself from day to day. He would have to run.

Marius had never dressed faster. He flung his clothes onto his body and was out the door in barely a minute, choosing to forgo breakfast as he walked quickly down the street, dodging people and avoiding carts as nimbly as he could. Every few minutes he was tempted to check his watch, but he refused to let his hand even go close to his pocket, because checking the time would delay him a few seconds, and those seconds would add up more quickly than most people would believe.

Normally, the walk to his classes took an hour, including the time he stopped to get some breakfast, which he ate on the way. Today, it took thirty-five minutes, and as he approached the school, he slowed, knowing that he was too late. Normally, there would be students outside up until the moment classes started, but today the front of the building was empty. Perhaps he would have a chance to slip into class a little late and no one would notice. If it weren't the very first day of this class, he would certainly have tried, but now he hesitated outside the door, hope battling the knowledge of failure. He would never be a lawyer, never be a success at anything. He couldn't even succeed at being a Spark; the initial moments were there, the first brilliant flash of creation, but there was never enough energy at the beginning to fix anything. With a weary sigh, he turned away and started to walk down the road. He could possibly sell his books and look into another way to make a living.

"Excuse me! Monsieur!"

Marius turned and saw a bald man in a coat with worn sleeves running down the stairs after him. "Yes? Ah – am I the one you're speaking to?"

"You're the only man on the street, aren't you?" The bald man grinned. "Besides me, of course. Are you Monsieur Pontmercy?"

"I am. How do you know my name?"

"Because, monsieur, I am in the same class you are." Marius noticed the books the man had under his arm. "Or, I was. I have quite nobly sacrificed my position as a student to preserve yours."

"Oh!" Marius was taken aback, and at first had no idea how he ought to respond. "You needn't –"

"And you needn't thank me. Rather, I ought to be the one thanking you. If it weren't for your tardiness, I would have been forced into the life of studying law, and perhaps even into a productive career. However, Monsieur Pontmercy, I must advise you against such tardiness in the future. Not all your classmates are so kind-hearted as I am."

Marius was once more speechless. "I'm afraid I still don't understand, Monsieur…"

"Lesgle. Not to be confused with M. L'Aigle, who is also me." Lesgle put an arm around Marius's shoulders and started walking down the street. "You needn't be afraid of going into class today, I think. You see, M. Blondeau has a terrible habit when he calls roll of skipping about through the alphabet. Today, for instance, he started with the letter P. Now let me ask you, what sort of man, when faced with a whole alphabet of letters to choose from would start with P? In any case, he began calling out the names of students. Claude Paquet… present. Laurent Pelletier… present. Marius Pontmercy… no response. Here he pauses. I ought to add that he gives students three chances to respond before crossing their names from the roll permanently. Again he calls Marius Pontmercy. Again there is no answer. I begin to feel sorry for this Pontmercy fellow, who, perhaps through no fault of his own, is about to be deprived of a decent education. Blondeau is beginning to smile now, eager to get rid of a student. Marius Pontmercy, he calls again, and this time I respond with a resounding 'Present!' Rather disappointed, he moves on to the next letter… L. My name is the first under that letter, and when I respond to it, he looks right at me and says, 'Monsieur, you cannot be both Pontmercy and Lesgle.' To cut this story short, I left the classroom, and I believe your name is preserved until tomorrow."

Lesgle spoke seemingly without needing to pause for breath, and the smile never slipped from his face. When imitating Blondeau's voice, he spoke in a sneer that had to have been caricature, and when telling the story, he spoke with such humor and expression that Marius almost wondered why he was not an actor. When he finally did finish, Marius could only think to say, "Please, accept my thanks. I know there isn't much I can do to make it up to you –"

"Buying me breakfast would be an acceptable solution," Lesgle said. "I spent most of my last francs on these books."

"I'm afraid I did the same," Marius said. "I only have enough money with me to buy my dinner."

"Well, then, we'll be two hungry lawyers. I'm sure the people of Paris will appreciate that." With a laugh, Lesgle steered Marius down another street. "Come. I know a lovely park where we can sit and talk until your next class. Do you have a watch?"

"Of course." Marius set his hand in his pocket but didn't bring out his watch. It was partially his own invention – one of the few he had ever finished – and he didn't want people getting the wrong idea. It ticked against his palm, and he imagined he could feel the gears whirring, though of course that was impossible. He had constructed it too well for that.

"Excellent. I won't fear for your being late again."

Lesgle's only luck came from his tongue; he could speak for several minutes on end without tiring or stumbling over words, and most of the time he could actually speak well. It was the reason he had decided he might as well become a lawyer. If his only skill came from speaking, then he surely ought to be in a profession that encouraged speech. However, if his associates would be men like M. Blondeau, then he was just as happy to be once again out of a job. When his money ran out, he would move into Joly's rooms again. It was lonely to be the only one living in his rooms.

M. Pontmercy was an odd sort of man, but Lesgle was used to the odd sorts. This one, though, was new, and Lesgle hoped to figure him out. There was something vaguely aristocratic about his bearing, but his eyes weren't the sort to look down on everyone. They looked almost as though they had just learned how to be open and were still drinking in the brilliance of some new light. His speech, too, when he did speak, was bright and lively. Within five minutes of reaching the park Lesgle decided that he liked Marius Pontmercy. The only question was whether the rest of Les Amis would.

Lesgle did most of the talking, but he gave Pontmercy a chance to get in a few words between his own long, somewhat rambling speeches. When it was time for Pontmercy to head off to class, Lesgle walked him back to the building and made him smile five times before releasing him to the study of law. With a laugh and a whistle, he turned and walked off down the street. Joly would still be in class, but Grantaire would almost certainly be at one of the cafés or bars nearby, and he was often good company. There was a meeting that afternoon, but Lesgle had no intention of being lonely until then.

As he walked, he considered the weather. It had been growing warmer, which was lucky, since his coat was growing too thin to deserve the name. A fresh grin sprang to his face, as it always did when he thought of himself as lucky. Since the seasons were constant, he wouldn't have to fear a sudden turn of fortune and a snowstorm, either. He was so cheerful that, when he rounded a corner, he nearly tripped over a young woman huddled in the street.

She looked like so many of the young women one would find lying in the street: shaking, crying, worn nearly to skin and bone. But there was something different about this one, and it took him a moment to realize what. As she glanced up at him, he saw it. Her eyes were bright and searching, not vacant like so many of the others. There was something almost manic about them, but it was not the mania of madness, at least, not traditional madness. It was the mania of creation, a look that Lesgle was very familiar with.

"Good morning, mademoiselle," he said, kneeling so he could see her face. "I'd offer you my coat, but I'm afraid yours is far better."

She shrank back from him as though she were trying to disappear into that coat. It was a very fine one, at least compared to what he often saw. It was probably the only thing that had been keeping her warm at night. Well, that and her boots. Those looked thick and sturdy.

"You know, I'm in nearly the same place you are. Why, if it weren't for my friends, I'd have been out on the street as well." He held out his hand, but she didn't take it. "Haven't you got anywhere to go?" he asked, his voice softening. "Any friends, any family?"

She shook her head. "The National Guard turned me out."

So she was a Spark. "Let me help you." All the brightness had gone from his voice, and it was replaced by urgency. "I have friends who would be willing to give you a place to stay. I'd be willing to give you a place to stay, if I were sure I'd still be there within the next month." When she continued to hesitate, he said, "Mademoiselle, I am a revolutionary."

She took his hand, and he helped her to her feet. "Who are you?"

"My name is Félix Lesgle, but my friends call me Bossuet. I may introduce you to them sometime." Jehan, at least, would be fond of her. "And what is your name, mademoiselle?"

"Musichetta," she said. "Musichetta Avare." She drew closer to him was they walked down the street. "It comes from an English name."

"Musichetta Avare." It was a beautiful name, and she would be a beautiful woman if she had some proper meals and a roof over her head. Even better, she sounded like an interesting woman, especially if she was a Spark. And to have English ancestry! Even if it wasn't one of her recent ancestors, she would surely have some stories to tell. "Mademoiselle Avare, I am very glad you're still alive."

She clung even tighter to his arm.

"I am very glad you're still alive."

No one had ever said that to her before – though when she was around people who cared for her, there usually weren't reasons for it to be said – much less saying it like they meant it. But this man, Félix Lesgle, sounded as though he was genuinely pleased that she wasn't dead. It could mean only one of two things: either he didn't know she was a Spark and was glad not to find a dead woman in the streets, or he knew and had some reason to want her alive despite that. She was terrified, but not enough to let go. Whatever this man wanted, he was at least a concrete enemy, and that was more than she could expect if she ran from him.

"Where are we going?" she asked as they turned a corner.

"To my home. Well, for as long as it is my home. I may have to move in with a friend after a few weeks. If you'd like to stay, I'm sure he wouldn't mind. He's a good man, and he'd be glad of some company." Félix looked more comfortable smiling than not, and he grinned down at her as though they were old friends who hadn't seen one another for years. "If you'd rather not, I'm sure I can find you a place of your own, or one of my other friends can. They're all good men."

"Are they all like you?"

"All of them are revolutionaries, yes." At least he was keeping his voice low when discussing it. His good cheer was tempered by good sense, something Musichetta had learned to appreciate in companions. "One of them, our leader, is like you." His voice had lowered to a whisper, but the knowledge was still enough to make her nearly jump. If her boots hadn't felt so heavy, she certainly would have.

"You know?"

"I guessed. It's why I'm glad I found you, before… well, before you starved out here. It's gotten warmer, but being hungry is never comfortable, no matter the weather." His voice had almost trailed off, but now it sounded like he was forcing himself to be cheerful. "I'm sure I've got some sort of food at home. What would you like to eat?"

For some reason, the question surprised her, and it was a moment before she could speak. "Bread. I'd like some bread with butter, and hot tea, unless you've got some wine, and a large piece of cheese." It sounded like the best meal she had eaten since leaving home, and her stomach growled just thinking about warm bread with the butter soaking into the crumb. Even if the bread wasn't fresh, it would be filling. Félix Lesgle didn't seem rich enough to afford white bread, but she didn't mind. Anything would be better than the little she had eaten over the days she had been running.

"Mademoiselle Avare," he said, and his voice sounded grand, almost pompous, "I will do my best to fulfill your wishes. I assure you my intentions are only the most noble." He lowered his voice a little before continuing. "You can trust me, mademoiselle. I would never dream of betraying you, any more than I would dream of betraying my friends. Someday, if you don't leave, I'll bring you to them. I think they'll want to meet you."

Something about the way he talked about his friends made her think they were almost a family. If she hadn't already been clinging to his arm, she would have embraced him.