A/N: At long, long last! Thank you so much to everyone who read/reviewed the last chapter. I'm sorry this took so long -wrapping up college and moving home really took away from my writing time.

Special thanks to Mel, for being the best beta ever, and Ceara, for scaring me into writing when necessary. 3

He loved the feeling of her breath against his cheek, against his neck. He could feel it when she fell asleep beside him in the library after a long day or in his room deep in the night. He would kiss her temple and she would smile that sleepy smile, and she would talk. It made him laugh, how however tired that girl was, she could always find something to gabber on about. He could wrap his arms around her and she would whisper into his ear. She would tell him about her day, the minutes spent apart and those spent together. He could never remember a word she said, but oh, how fascinating it was to hear her tell of the time that they spent together. How strange to hear a bird's-eye view of his own existence. But she would tell him with her breath carving the words into his skin, a physical reminder that, with each passing moment, their beings grew more and more intertwined. "Is that really what happened?" he could hear himself ask. And she would laugh and kiss his jaw (she was such a lazy thing, far too lazy to find his lips with her own). "You were there," she would tell him and he would pull her to him. She would laugh and he would hush her with a kiss just close enough to her lips and a brush of his thumb along her ankle. She would turn her head to find him, but he would lean back, just out of her reach. "You bastard," she would whisper. Now he would laugh and pull her back, and now it was his breath carving words onto her neck. "You love me," he would whisper, and he knew she was grinning.

"You look happy."

Sebastien squinted at Simone's shape in the light and let out a grunt.

"Too happy," she continued. "Blissful, even. It's odd." She sat down at the foot of his bed. "What's wrong?"

Sebastien rolled over onto his stomach, pulling a pillow over his head. "I'm sleeping and you're here."

"It's after nine." She grabbed his foot and he let out a yelp at the coldness of her hands. "Oh, don't be such a baby, old man."

A set of footsteps rounded the corner of the hallway.

"Sparrow!" Simone shouted. "Sparrow, come here!"

Though there was only silence, Sebastien could feel her sigh. It wasn't that they were avoiding each other, not really. They spoke while at the table or in the library with Simone, but it was different. It had stopped feeling like Sparrow and Sebastien. They were just two people proving that even the largest of houses could feel too small.

But the soft footsteps started up again and stopped only with the slight creak of his door.

"Good morning."

"Come and tell me if he looks off to you."

"Is he ill?" and Sebastien felt a sick thrill at the concern in her voice.

But Simone laugh. "He's happy, Sparrow. Happy. I came to wake him and he was smiling in his sleep."

His bed depressed as Sparrow sat beside Simone. "Well, that's good, isn't it? Better than the alternative."

Sebastien sighed. "I think the best alternative would be you leaving so that I could go back to sleep."

Sparrow half-rose, but Simone snorted and pulled her back with a force that bounced Sebastien's feet. "It's a lovely day. No rain, no thunder, not even a cloud yet. It's the first time I've seen the sun in a week. And Sparrow's never ridden a horse. You promised her weeks ago that we'd go riding."

"Simone—"

"You're as bad as he is, Sparrow. Worse, even"

Sebastien felt Simone rise and heard his door creak once more. To his surprise, Sparrow stayed where she was. He kept the pillow over his head and listened as he heard two soft clunks. His bed shifted and, when he turned his head and opened his eyes, he could see Sparrow lying beside him, staring back.

"Do you pity me?" she asked softly.

"I'm sorry?" He could see the tears welling in her wide eyes, prohibited from falling. It had been weeks, weeks since he had held her out in the rain. He hadn't seen her cry since. He knew she did, he could hear her when he passed her room at night. But he never saw her cry.

"After that night," Sparrow began, "after your birthday…It's different." She trailed off, unsure of what to say, but Sebastien knew there was some strange truth to whatever she might say next. Since his birthday, things had changed. At first, they were fine. They were Sparrow and Sebastien and they took care of each other. But then, once again, Sparrow grew distant. It had become a slow, sad pattern: there would be an incident of some kind, one of them would have an emotional breakdown and the other would comfort them until the world seemed right again. For a short while, whether it be hours or days, things would be normal and they would survive on the love and gratitude one bore for the other. And then one day, one of them, typically the one who feared they may have showed too much emotion, would back away, they would speak to each other only when necessary. Their feelings once again became hidden things, for they feared that each revelation of feeling revealed too much to the other. Sparrow shook her head and pressed her face deeper into Sebastien's sheets. They smelled like him.

"The way you look at me," Sparrow said. "Am I so sad to deserve your pity? Do you find me so pathetic?"

"Sparrow." Sebastien pushed himself upright and stared back down at her. "I…I…" He sighed and reached down, placing his hand on her check. Sparrow shut her eyes.

"I won't," she whispered. "I won't cry. I will not cry. Just…tell me honestly if you pity me."

Sebastien shook his head and pushed her hair from her face. "I don't pity you. I feel compassionate when I see you. I feel sympathetic. But if you don't want pity, I won't pity you. It's only…" he trailed off.

"Only you do?"

Again, Sebastien shook his head. "I look at you, little bird, and I know that you're scared. You never admit it, but I can see it. I don't know what you're scared of. There are days when I worry it's me and—"

"Sebastien!" He held up his hand and forced himself to smile.

"Please, let me finish."

Sparrow nodded.

"There are moments," he continued, "when I worry I scare you because I don't know what scares you and I don't know what to do to make you less scared. So, no, Sparrow. I don't pity you. I just sometimes pity myself. Because you're not a child who needs my protection. If you're scared, you're scared and you have your own reasons for being scared. And I shouldn't be angry or upset with you for being scared." Sparrow opened her mouth to speak, but Sebastien had started and now that the words were falling, he didn't know how to stop them. "I hate myself sometimes because I can't fix you."

Sparrow sat up. "I don't need fixing."

"I know, I know! You don't need to be fixed and, even if you did, I couldn't fix you. Only you could. But when I see you, I'm just sad that I can't make you less sad or less scared."

Sparrow stared at him. For a very long time, she sat there and stared at him. People break sometimes. She had known that her whole life. People are fragile and people break. And sometimes they got better and sometimes they stayed broken. But that was up to them. And, for a fleeting moment, she hated Sebastien. She hated him for looking at her and knowing how broken she was. She hated him for wanted to repair her. But, at the same time, she understood. How often, in her far-off childhood, had she seen people break? And how often had she done everything she could to fix them, even when she knew that all she could really do was pray that they would come to and fix themselves? How hateful she felt, in hating him. And how wicked must she be to allow him to think she feared him.

"I'm not afraid of you," she said, reaching forward and grabbing his hand. "Not even a little and I never will be. I'm scared of me, sometimes. And I'm scared of other things. But not of you. And being scared frightens me even more because I never used to let myself be scared of anything. Sometimes I felt afraid, but I was good at being brave. And I'm trying to be that way again."

Sebastien squeezed her hand. There was too much and too little more to say.

"Now!" Sparrow forced a smile and squeezed back. "Now, you were happy and I've gone and ruined it."

Sebastien laughed. "No, Simone ruined it. I was happy in my sleep."

"That's good. It means you were sleeping."

"I suppose, yes."

"Were you dreaming pleasant dreams?"

"Quite so."

"What of?"

Sebastien stared at her for a moment and released her hand. "Bliss, I suppose."

"Bliss," Sparrow repeated, and closed her eyes. "I'll have to steal some, I guess." She opened her eyes and winked. "Simone wanted to go out today, I don't think we should keep her waiting."

Sebastien watched as she rose and went to the door. "I've got time," he said. "It'll take nearly an hour for you to put up your hair."

But Sparrow shook her head. "Have you seen the paintings of women on horses?"

Sebastien laughed. "There are hundreds. Thousands, perhaps."

"Some of them have their hair down. And it looks so free."

"And you've never ridden a horse before."

Sparrow shook her head. "Does it really feel that free?"

Sebastien smiled. "Leave, little bird. Leave and let me dress. And then you can find out."

—

It didn't feel free. She started shaking as soon as Sebastien lifted her onto the horse and didn't stop until she was safely on the ground again. She spent the whole ride with her face pressed into Sebastien's back, her arms unwilling to ever relinquish his waist.

"I need to get down," she demanded as soon as the horse had stopped. Sebastien had the reins in one hand and brought the other to his waist and took her wrists.

"It's alright," he told her. "Let go of me and you can get down."

She had refused to do so until Simone had taken the reins.

"I'll walk home, I think."

Simone had laughed at that. "Perhaps Sebastien and I can just give you our share of the wine. You'll be drunk and sleep the whole ride home."

"I think I'd only be sick." She sat down in the grass, taking only a few deep breaths before lying down. She rolled over onto her side and inhaled. "I missed spring."

Sebastien sat down beside her. "I suppose it's been about a year." Both he and Simone laughed, but Sparrow shook her head.

"It's different," she said, "in the city. It's not really spring there. Maybe if you have time for leisure. You can go to the gardens and have spring." She looked up at them. "I think I was a girl last time I had spring."

"Spring is nice," Simone said. "But summer is better."

Sparrow shook her head. "Too hot."

"Bah! The creek where we skated? It's lovely for a swim in the summer."

"I've never swam before."

"Well, you'll learn." Simone bent down and grabbed Sparrow's hand. "Come with me."

"Where?"

"It's a surprise." She turned to Sebastien. "You stay here, old man."

Sebastien shrugged. "Should I give all the old man orders, too? Stay safe and the like?"

Sparrow laughed as she pulled herself up. "Enjoy the air, Sebastien," she said. "We're free now, remember?"

With that, the two girls ran off. Or, rather, Simone ran with her hand tight around Sparrow's and the younger girl stumbled along with her. For several minutes, there was no sound but the wind blowing through the trees and the birds overhead. They were in the woods, Sparrow knew, probably not far from where they had gone skating. They were far enough from the house that it was no longer Enjolras property, but close enough that they wouldn't get lost and Simone could still call it her woods. Sparrow had only been out there a few times, and never since the snow had melted. She loved it. There had been a small wood not far from her home as a child. There, she had never been. Maybe once when she was little, with her father, but if she had, she couldn't remember it. The woods had been forbidden to her and, for that, the girl she had once been had always craved it desperately. There was, as she witnessed now, nothing dangerous about the woods. Perhaps as a child, it would have scared her, to see nothing but trees in every direction. But now, running and clutching Simone's hand, Sparrow felt more at peace than she could ever remember.

"You stayed," Simone said, breaking the silence and panting as she released Sparrow and clutched a stitch in her side.

Sparrow leaned against a tree to catch her breath. "Sorry?"

"This morning. After I left, you stayed."

"With Sebastien?" Simone nodded and Sparrow shrugged her shoulders. "I did, yes."

"Why?"

"To talk. As though we are friends with common interests."

Simone snorted. "Oh, you're smitten."

Sparrow shook her head and sighed. "He thought I was scared of him, Mona."

"Well, you are, aren't you?"

"No!"

"Don't be a goose."

"I'm not scared of him, Simone. He is too dear to me to cause me fear."

Simone rolled her eyes and knelt down, collecting small flowers into her lap. "Well, that's just my point."

"How so?"

"You don't like being dear to be people or having them be dear to you. You think that love makes you weak and that caring will only hurt you. But you feel like Sebastien might love you and, deep down, you love him back. So you fear being with him because being with him reminds you that you love him." She said all this as though she were telling Sparrow about the weather, her voice so calm and matter-of-fact. She grinned only when spotting another flower, which she added to the growing pile on her lap. "When did you last wear a flower crown?"

"Tell me something awful."

Simone began tying the flowers together. "Awful? I don't think you've ever worn a flower-crown."

"About Sebastien."

Simone laughed. "No."

"Why not?"

"Because I like that you love him and I won't give you what you need to stop. Anyway, there's nothing."

"Liar. Everyone has something wrong with them."

"Wrong doesn't mean unlovable, Sparrow. If you love my cousin, and I think you do, there's nothing I can possibly say to you to make you stop loving him. Any anything I could say ill of him, you already know."

"Such as?"

Simone rolled her eyes. "Such as that he periodically forgets women are people. He thinks his education makes him better than those less educated. He's vain and fights dirty. If he's mad at you about a little thing, he'll say the thing he knows will hurt you the most, whether or not it's true and whether or not it's relevant. He's a nasty, brutish little man-child. But you know all of that. Here." She set the flower garden on Sparrow's head. "You look like a fairy."

"Simone," Sparrow began softly, but Simone held a finger to her lip.

"Come on!" She grabbed Sparrow's hand and silently led her along.

They walked slowly this time, their bodies still aching from their run. I used to run so fast, and so far, Sparrow thought. Though that was a different type of running. If she was scared, she was sure she could run forever, corset or not corset. She closed her eyes and listened. They were close to the creek now, she could hear it.

"Don't be stupid, Sparrow," Simone said, "You'll walk into a tree."

Sparrow opened her eyes. "You're leading me."

"Still."

They walked until they were at the creek. Sparrow stooped the feel the water, but Simone grabbed her wrist.

"Look, while the water is still still."

Sparrow sighed, but obeyed. "And?"

"Look how lovely you look. With the flowers and everything, we really should have you sit for a portrait."

Sparrow rolled her eyes. "Couldn't you have just waited until we got home? A looking glass would be so much clearer."

"I wanted you to see yourself out here, where you're free."

Sparrow laughed. "Am I a prisoner now?"

"Everyone's a prisoner in four walls. We all deserve freedom sometimes." Simone set her chin on Sparrow's shoulder, a dash of red and peach thrown into her reflection. "Now, tell me what you see."

Sparrow sighed. "I see a child who has flowers in her hair and a nasty girl who's invading her personal space."

Simone wrapped her arms around Sparrow's waist and gave her a tight squeeze. "I'm only as nasty as you let me," she said. "Now, tell me what you really see."

"I see…" Sparrow trailed off. Looking at her reflection, staring back at her with blurred features, she saw hundreds upon hundreds of paintings, all done one on top of the next. There was the skinny, homeless girl, alone in the world without family or friends. There was the gentleman's ward, the cause of all the town's gossip and excitement. There was a cruel little child who would do anything for a reminder she was loved. The whore morphed with the princess and the waif morphed with the lady. Before her lay too many girls with too many names. So many lives she had left behind and so many more that she may never get the chance to live.

"I see," she continued at last, "a bird."

"Just a bird?" Simone asked softly.

Sparrow nodded. "Just a bird. A wingless little bird." She sighed and leaned back against her friend. "He wants to fix me, Simone."

"Men are silly like that sometimes. The old men tell them the stories about how the men of generations past of changed the world. How they moved forwards by fixing what was broken. So when men want something, they think it means it needs fixing."

Sparrow leaned her head back against Simone's. "You really want him to love me. Is that really so important to you?"

Simone turned Sparrow in her arms and placed a hand on her cheek. "If he didn't love you and you didn't love him, I would be content. But he does love you and you do love him and your foolishness hurts me." She rubbed her thumb along Sparrow's cheek. "Don't you start crying."

"I'd hurt him," Sparrow whispered. "I'd hurt him and then I'd hate myself again. I'm only…you and Sebastien…there are days, Simone, when I wake up and I think that maybe, just maybe I deserve this. I deserve to be happy and to have nice things and to have a full belly. And if I ever caused him any harm, any grief — if I ever hurt anyone, I think I wouldn't deserve that anymore. And I know it's selfish but—"

"But you deserve happiness."

Sparrow nodded. "I know that it can't last forever. I know that no one can be happy all the time. But I would like to have it while I can."

Simone smiled. "I understand." She looped her arm through Sparrow's again, ready to bring her back to Sebastien. "A final comment, though," she said, started to walk back through the woods. "For what it's worth, I don't think you would hurt him. I think you could be happy."

Sparrow didn't respond. She just continued to walk beside Simone. Yes, there were days when she looked at Sebastien and struggled to breathe — so terribly was she overcome with desire for him. But there were other days, days when he was just Sebastien. Just her closest friend. And that was what caused her so much fear. How could she give herself into loving him, how could she give herself to him knowing that one day she might wake up and he would be only Sebastien? And she would have to break him.

"I have a terrible habit," she said so softly that Simone had to lean in to hear her. "This horrible, awful, nasty habit of thinking I love someone, when really I only appreciate their kindness, their generosity."

"And?"

"And then I stop. Then I realize that I'm just a silly, little child."

Simone sighed. "You think what you will, Sparrow. I cannot force you to love him if you don't and I cannot know for certain whether or not you do. I can only tell you what I see."

"Do you hate me?" A gust of wind blew over them, nearly masking Sparrow's words, and she moved quickly to hold the garland on her head. "For not loving him the way you think he wants me to?"

Simone stopped and stepped in front of Sparrow, gazing upon her with the gravest look Sparrow had ever witnessed upon her face. "Sebastien is my cousin and I love him as if he were my brother. And you came to us, in the beginning, because he wanted you with him and because you wanted to be with him. But then I knew you and I loved you as if you were my sister. You could think he was the scum of the Earth and you could actively do all that was in your power to shatter his heart, soul, and mind. And I would think you the most vile creature in existence. But I still wouldn't hate you, I don't think. I would want to, I'm sure. But I think that, at the end of the day, if you needed me, you're still my Sparrow."

Sparrow laughed, even as she brushed a tear from her eye. "You talk like that, Mona, and I almost think that you love me unconditionally."

"I do. That's what a family is."

There was a crunch of branches and both girls jumped to see Sebastien walking towards them.

"There you are," he said, crossing his arms over his chest. "I had almost worried." He paused, scrutinizing them. His eyes widened in concern. "You're crying. Both of you."

He held out an arm and Simone ran to it. "You are very silly, you know," she muttered, wrapping her arms around him.

"And you're crying! You don't cry! Oh, Sparrow, come here!"

Hesitantly, Sparrow stepped forward. "We were on our way back."

He reached out his free hand and brushed her hair from her face, his hand lingering above her shoulder. "Will you tell me what happened?"

"I'm a goose, that's all." She forced a smile, but Simone laughed.

"Here," she said, and plucked the flower crown from Sparrow's head and moved it to Sebastien's. Both girls laughed.

For a moment, his eyes flashed in anger and Sparrow nearly took a step back. But then he smiled and took his hand from her shoulder. "Am I very handsome?" he asked.

"Oh, quite so!"

"Sparrow?"

Sparrow smiled. "A fairy of sorts!"

Sebastien grinned. "Do you hear that, Simone? The wood-nymph has deemed me her equal."

It was so easy, the way he could make hardships and sadness seem like they had never happened. How in a single moment, he could make both girls forget how scared they were of knowing that their friendship could never last. In that moment, they were all happy.

It was sunset before they returned back home. Marguerite ushered them into the dining room as soon as they walked in the door.

"Monsieur Mathieu had some errands to run in town," she explained to them. "I offered to send one of the girls or go do it myself, but he insisted he go and that you start supper without him."

Simone raised an eyebrow. "Did he say what he was doing?"

Marguerite shook her head. "Now eat, before your supper gets cold."

Simone shrugged and took her seat. Sparrow and Sebastien followed. They ate in silence that night, each lost in their own thoughts. Sparrow wordlessly picked at her chicken, a small smile on her face. Despite her tears and despite her moments of loneliness and fear, it had been a good day. She had been happy. That was how it had been for months and that was how it would be for however much longer she remained. There were days when she remembered how lucky she was with immense joy and days when her luck filled her with guilt. Family. Family had been the word Simone used to describe what they had together. There were days when Sparrow felt like a happy child again, days when Marguerite would force her to sit for nearly an hour while her hair was washed and combed and styled, days when Mathieu would sit in his chair and tell the girls (and Sebastien, though he always pretended to be preoccupied) the adventures of his own youth. There were days when she and Simone would bicker over who possessed which pair of gloves and which color looked best on which girl. Again, she remembered what it felt like to have doting parents and a loving sister. Only Sebastien reminded her that things were different now. His faced served as a reminder that this was not her family but his. She was just the lost girl who was lucky enough to be the recipient of the greatest kindness. And each time she looked at him she felt, if only for a fleeting moment, that she would one day become the lost girl who had destroyed him and destroyed this family that would never be hers, however much she wished they could be. When she felt Simone's eyes on her, she wondered if they shared the thought. Lifting her cup of wine, she wondering if Simone, too, allow herself to believe that Sparrow was her own blood for stretches of time, only to remember how deeply she desired that the younger girl marry her cousin and become her proper family. Immediately, the wine caught in her throat and Sparrow sputtered.

"Sparrow?"

"I'm fine," she said quickly, looking down at her plate.

Marry. Simone had never uttered the word. It had never been suggested, not even implied. Marry Sebastien? The notion was ridiculous. It could never happen. To force Sebastien to her, to tie him to her forever and always — she could never do that to him. It would be a worse fate than death. She could feel her cheeks burning as her heart began to race. What a peculiar idea! Marry Sebastien! She wanted to laugh out loud. She flinched when he reached across the table and took her hand.

"Are you well?"

She looked up and nearly laughed at the concern upon his face.

"You look as though you might burst," he said, his hand still covering her own.

Sparrow shook her head. "I'm — I'm so sorry," and she couldn't help but let out a laugh, bringing her free hand to cover her mouth.

"Why, Sebastien! I think she's gone mad." The lightness of Simone's tone, her ability to nearly mask her own desire to laugh, made Sparrow laugh harder.

"I'm so terribly sorry!" She squeezed Sebastien's hand. "I've only had the oddest little thought!" She brought her other hand from her mouth to her chest, tears leaking from her eyes. "It wasn't even so funny." She squeezed Sebastien's hand tight, looking into his eyes. He seemed torn between joining in her laughter or calling for a doctor. Hysteria, she could almost hear her father scoffing. Men just say that when women express emotion we can't understand. She laughed again. "It was just the most peculiar little thought."

She was certain she would have started crying had the front door not slammed open with such a force that, even in the dining room, all three youths were startled into silence.

"Sebastien!"

Immediately, Sebastien dropped Sparrow's hand and pushed himself away from the table.

"Sebastien! My office!"

He left without a word.

"I've never heard him yell before."

"He doesn't. Not ever," Simone said. She shook her head. "Are you sure you're well?"

"Yes, just a bit mad."

Simone nodded. "Come." She stood and held out a hand to Sparrow.

"Where?"

"Aren't you curious?"

Sparrow nodded and took Simone's hand. Halfway down the hall, Simone kicked off her shoes and motioned for Sparrow to do the same. In their stockings, the two girls silently moved through the house, stopping outside Mathieu's office door. Simone pressed her ear to the door and Sparrow, sitting on the floor, did the same.

"I understand your desires," Mathieu was saying. "Truly, I do. And you've been lucky. I have a good staff, Sebastien, a loyal one."

"We'll go away then, uncle. Just for a while," Sebastien said quickly. Whatever they were discussing, Sebastien was nervous. Sparrow pressed herself closer to the door. "Geneva should be lovely this time of year. She's never been on holiday before."

"Sebastien —"

"Going away might do her some good, uncle. She's been cooped up for so long. And she's a city girl. Geneva's not Paris, but it's better than this."

"And I'm sure they will spend a day or even a weekend in Nancy."

"I'm sorry?"

"She is why they are coming, my boy. Do you think they would just come to visit? Nonsense!"

There was a brief silence. Sparrow looked up at Simone for clarification, but Simone shrugged, her eyes narrowed in thought.

"I can't leave, then."

"You can't stay."

"And abandon her? Even for a day — she'd never forgive me."

"Then I'll make up the attic, put a room together for you in the south wing. You're already a recluse!"

"Very well!"

Mathieu let out a cold laugh. "A joke, Sebastien."

"The only option."

"Sebastien." Sparrow was startled at how grave Mathieu's voice sounded. "You know my thoughts on your status."

"I'm a fugitive."

"Bullshit!" Simone had to cover her mouth to stop her laughter. "If the police or anyone else wanted you, they'd look here. And we've had nothing. You've been forgotten."

"Thank you." Sebastien's voice dripped with sarcasm.

"I mean that in the best way possible, my boy. Right now, you could live your life and no one would blink an eye at Monsieur Sebastien Enjolras."

"But?"

"But if Jaime were to find you…"

There was another brief silence and Simone sunk down to sit beside Sparrow, her face drained of all color.

"You'd lose Simone."

"If it got back to Bruce or worse…"

"Mary."

"She's been fighting ever since Elizabeth died."

"But if Jaime said you were harboring some violent fugitive, a dangerous radical…" Sebastien trailed off momentarily. "Jesus Christ, she's eighteen years old. They can't take her against her will."

"She's a good Scottish girl brainwashed by her mad French father."

Simone shook her head and stood, opening the door so suddenly that Sparrow nearly toppled over. She walked to her father's desk, head held high.

"I'd run away."

"Simone."

Sparrow stood, but remained silent in the doorway.

"They can't come here," Simone said, panic rising in her voice. "I won't see them."

"Simone." Mathieu's voice was both soft and stern as he grabbed his daughter's hand. "Simone. They've got their friends in town —"

"Then they can visit them!"

"They have their friends in town and want to meet Sparrow. How am I to deny them a bed and the opportunity to meet her?"

"They'll break her, Papa."

Sparrow opened her mouth to speak, to ask for some sort of explanation, some clarification, but before she could get a word out, Sebastien had arrived at her side and put an arm around her.

"I will leave you to your daughter, uncle. We will talk about this further in the morning. Goodnight."

Before Sparrow could say her own goodnights, Sebastien had led her from the room.

"Tell me what's going on," Sparrow demanded as he led her through the house and up the stairs. "Have I done something wrong? Sebastien, please!"

Sebastien stopped and moved in front of her. He took both her hands in his own and, to her surprise, raised them to his lips and kissed them softly.

"You have done nothing wrong, little bird," he said softy. "Absolutely nothing at all and don't think even for a moment that you have. But I need you to come with me."

Trembling, Sparrow nodded and followed. He led her past his room and hers and into the unfrequented south wing of the house.

"Has Simone taken you into the attic?"

Sparrow shook her head. "I didn't know there was one."

Sebastien led her into a small room at the end of the hallway. There were no windows and no lamps.

"Can you see the steps?"

Sparrow nodded briefly before realizing that, of course, Sebastien could barely see her. "Faintly," she said."

Sebastien took her hand. "Hold up your skirt."

"I know how to walk up stairs, Sebastien."

He didn't respond, silently leading her up the stairs. "Stay here," he said when he reached the top, and dropped her hand. A moment later, a dim light filled the room as Sebastien opened the curtain for the setting sun.

The room was large and unfurnished, but completely cluttered. Boxes were piled upon boxes, old furniture was shoved into the corners.

"You want to come live up here?" Sparrow asked incredulously.

"Come here, little bird," Sebastien said softly, waving her into the slowly disappearing light. "My aunt Elizabeth, she was Scottish, you know."

"Yes, you've told me."

"Her mother still lives there, Simone's grandmother. Near Edinburgh. With her son and his children: Jaime — he's nearing twenty-four, I believe — and two girls, Charlotte and Agatha. Agatha is a year older than Simone, I believe, and Charlotte is your age. The girls, they're fine. They're…girls — no, don't say anything. They're just typical people."

"Typical rich people."

"Yes. But Jaime…Jaime…You'd think we'd all bond over the English."

"I thought they were Scottish?"

Sebastien let out a little laugh and Sparrow knew he was trying to have a light humor for her sake. Half of her was grateful. The other half wished he wouldn't. "Don't you know your history? The Scottish are perhaps the only people who hate the English as much as we do."

Sparrow forced a little laugh to please him. "But you don't?"

"No. Jaime's a fine boy, he's exactly what his father wants him to be which is damn near acceptable to the English. He's proper to a fault, hates anything out of the ordinary. He expects ladies to be ladies. Pretty to look at and only opening their mouths to sing pretty little songs."

"He must hate Simone."

Sebastien nodded. "He..."

"He's not dissimilar from you." Sparrow immediately grabbed Sebastien's arm, growing cold at the hurt look on his face. "Not today, Sebastien," she said quickly, burying herself in his chest. She couldn't bear to look at him. "Not today. Just…you used to hate me."

She felt Sebastien nod against her. "I was very stupid, little bird. Very, very stupid. But out of the ordinary — out of the ordinary didn't bother me. I never hated Simone."

"Because she 'thinks like a man?'"

"Was I wrong to consider her mind that of a man? Yes. But it didn't bother me that she had a strong mind. What was wrong is that I thought other woman didn't — that they couldn't. But Jaime thinks they shouldn't. And if he finds me here, he will make a fuss. He will call for the police. He will make it all so public that no one will have a choice but to hang me." Sparrow clutched him tightly, but Sebastien laughed. "I'm only joking, little bird. Only joking."

"Are you?"

Sebastien hushed her and held her close. "It's May, little bird. May already, can you believe that? How much we've changed! Think of where we were a year ago. When you imagined when you would be by the summer of eighteen thirty-three, did you imagine anything close to this?"

Sparrow shook her head against his chest. "I didn't imagine anything."

"I'm so different now, Sparrow. We both are." He pulled away with a little laugh and cupped her face in his hands. "He'll hate you," he said softly.

Sparrow forced a smile. "I've been hated before. It doesn't scare me."

Sebastien smiled back, his eyes squinted against the setting sun. "You'll give him Hell for me, won't you?"

"I'll do my best."

There was a snort from the top of the stairs and they turned to see Simone staring at them, her arms crossed over her chest.

"That won't be hard," she said coolly, and Sparrow wondered if she should be insulted. With a sigh, Simone dropped her arms and walked to the pair. Sebastien released Sparrow, who turned to Simone, unsure of what to say.

"Jaime and the girls," Simone began softly, "they're as society as one can be. I'm bad at all of the social niceties, but I know them. You…" She averted her eyes. All three knew her meaning. But Sparrow shook her head. Another might be offended, but she knew Simone's meaning and knew the other girl bore her no ill will.

"I've never had to know them before," Sparrow said as warmly as she could, reaching for Simone's hand. "You know enough about me to know I've never…I've never had to be a proper lady before and that it was better for me if I didn't. I know, it's alright for you to say so, I won't be offended. But I'm learning, Simone." Nodding quickly, she turned to Sebastien. "I'm learning," she repeated.

Sebastien smiled at her. "And you pass wonderfully," he said. "But that's when you're out in town, when there's not much to do except to greet people and curtsy at the right moment."

"Well, what more is there?" She tried to stay calm as Simone and Sebastien exchanged a look over her head. "Just tell me what I need to know."

"It's this!" Simone exclaimed, and Sparrow nearly jumped at the force behind her words. "It's the way you act around people, around 'Bastien. You…Sebastien is my cousin and, still, I'd never more than take his arm in public. I would never hold him or take his hand. And you…why, if Sebastien ever went in public with you, I'd give it ten minutes before you two became the biggest scandal this town's ever seen. You're not his sister, not even his cousin. He's not courting you or anything of the like. That's why Antoine LaRoux is so forward with any girl he wants to shame. Because even if you deny his kiss and still take his arm without at least feigning hesitation, you've half ruined your reputation anyway. The way you act with Sebastien, why, even if you were married it would still be quite scandalous. And here, here we don't care. I've never been one for all those stuffy rules and nor has Papa and it is fine here and we don't think anything of it. But I hear them talk and, Sebastien, do you know what they're saying? Downstairs, do you know what the girls say? They still think she's your mistress. They're sure of it. Because why else would Monsieur Sebastien arrive home at night with a girl no one's met before? A girl they've all seen fallen asleep in your lap in the middle of the day. But the way they are, Jaime and Agatha and Charlotte, you can't touch anyone. Barely even me."

Sparrow shook her head and put a hand on Simone's cheek. "I'll be fine, though," she said. "Sebastien won't even be here."

"It's not just Sebastien," Simone said. "It's anyone. If we go into town and Xavier Girard joins us on a walk and offers you his arm—"

"Then I'll refuse!" Sparrow shook her head. "It's so silly, you know. I spent my whole life surrounded by men. When they wanted to lead me somewhere, they took my hand or my arm and I never knew that was wrong. But I understand it, I do. Your cousin wants to come here and find a proper lady. I can be her, Simone. I can."

Simone nodded. "I know, I just…even I hate it, Sparrow. I hate it so terribly much. But I won't go to Scotland."

"Then I won't give them reason to take you."

Simone took Sparrow's hand and kissed it softly. "You are the most wonderful, girl," she said smiling. "We can survive Jaime. God knows you've survived much worse."

"Much, much worse."

Sebastien put a hand on her back. "They'll arrive in two weeks' time," he said. "They travel to the continent every summer, though the last three they've missed the north of France. But Jaime has connections everywhere. He must have heard of you and gotten curious."

"We don't get on well," Simone interrupted. "Never have. I hate Jaime, Agatha is the most pompous little vixen I've ever met, and Charlotte has no spine. For all I know, she's the most pleasant little thing, but I don't think I've heard her speak since her mother put her in a long skirt. She'll open her mouth, but the second Jaime looks at her, she stops. Jaime has some lovely ideas about women."

Sparrow nodded. "Sebastien told me."

"It was a wonder they didn't get along splendidly."

"Simone!"

Simone rolled her eyes. "You've always hated women, Sebastien. Just because you're getting better doesn't mean you don't have your faults."

Sebastien bowed his head. "For what it's worth, I believe you both to be outstanding little women."

"And we appreciate it," Simone said with a laugh. "Now, come back down. I need help to placate Papa. And we'll need to tidy it up up here for you."

"Won't he be hot?" Sparrow said, following Simone downstairs. "I'm sure it's absolute Hell once summer kicks in."

"Ah!" Simone exclaimed, stopping so suddenly on the steps that Sparrow nearly ran into her. "You mustn't swear. Not even 'Hell' or 'damn.'"

"Blast."

"Not even. No swearing, no slang."

"Pretend to be a convent girl," Sebastien suggested.

"I've never even been to church!"

Simone snorted. "Didn't you two spend nearly half a year in a church?"

"But I've never been to mass. I don't even know if I was baptized!"

"The child will need a name."

The three youths turned to see Marguerite emerging from Simone's room. "Your father sent me searching for you, pet. Come here," she beckoned Sparrow, who was quick to obey. She turned up the girl's chin, pushing her hair back behind her shoulders. "If you say you're called Sparrow, they'll call you that. The girls might not even question it out loud. But Mister Jaime will ask for your Christian name. He won't believe you're really called Sparrow."

"Oh! That's another thing," Simone hissed in her ear. "Jaime resents that Papa is French. He'll make you call him Mister Jaime instead of Monsieur and the girls Miss."

But Marguerite clucked her tongue and waved for Simone to quiet herself. "Fill her in on the details later. Start finding her something she'll respond to. What is it you call her when she's being so dreary. Maria?"

"Mariana," both girls said in unison, and Sparrow could tell from Marguerite's expression that she had not needed their confirmation. It was so easy to forget the Marguerite was so ever present, that nothing happened, or was even mentioned, without her knowledge.

"Mariana," Marguerite repeated. "Well, they may struggle to believe she's French, but I'm sure you'll create a story. Now, Simone, go back down there and apologize to your father. And you, Sebastien. It was rude to leave so abruptly."

Immediately, both obeyed. If there was one thing that Sparrow had witnessed as being a constant law in the Enjolras house, it was that when Marguerite commanded something, everyone, even Monsieur Mathieu, obeyed. Sparrow turned to follow, but Marguerite took her arm.

"No, you're with me." She ran a hand over Sparrow's head and scoffed. "You're a mess," she scolded. "What on Earth were you three doing today?"

"I rode a horse," Sparrow said proudly as Marguerite guided her into her room. "I've never done so before."

"Was it everything you had wished?"

Sparrow leaned against the bedpost as Marguerite began undoing her buttons. "I think I rather hated it, actually."

"I dislike horses myself. Never liked them at all. I think you've got to be like Simone and grow up with them."

Sparrow nodded and stepped out of her skirt. "I can dress myself for bed on my own."

Marguerite laughed. "I know you can. But I'm here tonight, so you're going to put on that nightgown and sit down while I figure out what in God's name you did to your hair — Oh, don't you give me that face! Is that the look you'd give your maman?"

As soon as she had spoken, Marguerite's eyes widened in shock. In the four months Sparrow had been there, never once had Marguerite even discreetly tried to find out more about Sparrow's past. She never mentioned Sparrow's mother or father. Even as a joke, Marguerite never said anything about it. To an outsider, it would have appeared that Sparrow was the woman's own daughter. There was never even the slightest reminder from Marguerite that there had ever been a time when Sparrow was someone else. For Sparrow, that was never a sign of a lack of caring, a lack of interest. Marguerite's silence regarding Sparrow's past allowed the girl a feeling of respect that she had never before felt as though she had earned. For that, Sparrow trusted her.

She shrugged her shoulders and said, "Worse, probably. She was a nasty thing."

"Sparrow." Marguerite stood still, as if a single movement would shatter the relationship she had been silently building with the girl who had invaded her makeshift family.

"I don't mind it, Marguerite. I think this much they all know anyway. She's dead — my maman. She died last summer. I had a friend who told me. He's the only one who knew I didn't die. It's nice for me, though. Because my mother was so awful. My papa was mean. He was mean and harsh and I think he might have killed me if I crossed him. And I thought that was normal. But I don't think Monsieur Mathieu has ever even raised a hand to Simone. So one of these must be abnormal and I'm starting to believe there's enough good in this world that my papa was the odd one. So he was a mean, old man and I tried very hard - try, I'm still trying - to stop loving him. Because I loved him very much when I was little. He was my papa and I was the oldest and so he loved me. And Maman did, too. She loved my sister and I. I think Simone thinks I had one brother and that he died. But I have three. Had...I don't know. I think Sebastien knows there were three. One died on the barricades. I don't think Sebastien knows who he was though, because I think Sebastien assumed he was older, and that's a lovely assumption. I wish he had been."

She shook her head and wiped a tear from her cheek. Wordlessly, Marguerite led her to the dressing table and began, very slowly, to brush her hair. Sparrow continued. "My maman never loved the boys and neither did my papa. I think by the time they were born, he didn't love any of us. But for a while, maybe, I think my maman did. But then she stopped caring about everyone. It was like she laid in bed for so long, that the mattress consumed her. She was just part of the furniture. She didn't care for anyone or anything. Once, oh, this was only perhaps a year ago, not much more than that: Once, my papa wanted to break the window, and he made my sister punch her hand through it and my maman just didn't care. I think she hated papa, but she didn't have the energy to care. So it's nice that's she dead because I like to think that, deep down, she still loved us. I like to think she died before anyone told her I was killed. I like to think that she would have been sad to hear I died and I don't think mothers should ever have to bury their children, however nasty of a mother they are." Marguerite paused in brushing her hair as Sparrow began to shake.

"She probably still has the scars — my sister. Because Papa made her punch her hand through a glass window and Maman didn't care to stop her. I don't think she had ever seen so much blood and she was so afraid. Afterward, Maman cared and scolded Papa for hurting her, but she didn't stop her beforehand. Papa joked they had to have her arm cut off and she was so scared. So, so scared. She probably still has the scars. If she's still alive. I don't even know if she's alive. And I don't know if the dead have scars." She shook her head and turned to face Marguerite. "I'm the oldest, I'm supposed to take care of the rest, but one is dead and the other three, for all I know, have joined him. My sister was such a sweet little thing. She was so scared of the whole world. She was only a year younger than I was, but you might have thought she was ten years younger than me for the way she talked. She was an innocent little child and I don't know if she's even alive."

Her voice broke and Marguerite set the brush back on the table, pulling Sparrow close to her and rubbing her head. She felt a hundred pounds lighter. It wasn't much, the information she had shared, but it was enough to remind her that she was not alone. For a long time, she sat there, sobbing into Marguerite's bosom.

"Do you think I'm wicked for abandoning them?" Sparrow asked at last.

"On the contrary," Marguerite said. "I think you are very brave." She rubbed Sparrow's back briefly and stood back. Again, she lifted the brush and began braiding Sparrow's hair. "Whatever you tell me, my dear, I will keep. I will not tell Monsieur or Simone or Sebastien. Whatever you tell me, whatever you must share to make yourself live, I will not tell."

Sparrow nodded. It was strange, the way she felt as though there was nothing she could not say to Marguerite. Although she trusted Sebastien completely to never reveal a thing she told him, she feared what he would think of her secrets. But Marguerite…Marguerite was a silent, but constant presence and for reasons she could not articulate, Sparrow trusted Marguerite to be an ear and nothing more. She trusted her to listen silently and to never pass judgement. She knew Marguerite would always be there, wherever Sparrow was, and that she would listen. For Sparrow, talking to Marguerite was akin to talking to god. Only Marguerite, however, she could believe in.

"I can't say my name," Sparrow whispered, talking very fast. "I gave it up and I can't have it back and if I say it I'll become her again. And she didn't deserve this. Her maman didn't brush her hair. Her maman didn't keep her secrets. And the only people who loved her were the people who didn't know any better. So I can't tell you her name, but…" She stared at herself in the mirror. The girl with a name seemed so far off. The girl with a name had never had a soft face or brushed hair. The girl with a name had stolen into her neighbor's room just to catch a glimpse of herself in his mirror. She had never had her own bed. Marguerite squeezed her shoulder.

Sparrow took a deep breath. "She was born in November of eighteen fifteen. But she shouldn't have come until late December, maybe even January. No one expected her to live. Her sister followed her in February of eighteen seventeen, but it was years before the boys started coming. She was happy and had dolls. She loved dolls. She had a cat too. I don't remember it's name. And her second name was Emmanuelle. The girl, not the cat. The girl's second name was Emmanuelle after her aunt, her father's sister. She died when the girl was nine. And she was the only one who ever loved her properly. She was the only one who ever loved me."

Finishing Sparrow's braid, Marguerite put the hairbrush back on the table and kissed the top of Sparrow's head. "I know it's early, but you should sleep. You've look so tired lately. Secrets are very exhausting, sweetheart." She took Sparrow's hand and led her to her bed, pulling back the blankets. "Lie down, lie down," she said softly. "I'll see to the lights."

From the comfort of her bed, Sparrow watched Marguerite circle the room, turning off the lights one by one. She watched as she opened the window, complaining of the early summer heat as the wind sent the curtains dancing into the room. And, when Marguerite told her to sleep soundly as she shut the door behind herself, Sparrow felt, for the first time, what Simone had been so desperately telling her for weeks.

She was loved.