A/N Thank you to those of you who did review; it means a lot.
Disclaimer: Victor Hugo is not an anagram of my name, so I'm probably not Victor Hugo.
Chapter Twenty-six
"There you are, love of my life!" The cheerful voice broke the melancholy mood at the little table and a moment later Aimee was tugged from her chair and into an embrace by Courfeyrac. "Long time no see, mon amour," he grinned.
His cheerful kindness provoked a strange reaction in Aimee and she was mortified to find her eyes filling with tears. In an attempt to mask them she buried her head into the crook of his shoulder, but he had already caught sight of her distress.
"Mon chèri, what is the matter?" he queried, worry obvious in his voice. "Nothing bad has happened has it? Is my hair truly that dreadful today?"
Aimee gave a watery laugh, and shook her head vehemently, dashing away the tears with an unsteady hand. "No! Everything is wonderful; I'm fine," she sighed, "it's just been an odd day."
"Well, I know exactly how to make your day better." He once again pulled her to her feet, only this time he coaxed her to perform a sweeping waltz with him around the room, the two of them dodging tables and people and generally causing havoc. Bahoral whistled his approval, Jehan encouraged everyone to clap out a rhythm, and Combeferre looked up from his books with a fond twinkle in his eyes. By the time they stopped, Aimee was breathless with laughter and Courfeyrac was grinning in satisfaction.
"See?" he said smugly, "Your day is now better!"
"Is there nothing more constructive for you to do, Courfeyrac?"
Aimee was fairly certain that her friend felt her spine go rigid at the sound of Enjolras' voice, but, if Courfeyrac did, he made no comment. She turned to face him, Courfeyrac's arms dropping away as she did so, attempting to keep her face pleasantly neutral. "Enjolras." She greeted him with a tilt of her head, suddenly very aware of how quiet the room had gone.
"Mademoiselle Lyon." He returned the gesture, the intensity of his eyes as he searched her face at odds with his cool demeanour.
"The speech was excellent," she blurted out, then cursed her nervous attitude as she heard Courfeyrac's snigger of mirth behind her.
"Thank you." He paused for a moment, taking in the sight of her studiously, "You are well?"
Aimee got the distinctive feeling that the innocuous query as to her health was laden with more meaning than she could decipher, but she stuck to the inane answer that was expected. Now was not the time or the place for such wondering. There would probably never be a right time. "I am well, thank you monsieur."
"Well, not that this isn't wonderfully awkward or anything," Grantaire drawled in his signature tone as he sauntered up to the group, "but I have the copies of the newest batch of pamphlets for you, O Noble Leader."
With the moment broken, Enjolras' eyes dashed away from her face to focus on the sketches that had been offered to him. "Don't call me that," he muttered automatically, leafing through them, Aimee apparently forgotten.
Rankled by Enjolras' manner towards her, and to prove to herself she could still function as a part of the group, Aimee then made a point to talk with each of the Amis, feeling her heart lift with every interaction, the friendly banter and obvious affection returning her to her previous good mood.
By the time the women bid the group a reluctant farewell, Aimee once again had herself under control. Her thought were focussed on her next day of work, the possibility of finally getting a day off to go and check out the address of what she hoped was her old home, and all desires for a certain blond revolutionary back under tight control in the quietest recess of her mind.
She hugged each of her friends, surprised and slightly ashamed of how long it had been since she saw them last, and promised them that she would try to see them more, work permitting of course. She did not even bid a courteous goodnight to Enjolras, for he was ensconced by the window, studying a letter that had arrived in the time she had been there, totally engrossed, lost to his thoughts. Lost to her.
As the happy group of women strolled away from the Musain, Aimee had no idea that two very different pairs of eyes watched her until the friends turned the corner and were gone.
All too easily Aimee found herself sucked back into the punishing routine in which she had previously trapped herself and all of her resolutions were forgotten. Before she knew it nearly a fortnight had passed since she had last seen any of the Amis and she was no closer to visiting the house she hoped was a clue to her past.
In the case of the latter, if she were to be totally honest with herself, she had to admit that she was scared. For the last couple of days, probably encouraged by her stress, the number of flashbacks and nightmares she was having had gone up significantly, wearing her down even more. Eponine, Musichetta, and Annette tried their best to comfort her whenever she woke up sweating and, more often than not, screaming, but she never felt as settled as she had whenever Enjolras…
It was usually at this point that she abruptly cut off her line of thought and today, on her way to a rehearsal, there was no difference. Lifting the skirt of the elaborate gown that she wore, she quickened her pace, as if to run from her own mind, and only succeeded in arriving early and out of breath.
The rehearsal went well, although the conductor, Monsieur Legard, observed that Aimee seemed 'a little distracted' when she was singing her short solo, an embarrassing situation she did not need. After that she made sure to be fully focussed on the task at hand, hitting the right notes perfectly and not putting a foot out of place during the dancing sequences, a fact her partner was very pleased about.
As the various actors and dancers drifted away after the rehearsal ended, Aimee took a chance and approached Chavenage, who was stood in the main aisle with Leblanc and Legard. Upon catching sight of her, Chavenage smiled encouragingly and motioned for her to join them, which she did. As she stood, waiting for him to finish his business with the conductor, Aimee reflected that if Chavenage wasn't so magnanimous with all of his cast and crew, his treatment of her could be seen as significant favouritism, a state she would have found awkward to say the least. Finally, whatever problems that had been troubling Legard were resolved and the worrisome conductor scurried on his way, a mass of sheet music clutched in his arms.
"Mademoiselle Lyon," Chavenage greeted pleasantly, "how may I be of assistance to you? Are there any problems with the rehearsal?"
"No, no problems," Aimee hastily reassured him, "but I was hoping to ask a small favour of you."
"Ask away."
Leblanc rolled his eyes at the cheerful sentiment, obviously expecting a manipulative request from her with the simple intent of furthering her career.
"I was hoping," she inquired uncertainly, "if I may be so bold as to request a day off from work? Perhaps even just a half day, if a full day is too much trouble?"
"Good lord, mademoiselle, have you not had a single holiday since I hired you?" Chavenage was aghast. "I thought the holiday system had been explained to you." He seemed to notice her appearance for the first time; the dark circles under her eyes, the heavy slump to her shoulders, the exhaustion radiating from her. "Take as much time as you need," he offered gently.
"Nonsense," Leblanc spoke for the first time, his words clipped, and his tone terse, "you can't just offer an unlimited amount of holiday time! It's impractical, for everyone involved. She needs the money; we need her talents and participation. Nonsense." His dark eyes were hard, but she could see a glimmer of concern hiding in their depths. "You will be given the holiday period of five days. No more, no less. If either of us see you in this theatre before those five days are up, we will both be significantly displeased. Understood?"
"Yes, monsieur." Aimee offered him a brief smile, understanding that although Leblanc was the head of the partnership, and Chavenage was the heart, it did not mean that Leblanc did not feel.
"Excellent," he responded, straightening up. "Now get out of my sight."
Aimee bowed her head in acknowledgment, making it a little deeper than was strictly necessary to hide the sudden grin that formed on her lips. She was finally starting to get the measure of Leblanc, and behind his gruff persona was a caring heart with a dry sense of humour.
Just like Enjolras…
In an effort to forget this unwanted connection, the trip to her dressing room was completed in half of the time it normally took. Once inside, she jammed the door shut with a chair, once more cursing herself and her forgetfulness for losing her key a week or two earlier. Hastily, she stripped off the awkward costume, performing an elaborate dance as she hopped around the small space in the process of removing the difficult attire. Slipping back into her chemise, she went to go and fasten up the ribbon at the front, only to discover that it was gone from its cross threads. The ribbon was not something that would fall out; it would have to have been removed. Fear bloomed coldly across her skin, paranoia freezing her.
Her glove, her ribbon, her key…
She glanced around wildly, mentally inventorying the contents of the room, but finding nothing else missing. Her heart hammering, she dropped down onto the chair that was still barricading the door.
"You're just being silly," she chanted to herself, "you just keep losing things, you're tired, that's all."
The knock that sounded on the door behind her caused her heart to leap in her chest and for her to leap off the chair in alarm. She tried to calm her wild breathing, whilst also searching for a robe with which to cover herself, calling out a shaky, "Who is it?"
"I've got a package for you."
The voice was young, and after a moment she identified it as one of the stagehands, a cheerful lad by the name of Claude.
Cracking open the door she was faced with a young man in a workingman's cap, holding a small cloth bundle in his hands. "Who sent the package?" She didn't care if she sounded ungrateful; she was still badly shaken and was oddly desperate to get out of the theatre. The walls seemed to be pressing in on her, trapping her, crushing her.
"Monsieur Cabruc sent it over, said he had found it in the corridor and recognised it as yours." When she gave no answer he threw her a sunshine smile and departed with a cheerful, "Have a nice day, Mademoiselle Aimee."
Giving no reply she ducked back inside and shut the door, sliding down the wood until she was sat on the floor with her back up against the barrier. She un-wrapped the lumpy bundle and nearly cried with sheer relief. Never did she imagine that she would be so pleased to see the hideous brass creation that was the key to her dressing room.
It was with a slightly more peaceful mind that she securely locked the dressing room door behind her and exited the theatre only a few minutes later, her tired body and frazzled mind desperately seeking rest.
Roses had always been her favourite flower. She adored their intoxicating scent, their effortless elegance, their vibrant red colour. Yes, the red ones had always been her favourite. Her mother loved the yellow ones, saying that they were like sunshine that sprung up out of the ground; sunshine that you could trap in a vase and keep indoors even on the gloomiest of days.
She had tried to grow roses at the new house, but the soil was bad and there wasn't enough sun. They withered and died…just like her mother. Instead of roses she had a little pot of geraniums that she grew inside, sat on the windowsill of the front parlour. There was always lots of sun there, so much that the carpet inside had a big faded patch from where the sun rested on it for hours
The pot got smashed though, the plants ripped out of the soil and flung to the floor. She can remember seeing the bright red blossoms over his shoulder as he brutally squeezed her windpipe shut. "I like a girl with a bit of fire; it takes longer to break them". Everything was broken, the pot, the parlour window, another window, a dark dirty window…running, darkness, pain, nothing...
Aimee lurched awake, breath rasping in her throat, a multitude of emotions choking her, drowning her. Desperate to relieve the sensation that reminded her to much of her nightmare, she stumbled to the kitchen and drank deeply, not caring how cold the water in the bucket was.
She had arrived home from the theatre an hour or so before and, rather foolishly it now transpired, decided to have a nap, the exhaustion at last catching up with her. As she came down from the height of her fear it dawned on her that the nightmare included a whole set of new memories that she hadn't remembered before. The flowers, the geraniums at the house, the other window…
Filled with a sudden restless energy, she began to pace incessantly, grateful for the rhythm of her boots on the worn wood of the apartment floor, the regularity of the beats distracting her from her lingering terror. Despite the familiarity of the room surrounding her, she could not stop thinking about the house, the flowers, the clues that her own brain was giving her, as if to point her in the right direction.
She stopped, dithering from one foot to the other. Should she go? Should she go now? Or should she stay here? The image of a pot of geraniums swam before her eyes, broken on the parlour floor on the patch of faded carpet and in that moment she felt that she just had to find some answers.
Dropping to her knees, she lifted the corner of her pallet and pulled out a small leather pouch, oiled to protect it from damp, reached inside and pulled out a folded square of paper. Aimee's movements became hurried, almost frenzied; throwing on her coat and scribbling down a note for Eponine should her friend return before she herself got back. Her heart lightened by the prospect of a discovery, Aimee flew out of the apartment, clattering down the stairs so fast she risked falling and breaking her neck. Waving a brief farewell to the porteress, she walked briskly off down the street, determination giving her wings.
It was only after she had turned the corner that a shadowy figure detached itself from the wall and slunk into her apartment building.
A/N Sorry for the lack of Amis in the last few chapters, but this section of the story is about building Aimee's past and her present. I'm just going to whine for a minute, so prepare yourselves.
Start whine
I'm having a really good time writing this story, and I'm getting plenty of views on it, but no reviews. I'm not asking for an analytical essay, but I really would appreciate it if you could just tell me what you thought of the latest chapter? Is it making sense? Are the clues too obvious or too subtle? Do you like my writing style, my use of language? Etcetera…
End whine
Anyhow, hope you enjoyed this instalment. Now, read this next bit in the voice you get on film trailers, you know, the really dramatic one…
Next chapter Aimee will be checking out the house. Do you think it will provide any new information? Who is the shadowy figure? Will Enjolras continue to be a seemingly insensitive idiot? Stay tuned for all of the answers to these questions, more of Le Faucon, and…dancing.
Until next time, mes amis!
Libz