The onset of October brings with it a stiffer, brisker chill in the air. At Oakham House, Mrs Bagshaw cooks up thick, brothy soups and hot stews which sit heavy in the stomach and make Jehan too drowsy to make sufficient effort with his studies in the evenings. There is bread, too, however – soft brown roundels of it – and this he takes to carefully secreting away, when he can, to give to Feuilly on a morning when he brings him more books or, as has happened with increasing frequency of late, slinks surreptitiously down to the servants' quarters just to talk.

The Prouvaires go through candles rapidly with the slow, sure arrival of longer nights. Jehan has to be especially cautious about taking them, now, and avers to say nothing to Feuilly of the extra trouble.

Days file by in a procession of comforting sameness. It would be easy, in this lull of routine; in the comfort of a warm escape from the outside chill, to forget or ignore the changes taking place elsewhere; the stormy precursor to war in the Crimea. The terse telegrams received by Lord Oakham over breakfast; the newspaper articles Enjolras peruses at length and with fervour. That is to say, it would be easy to forget, for many a boy of Jehan's age and circumstance, but he, surrounded as he is by those rare people who are always seeking to immerse themselves in the wider world, cannot forget, and this shaded, unknown future nags at him like a constant stomach-ache. He begins, in fact, to long for something to distract him from this feeling of unease, and it is only when several things begin to happen at once that he half wishes fo the return of that old sameness.

The first of these events takes place on a night when the air is still heavy from a day of ceaseless rain; rain so constant that, when he awakens to the sound of raised voices downstairs, he finds that he is surprised no longer to hear it. He lies on his back and stares upwards; the high ceiling is lost in darkness. A few moments go by before he realises what it is that has awakened him.

And then, of course, he hears it again. It is a low thrum of voices overlaid by the harsher tones of a man whose voice he at first does not recognise, so slurred and strident it is. For a moment, Jehan stays very still. Then, curious despite himself, and more than a little apprehensive, he draws back the blankets, swings his legs over the side of the bed and pads light-footed to the door, which since he was a very young boy has always been kept ajar at night time.

It is here, with the cold air eddying around his ankles, that he recognises the voice as that of his uncle.

"It's all gone!" Mister Bahorel all but bellows, his voice growing louder still. "All of it! Every last penny, and my fault!"

Jehan strains to make out the murmur of his mother's response, but if his uncle's voice is too loud, then Grace's is far too quiet. He wishes he had thought to wrap the blankets around him; the cold brings a dull ache in his chest.

"What will I tell them?" cries Mister Bahorel, and there is a great thud and a muffled cry of surprise from both of Jehan's parents.

You must understand, reader, that it is not, nor ever has been, in Jehan Prouvaire's nature to pry. Most people, however – and young people in particular – have their curiosities, and when piqued at this hour, still half tangled in the muddle of sleep, these become insatiable. Had Jehan not decided in this moment to quietly push open his door and steal out onto the broad landing, he knows he would not be able to catch the barest wink of sleep.

Through the spindles of the staircase the boy peers down. The figures below, illuminated in lantern-light, are yellowish and indistinct. Sitting at the foot of the stairs is his uncle, a round-shouldered bulk shadowed by the wall. Lord and Lady Oakham stand before him, close together, the downward slant of the light shading their eyes blackish. Somehow, Jehan thinks, they make an oddly macabre trio; if he were a painter such as Theodore Gericault, he might like to paint them that way, ranged in firelight.

"We'll lose everything," Mister Bahorel's voice is quieter, now, and ragged, as though he has shouted himself hoarse. "It is my fault, not Lucetta and George's. You must help us – please," he remembers to add at the last moment, and the desperation in his voice rises like something tangible.

There follows a very pointed sort of pause, in which Grace Prouvaire looks up at her husband, and then down at her brother-in-law. Then:

"I will give you what you need," says Lord Oakham at length, and Jehan has never heard his father sound so grave. "But as you said, it's for Lucetta and for George. They do not deserve this. You have been reckless and selfish far beyond the point where one can call it simply a mistake. And I must make this clear," he is silent for a moment before going on, as though to let the weight of his words sink in, "This is the last time I will help you. Do not come here asking for money again."

But this last, Jehan's uncle seems hardly to have heard. He lurches to his feet, stumbling in a ferocious overflow of feeling towards those who would now become his benefactors with a thickened cry of "Thank you! Thank you both! I'll repay you; know that I will!"

"Andrew," says Jehan's mother, so softly that he can hardly hear her, "Please."

"I shall have Lant see you home," Lord Oakham interposes with forced calm, "I hope that next time we see each other, it will be under better circumstances than these."

Jehan does not wait to hear any more. He is already backing away towards the door of his bedroom, his thoughts whirling dizzily. He has known for some time that his Aunt Lucetta and Uncle Andrew are in a difficult financial situation, but never has he stopped to suppose that they might lose everything they have. Does Cousin George know about this? Surely not; or, if he does, then he does a fine job of going about as though he doesn't care a straw about any of it. Either way, Jehan, who is supposed to know nothing of this himself, has no right to tell him.

His thoughts spin and buckle madly as he clambers back into bed, and it is a very long time before he finally falls asleep.

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It is said that morning brings resolution; that the first rays of sunlight, however weak and watery they might be, hold some sort of power to dispel any fears the night brought with it. Jehan Prouvaire learns today that this is not the case. He is preoccupied as he readies himself for the school day, and almost forgets altogether that this morning he means to take a copy of the evening paper down to Feuilly, who lately has taken a specific interest in reading the news.

But remember he does, if belatedly, and half-rushes down the back-stairs, clattering more loudly than ever he has dared to before. His knock at the other boy's door is loud, too, and his breath saws raggedly in and out.

"Are you alright, Master P- Jehan?" is the first thing Feuilly asks, concern knitting his brow. Even now, upon occasion, he stumbles over Jehan's name, filled as he is with an inclination for deference that, Jehan has to suspect, is not so much inborn as in-beaten.

"Oh, yes," replies Jehan, far too quickly, "I've brought you the paper, though there's nothing you'll like in it. Everything's about the war. It makes me feel all odd."

Feuilly's eyebrows go up. "'Course it's about the war. That's why I want to read it." He lowers his voice, almost conspiratorially, but there is a fervent gleam in his green-brown eyes. "D'you know what I think? I think them Russians 'aven't got any business trampling all over people, I do. I think we've got to go to war, 'else who else will make them stop?"

"I-" Jehan's eyes drop to the paper in his hands, and then rise again to find Feuilly's face, solemn and unwavering. "Do you really think so?" he asks, finally, for want of something else to say. For he has heard Enjolras talk similarly – though in his case, it is mostly about duty and right – and surely, young though they are, they cannot both be wrong, Jehan does not want a war. He does not want his own countrymen – perhaps even men he knows – to die in some strange land. But what he wants and what is right, he knows, are not always the same thing.

Feuilly nods in answer to his question, and takes the proffered sheaf of newspaper, his eyes already scanning the front page eagerly.

"Well, then," says Jehan, with a strange reluctance to leave the dim, close servants' quarters, "I suppose I had better go. I'm quite late already."

Feuilly's answering glance and wave are distracted, and Jehan, as he is climbing the stairs, is so preoccupied with thoughts of the impending war and hopes that Feuilly will not be punished too often for dawdling today, that he scarcely notices the little, laboured shiver his breath makes with every upward step.

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"Enjolras has gone absolutely barking mad," Courfeyrac announces to a rather weary Jehan, the moment he claps eyes upon him. They are crossing the schoolyard, buffeted this way and that by a keen, damp wind. At Jehan's surprised and rather nonplussed expression, Courfeyrac presses on: "He's had a letter from Combeferre, you see. His sister, Amelia, has died, and his mother is in a very bad way about it. His father does not know what to do about it all, and – oh, you know what Combeferre is like – he's actually considering not coming back to school." Courfeyrac shakes his head emphatically, now striding along slightly ahead of Jehan, who has to hurry to catch up. "Of course, Enjolras isn't having any of that. He means to write to Combeferre's father directly and entreat him to – what was it? - talk some sense into him."

Jehan's eyes grow very wide. He has been in such a bother about the Bahorels and about his conversation with Feuilly, that he had quite forgotten about Combeferre and his sister.

"Will his father do that, do you think?" he asks, rather limply, and Courfeyrac lifts his shoulders in a shrug.

"I don't know, but – oh, look, there's Grantaire; he might know better than us what's going on." And he clips off at quite a pace towards Grantaire, with Jehan trailing as quickly as he can behind him.

They reach Grantaire just as they are about to enter the huge hall where they take their lunch, and Grantaire is more concerned with getting into the warmth than with answering them immediately. The have almost arrived at their table by the time he finally decides to say, by way of an answer:

"Oh, Enjolras is in the library, now, writing the letter. He intends to have it sent this evening. He was quite indignant about it all, as though it were all somehow Combeferre's father's fault." He gives a dry laugh, "Oh, you should have heard some of the things he was saying. I've never seen him so irritable over such a small thing."

Courfeyrac laughs, but Jehan breaks in, with quite unexpected indignation:

"It isn't a small thing. A girl is dead."

The pair of them look at him in mild surprise. "Well, yes," says Grantaire, more than a touch dryly, "But that's hardly the sort of thing Enjolras usually gets all hot and bothered about , is it?"

Courfeyrac nods his agreement. "No, he's not a bit interested in girls. It is odd."

Jehan, tired as he is, finds himself rather more irritable than usual. Father would call them a pair of dunderheads, he thinks, can they really not see that Enjolras is only concerned for his friend? Why should that be so hard to believe? He helped me when he hardly even knew me. "He isn't made of stone. Enjolras is not a god. He's a boy, just like any of us, only rather cleverer."

He does not realise he has spoken this last aloud until he feels Courfeyrac and Grantaire' eyes on him.

"Well," he mumbles, reluctant to back down and yet eager to, "It's true."

Courfeyrac looks as though he is battling the urge to laugh again. Grantaire is thunderstruck. Before either of them have a chance to make any sort of reply, however, the full, deep chiming of the bell, normally used to signal the end of lunch, makes them jump almost clear out of their seats. All at once, every eye in the hall is on the headmaster, ascending the dais at the end of the room.

The headmaster stands still and watches them all, eyes moving from table to table until every last student is silent. The silence has a pressing, insistent quality. Even Courfeyrac's expression, now, is serious.

The headmaster clears his throat with none of his usual portentousness. "My dear boys," he begins. He has never referred to any one of them as dear before today.

Jehan knows what he is going to tell them before the words leave him, but that does nothing to lessen the blow.

"We must find strength in each other in this difficult time; we must unite, for it is only as one that we can face what is ahead. Children, we are at war."