A/N *skips around throwing streamers and confetti into the air* I passed 100 reviews!

Thank you SO MUCH all of you lovely people out there who have reviewed, followed and favourited, though I'm sad to notice some of my older reviewers have dropped off the radar (SofiaLilly1980, Sarahbob, The World About To Dawn, IrisReid, Frick6101719, SunWillRise2340, Paytonrhyan, DawnCat2476, and FabulouslyFreeSpirited to name a few). Actually, that list makes me feel depressed now…I really shouldn't have done that.

Anyhow, just throw me a review real quick after reading this. It'll make my day, it really will.

Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own it, okay? Stop rubbing it in my face already…

Chapter Twenty-nine

"I don't like this, Enjolras, I don't like it at all," Combeferre muttered, not lifting his eyes from the textbooks that concealed the table even as he conversed with his friend, "The whole situation with this ball makes me nervous."

The two of them were holed up in Enjolras' apartment, both of them hard at work on various tasks. Up until now, the only sound had been the steady pitter-patter of raindrops against the shutters, the offspring of a sudden April shower that had blown in midmorning.

In regards to the social engagement that was at the heart of their conversation, Enjolras held the same misgivings as his friend, but for quite different reasons. Ever since he had first taken part in the society gatherings his parents held at their house he had disliked them. The crowded rooms made him feel trapped, the conversation was so inane and pointless that it bored him almost to tears, and the girls that were inevitably thrust upon him by ambitious mothers with an eye for a good match were either too stupid, uninteresting, or too painfully shy to even attempt speaking to him. More often than not he would escape the clutching confines of the ballroom and disappear into the deeper parts of the library, sometimes even going as far as to sleep there.

"I find it difficult to comprehend why so much money is to be wasted on financing some ridiculous costumes, when the exchange of information could be received some other way!" Combeferre removed his glasses and polished the lenses excessively, as he always did when feeling particularly displeased. His curious dislike of Le Faucon had not diminished after the meeting at the Corinth three days ago and the large bag of money that had arrived with the detailed instructions of the plan had not generated any positive feeling with him. Combeferre had been very vocal in his displeasure, saying, "The amount of money in that purse could have fed and clothed a dozen or more people who were in desperate need of help."

Enjolras sighed deeply, smearing ink through his eyebrow as he rubbed at sleep-sore and gritty eyes. "We've been over this so many times I've lost count, Ferre," he spoke softly, attempting to stop the conversation from flaring up into an argument, "if there was another way, Rene would have used it. He does not feel pleased about the current state of affairs either, but it is what we have to work with at this present moment." He passed a few sheets of paper to his oldest friend, both sides of stationary covered by the black loops of his sprawling handwriting, "Would you mind reading this over for me, if you have a minute? It's for the factory workers on the other side of the river; I just want your opinion on whether or not it's too 'preachy', as Grantaire so elegantly describes some of my speeches."

"I'll see what I can do," Combeferre acquiesced, knowing that on the matter of the ball Enjolras was not going to heed his council, a spark of bitterness igniting at the thought, "Courfeyrac is bringing his costume man over shortly, is he not?"

Enjolras nodded with a look of such irritation and misery on his face that Combeferre felt a smile break free regardless of his mood. "I can honestly say I'm not looking forwards to it."

At that precise moment a flamboyant knock sounded on the door. "Well," Combeferre said, rising from his chair and gathering up his books and notes, "that is my cue to be moving on." A sardonic curl appeared in his parting smile, "Have a lovely time, my friend."

The only response he received was a miserable glower as Enjolras stalked past him to fling open the door. Three people stood on the threshold; Courfeyrac, Grantaire and an unfamiliar man who only just reached Enjolras' shoulder. This short stranger literally bounced into the room, a neat, black attaché case in one hand. Combeferre muttered a hasty farewell and disappeared, Grantaire greeted Enjolras with a sly wink and a grin, and Courfeyrac shrugged in an apologetic manner as the little man's gaze came to focus on Enjolras.

"Bonjour, monsieur! My name is Françoise, and I will be in charge of creating the masterpiece that you will be wearing to the ball!"

Seeing Enjolras' somewhat terrified expression, Courfeyrac could only shrug again in apology, "Françoise is very good at his job, even if he does get a little intense."

"My intensity is what makes my work perfect," François informed them with a lofty smile, "and I'll kindly ask you never to forget that, Monsieur de Courfeyrac."

Enjolras had no time to reply for François had come to an abrupt halt, a look of deep concentration on his face as he looked the uncomfortable revolutionary up and down. "If you do not mind me saying, Monsieur Enjolras, but you strongly remind me of a Grecian deity; Apollo, perhaps?"

"Thank you!" Grantaire interjected from the sofa, "I told you I wasn't the only one who thought so!"

"Why are you here?" Enjolras hissed at the artist as François continued his loud flattery, circling the hapless man like a hawk, occasionally poking and prodding which made Enjolras jump.

Grantaire shrugged easily, pulling out a sketchbook and a charcoal pencil, "No reason. I merely thought that this might be entertaining."

François came to a halt once again, deeply disturbing Enjolras by running one pale finger over his face, "These cheekbones look like marble that has been eroded over time by the tears of angels."

"I have literally no way to explain this," Courfeyrac admitted, gathering up his hat and gloves and beating a hasty retreat towards the door, "I leave you to your fate, dear friend of mine, for I have better things to be doing."

"Namely that little blond thing from the bakery three streets over," Grantaire called after him, grinning wolfishly.

Enjolras rolled his eyes at their shenanigans and prepared to have his personal space invaded by the strange little costume designer who even now was removing a measuring tape and a small notebook from the case he had brought with him.

As he predicted, Enjolras spent the next half an hour being pushed and pulled, calculated and considered. Grantaire sat there the whole time, in complete silence surprisingly, the charcoal in his hand shrinking little by little as he fashioned drawing after drawing onto the thick paper of his sketchbook. Enjolras was secretly fascinated having never seen the – mostly - reformed drunkard in his artistic element. The ease with which Grantaire coaxed the images from nothingness was incredible, as was his seeming utter disregard for the artwork he created. Several were torn up and cast into the fire, unworthy in their creator's eyes of existing, while others were set aside with a satisfied grunt, the charcoal already descending to the page to create once more.

Finally, François finished his measuring and began to pack away. "I haven't yet settled on any designs for the costumes that I am happy with," he confessed, not realizing that Enjolras couldn't have been less interested if he'd tried, "mostly because I have yet to come up with a theme that suits you and Mademoiselle Lyon."

"I don't think Enjolras will really care what he wears," Grantaire interjected as he began to also gather his supplies together, "he's only going to go and swan around with the bourgeois for an evening…" Whatever else he might have said was cut off by a starling gasp that originated with François who stood in the centre of the room with a look of exultant realization on his face and his arms held wide as if to pull his inspiration from the very air.

"Swans!" he exclaimed in an awed tone. Seeing their blank looks he repeated, "Swans! For the costumes! The most majestic of birds that has been present in mythology for hundreds of years! Ancient symbols of purity, light, fidelity and grace!"

"Also one of the sacred birds of Apollo," Grantaire added with a grin at Enjolras' stunned expression, "I believe, if I recall my mythology correctly, that you have a chariot pulled by them. Or made out of them. Or something. Even you have to admit that would a dramatic entrance."

Enjolras sank onto the sofa with a groan, his head in his hands. "Sweet Patria," he muttered, the words drowned out by François incessant chattering, "what have I got myself into?"

The countdown to the ball seemed to speed up over the days. Enjolras tried to forget about the whole incident, even continuing to talk plans and schoolwork through with various members of the Amis even as adjustments were being made to his costume during fittings.

Aimee was a little more excited about the public engagement as it would be the first party she had ever been to as far as she could remember. Eponine, Musichetta, and Annette fed off her enthusiasm, grateful that the task at hand was keeping her mind engaged and away from the darker places that inevitably ended in sleepless nights and tear filled days. The four of them, following François' instruction, worked around the clock to sew the costumes, delighted at the masterpieces that grew before them with every stitch.

Aimee's final fitting was the day before the ball and was completed at midnight by the light of half a dozen candles, the luxury light paid for by the money given by Le Faucon. The material glowed and shimmered in the low illumination, the stitched embroidery standing out as golden swirls across the garment. The creators of this masterpiece stood back in awe, eyes searching any imperfection and finding none.

"Now for the final touch," Eponine said, taking a mask out of a box. It was a Venetian mask, designed to only cover her eyes. It was covered mostly with silver silk, apart from a curlicue shape around the eyes, which was pure white. Silver thread glittered in elegant swirls and tiny faux jewels decorated the rim of the mask. On the left hand side the mask swept upwards in a riotous collection of flawlessly white feathers and a cluster of white and silver silken roses clustered by the ear. It was perfect.

"Enjolras isn't going to know what to say when he sees this," Musichetta pronounced gleefully, prompting a round of giggles from her fellow seamstresses and a violent blush from Aimee.

"Nonsense," she objected, "Enjolras has far more important things to do at the ball than to…to gawk at me. I doubt he'll even notice."

Eponine regarded her with a cynically raised eyebrow. "No man is that blind," she promised, "not even Enjolras."

"We'll see what happens," Aimee evaded tiredly, "that's all I can do now."

"I don't think I can completely express how uncomfortable I am right now," Enjolras deadpanned, scrutinizing his almost unrecognizable reflection in the mirror before him. Much to his relief François had kept the swan theme to a tasteful minimum, using colours and styles to express the bird instead of actual costumes as Enjolras had feared.

His shirt was of snow-white cotton, fastened with buttons of silver that stood out on his chest comparable to beads of light. Over this was a waistcoat of ivory silk patterned with silver thread, fastened by buttons of pearly ivory. His jacket was also white and silver with black embroidery along the cuffs and lapels, the dark colour standing out sharply against the otherwise pale costume. Pale buckskin breeches sheathed his legs, so tight it was almost painful, his calves were encased in black highboots so well polished he could see his face in them, and just to add insult to injury, his hair had been plastered flat onto his head and a powdered, white wig set in place. He felt over-dressed, ridiculous, encumbered by the clothing and disgusted by the riches he was arrayed in.

François however was delighted by the overall effect. "Elegant yet majestic. Charming yet terrible," he gave the costume a last long look, "It is perfect! Oh!" In sudden recollection he dived across the room to rifle through the large box he had arrived with, eventually emerging with an elegant half mask in white and silver, "The crowning jewel."

A quiet snigger emanated from the corner, originating from Grantaire. He had stayed throughout the entire process, drawing each step to show the emergence of the costume. He claimed it was for a project and to aid François in the designs, but the titles he gave the pictures - the latest had been 'The Creation of a Bourgeoisie Bird' - said otherwise.

"Not a word," Enjolras gritted out from between clenched teeth, summoning up every logical reason in existence for him to be in this situation right now, trying to focus on the point of this mission and not on his humiliation.

"I think you look lovely," Courfeyrac complemented from over by the window, "The colours really bring out the blue in your eyes…" He trailed off as he received a glare so ferocious that it was a surprise the poor dandy didn't burn to a cinder.

A knock sounded at the door and, upon being bid to enter, revealed Margo. "Mademoiselle Lyon is dressed and ready," she announced, more formal in her address in the presence of François. "The carriage is due to arrive in a few minutes, monsieur. May I suggest that you come down?"

François clasped his hands together in delight at the idea. "Ah, it will be wonderful!" he exclaimed, "My two wonderful beauties together at last. What a fine couple you shall make!"

As the small group descended to street level, Enjolras hung back, grasping Courfeyrac's arm so as to speak with him in private for a few moments. "What do I say?" he asked in a clipped tone, the abruptness of his words indicating to Courfeyrac just how nervous he was.

"Say what to whom?" he asked nonchalantly, and receiving another glare and a subtle elbow in the ribcage for his troubles, "Ooof! Fine, fine!" He rubbed the abused spot gingerly. "Just…say something nice to her. You're the one who is supposed to have the silver tongue here, and besides, you and Aimee have…history for lack of a better word."

They had by now reached the bottom of the twisting staircase and so Enjolras dropped his voice to a sibilant whisper for the sake of secrecy. "I wouldn't call one botched kiss and a few games of chess a 'history'!" he hissed, self-consciously tugging at the wig that had slipped slightly.

"Nonsense," Courfeyrac assured him in a cheerful, but equally low-volume tone, "that's practically a whole relationship!"

Any further chance of conversation or disagreement was halted by the fact that Enjolras, at that moment, caught sight of Aimee stood in Margo's front room. All the breath in his lungs seemed to have deserted him, and though he hated the cliché responses his body was having, his heart rate sped up considerably, the organ seeming to drop several inches and end up somewhere in his stomach where it continued to pound away merrily like a regimental band of drums.

The dress was made of pale golden and white silk in a style of some ten years previous, with a high waist pulled tight around a waist made artificially smaller by a corset. The neckline was modest, but wide, revealing the pale, olive skin of her collarbone and shoulders. The sleeves were slim but ruffled, the layers of white silk adorned with a length of shaded golden ribbon shot through with lines of black. From waist to mid-calf the skirt fell straight down, simple but elegant, and from there was patterned with more gold, silver, and black ribbon in alluring, feathery designs. Her arms up to her elbows were embraced by white silken gloves, embroidered with black thread to match his waistcoat. The toe of her white slippers peeked out from under the hem of her dress as she moved, the silver buckle adorned with a single bead of ebony

She was spectacular, radiant, elegant. Perfect. And Enjolras had never felt more terrified in his life.

"Silver tongue turn to lead?" Courfeyrac inquired with false innocence.

Enjolras had no time to reply for François was calling for him urgently, his high, thin voice scraping on Enjolras' already frayed nerves. He stepped somewhat uncertainly into the room, feeling fourteen again under the piercing eyes of the room's occupants. The silence stretched, long and heavy, until Eponine stepped half a stride closer to him and narrowed her eyes.

"The wig works for you," she finally said, provoking a round of laughter from all present.

"You're too kind," Enjolras returned clumsily, uncomfortable with the familiar banter.

The sound of iron shod hooves sounded on the cobbles outside, alerting the party to the arrival of the carriage. Eponine and Musichetta aided Aimee in donning a black, full-body cloak to ward off the chill that was still present in the April air, and Francois stepped forwards with a gentleman's equivalent; black wool lined with eye catching scarlet.

Red and black. Enjolras took comfort in the two colours, their bold contrast reminding him of the purpose of all this pomp. As Courfeyrac stepped close to fasten up the throat fastening, he leaned forwards to whisper gently in Enjolras' ear, "Be nice to her, you hear?" His expression was stern and curiously unreadable, so Enjolras merely settled to nodding stiffly in acknowledgment and thanks before walking out of the room with a determined step.

Aimee was already seated inside the covered vehicle, Musichetta leaning through the window to say something that caused the bright ring of Aimee's laughter to sound forth from the carriage. He nodded politely to Eponine and made to move past her, but the reformed gamine laid a hand firmly on his forearm to check his progress.

"You had better give a damn good night, bourgeois boy," she threatened lowly, "She's risking her life for your cause; you'd better make it worth it."

"This outing is for business not pleasure," he informed her coldly, "my main focus of the evening is to complete a task, not entertain."

The frosty look he received would have made many other men wilt under its intensity, but Enjolras simply ignored the brunt of it, swept past the young woman and climbed smoothly into the carriage.

The directions had already been given to the driver and so all that was necessary was for Enjolras to rap firmly on the roof as a signal to proceed. Aimee sat opposite him, her mask removed and held loosely on her lap, the fingers of one hand incessantly playing with the wispy feather attached to the side of it. Staring with unstudied carelessness out of the window, he tugged at the stock around his throat, the interior of the carriage suddenly seeming confining.

"You know what we need to do tonight?" he asked sharply, still not looking at her. His fingers beat out a fast tattoo against his leg.

Her face remained almost blank, only one slim eyebrow quirking upwards. "If I didn't know better, Julien, I would say you were nervous," she said, her voice a warm hum of familiarity in this strange situation.

"Nonsense!" he snapped, but instantly felt ashamed of the reaction. She was right, as she so often had been, and there had been no need to be that rude. "My apologies," he offered, his next words taking them both by surprise. "I have forgotten how well you read me."

The gleam of her teeth was bright in the gloom. "There was no other way to beat you at chess. The trick was to study you; not necessarily the board," she teased, her fingers loosening from their tight grip on her mask.

A chuckle bubbled up from somewhere deep in his chest, a sound he had not made for many a day. "Combeferre always said my face was easy to read," he imparted, feeling himself relax for the first time that evening, "It is why I never gamble with Bahorel. In games I find it difficult to conceal my emotions."

"It could be suggested that it is the same in most parts of your life," Aimee said quietly before turning her face away from him towards the window, leaving him to puzzle over her words.

Before another word could be uttered, they both felt the carriage slow its' pace, the horses' smart trot slowly to a measured walk. Alerted that they were close by the many costumed party goers visible from the window, Enjolras set his mask in place, tying the black satin ribbon behind his head, his anonymity hopefully secured. He turned to find Aimee attempting to do the same, but struggling to fasten the ribbon around the pinned mass of ringlets piled up onto the top of her head. Her fingers were cool under his as he reached to help her, the slight tremors in the slender digits betraying her true sense of nervousness. The feathered disguise firmly in place, Enjolras dropped his hands down from her head, and on an impulse reached for her hand in the now near darkness. He felt her clutch the offered hand, the soft material of her glove pressing against his palm, their fingers tangling together and locking tight in a moment of sweet solidarity. Light from dozens of candles fell through the small window, bathing them both in a golden light, setting their costumes aflame and glittering. A liveried servant stepped forwards, a snowy white glove reaching out to release the handle and open the door. The final barrier between them and the uncertain events of the evening swung open, tearing a too bright hole in the safety of the darkness. Heart thundering silently under his ribs, Enjolras schooled his face into the universal expression of haughty boredom and exited the carriage.

A/N Another chapter finished! Sorry for the wait and I hope you enjoyed. For those of you that are interested, the links to Aimee's costume and the masks they are wearing will be up on my profile. Unfortunately, I couldn't find one for Enjolras and so his is completely fictional. Up in the next chapter is the ball itself and will include intrigue, danger and…romance…

Please review! Until next time, mes amis!

Libz

PS Find the line from the Marvel film 'Thor' if you dare!