The short transition to shore went about as well as could be expected.
They could have sailed as far as Rouen, which would take them much closer to Badeaux, but the risk in this move does not make up for saving only a day. The odds of being spotted rise sharply the farther they go, and they would, too, have less maneuverability on this path, where the Seine narrows.
Instead, they docked nearer to Le Havre, where they stay for so short a time it seemed as though they merely touched down.
Still, it was long enough to get everything ready – and long enough to give them another reason to hasten further.
The Sentinel has been seen. The reports are recent, and place their pursuer not far away. The phantom ship, too, is included in these tales, but as they now are near to each other, they cannot rely on this ship to draw the Sentinel away.
All this, they learned from the townsfolk. The wives were much more forthcoming with Courfeyrac, though it's really little surprise, but she was able to learn little details where voices are more hushed – she still has that air, she supposes, the one she assumed when Thénardier moved from a name to a way of life.
She was surprised to find that she gains answers in brighter places, too; even with her cap over her hair (she felt no need to resort back to gamine, here, when doing so – when dressing as so – would necessitate putting pressure on her shoulder, and she has no wish to crack open the raw and healing skin), she was, once, beamed at by an aging woman they spoke to only briefly.
In her confusion following this encounter, Grantaire pointed out that she does look far less disreputable when she does not cling so to the shade of the buildings around them, and she wondered if she is changing the opinions of those around her of if she is simply changing herself.
In any case, it was simple enough to find a safe route to Badeaux, and they were able to send ahead Grantaire, Courfeyrac, and Feuilly with two crates among them. The one carries the mirror, and as much rags and cushioning as they could muster in order to steady it; the other is present mainly to avert the suspicions that a lone box would bring about, and contains little more than trinkets.
There was, as well, the letter Éponine pressed to Grantaire's hands with spoken instructions to find her brother, who would send it on its way to the Pontmercys. Whether a response will ever reach her is another matter, but this gesture, at least, she makes.
The trip should take three days; they will meet again in five.
Departure is quick, unceremonious, and uneventful, and now, at a day and a half out, the most significant undertaking Éponine has is reacting to patterns of the weather.
In this heat, the air barely stirs.
Éponine is forced to resort back to skirts that swish around her ankles so that she might be a touch cooler. Her hair is simply shoved under her hat, as it is much too hot to bother with the intricacy of pins, and already the strands that have slipped out from beneath her cap are damp with sweat, sticking where they brush against her neck.
She has gotten used to practicing sword fighting with Grantaire when there are no tasks to call away her time and attention, and she finds herself missing those moments.
It's an absence that she would not feel quite so deeply had she not also she not also cut herself off from her other method of passing the time - and of her own choice, too.
Limited it, at the least. Just… until she can get a handle on everything. She does certainly miss moments with Enjolras, too, and yet every time she is near him, it seems to be getting worse.
Though she may have no true reason to worry, if the conversation she delved into tentatively with Grantaire is any indication, she remains hesitant.
Éponine does not wish to be a fool in love. Enjolras would not be so oblivious should she follow at his heels, and she does not even have a proper excuse to be chasing after his shadow, as she did with Marius. Her lettering has progressed enough that she can pen short or simple passages with a fair amount of reliability, and she imagines she could do better with more work; she could pluck a book from a shelf and be assured that she would understand enough to struggle through.
Of this, she is pleased, but claiming to need additional help with her reading will not work so well now, and she cannot invent reason after reason in order to be nearer, even in the event that she manages to delay the conversation until it is forgotten.
She does not imagine that he knows – she's barely even aware enough to say that she 'knows', and she needed Grantaire's help for that – but he will suspect something. And this is far from what she wants.
Now, Éponine is restless. The lack of wind makes even this open air feel stifling, and it is growing harder to keep her thoughts in check.
Her efforts have prolonged what may yet prove to be inevitable, true, but it is causing the strain she so hoped to avoid; perhaps slower, but present.
She feels she cannot linger long around anyone, or any place, for fear that Enjolras will appear and she will be drawn into him, so she has not interacted much with anyone, lately.
(She does learn why Bossuet is no longer allowed to prepare meals in this interim. If the fire leaps that high when he has only barely entered the room, she cannot imagine his luck will allow for any better outcome.)
Why did this have to be so – so – complicated?
Éponine buries her face in her hands a moment before standing. Staying up on deck seems less and less palatable the more she wallows, and so she begins to make her way down the steps.
For his part, Enjolras is equally engaged in a similar struggle, but he is not preoccupied with avoidance. No, he is attempting to accomplish just the opposite.
The lengths to which she goes to evade him are becoming ridiculous.
Éponine remains amiable in all her dealings, but she is unusually cheerful with him in the moments before she makes her escape, artfully dodging the issue at hand whenever a hint of it appears – and sometimes less subtly. She does not always bother with thin excuses, simply ducking away and disappearing, and he's almost certain she does not need to do any urgent 'deck swabbing,' now or ever.
It had gotten to the point where he'd – asked Grantaire.
Grantaire just shook his head and laughed – a little too mirthfully, it seemed – and clapped him on the back. "You have made a fine mess of things, my friend," he had declared warmly, and as he departed, Enjolras could make out something about having 'finally cracked the marble.'
So, with this unhelpfull commentary fueling him, Enjolras has been left plagued by thoughts to interrupt all his work, all his planning, more than ever before, and he finds he cannot let that be.
He can't quite see her as being happy over this, no matter how voluntary her actions may be – twice, he catches her staring, a look of curiosity alight in her eyes. Rather than immediately avert her gaze, she turns away slowly, looking to be – troubled, perhaps.
To all intents and purposes, and for reasons he can only guess at, she has been trying her best to stay far away from him.
Which is why he is so surprised to encounter her as she descends the stairs.
She is equally so, if the way she jerks her head up and looks at him with wide, startled eyes is any indication. With her stepping down and him heading up, they are paused halfway.
"Enjolras." His name tumbles from her lips quickly, seeming more a knee-jerk reaction than anything, but when his own lips part to speak, her face clouds over. "Apologies for blocking the way. I should – should go, and–" Her eyes dart to the side as if sizing up her options, and he does not bother to soften the slight frown that appears at this. She is attempting to avoid him, again. She is this close, and yet she wishes to slip away, and it is sudden enough that he is, for once, at a loss for words.
Almost.
"Éponine." A hand laid on her arm and she falls gently into stillness.
He pauses, and then he lets her go, hoping she does not immediately dart off, and runs a hand through his hair. Thankfully, she waits.
"I know you must be… unhappy." But what does he say?
She remains even yet, but her eyes are pleading. "Just forget about it, won't you, monsieur?"
"Éponine, I–" She is mostly still, but he watches her lean forward, almost imperceptibly as she waits for and anticipates the words. 'I don't want to forget.'
She has come a long way since that wary slip introduced as Julien, turned – from her own recounting – from vagabond to this dark-haired creature who looks well and wary and bright. There is that wariness, still, and yet she is brilliant.
It is – confusing, but not so unwelcome now. He can articulate this to her, if she will let him. If she has been dwelling on thoughts that are growing increasingly less unwelcome, perhaps… it's worth a shot. "If it is all the same to you," he begins carefully, "I would rather remember." And his lips quirk up.
She leans in a touch more, obvious now, and he notices the way something guarded seems to slip from her eyes to be replaced with something vivid. His voice is gentler when he speaks again. "Éponine, you don't have to–"
And the ship rocks violently.
He stumbles back, and she jerks forwards into him, tossed off balance. Their inelegant stumbling is punctuated by the unmistakable sound of cannon fire.
A/N: My laptop's backlight is broken and I'd like you all to know I am typing on a heap of junk to get this to you, that's how much I love you.
It's late – I am literally falling asleep at my keyboard over here and I should rest before I start drooling and short out the wiring – so I will fix any spelling (or plot) mistakes in the morning. (Feel free to point them out, yeah?)
