Chapter Twenty-Nine

The Determination to Trust


It was a weightless and terrifying feeling, like flinging herself off of a precipice and hoping there would be something soft to land on, without being able to first check. To put her trust in someone. To believe those words: "I promise."

She curled herself up more tightly on the couch and drew the quilt further over her face. She listened to the steady sound of Erik's breathing, sleeping harmlessly in the bed behind her.

Did she trust Erik?

When she first woke up in the house on the lake, she didn't trust him a bit. The more he was kind to her, the more suspicious she became of his motives. Any time she let her guard down slightly, she quickly reminded herself that she wasn't safe, not here, not anywhere. She had only survived as far as she had in life by not trusting. By listening to her gut. When it came to keeping herself safe, her suspicion was the only advantage she possessed.

And yet...

When she thought back on the interactions they'd had during these past handful of weeks since she'd been shot, she couldn't say that her guard had been up for very much of the time. At some point, she had lowered it. She had shared her feelings, her tears, her grief, her thoughts. She had voiced things to him about herself and her past that she had never said out loud before.

Did she trust him? Well, she certainly didn't distrust him.

It didn't make any sense, having to go to such strange and furtive lengths to collect his salary. But then again, did anything about Erik make sense? Did it make any sense that he lived beneath the Opera in secrecy? Did it make any sense that, although he had an entire private box, he didn't sit in it like a normal person, but instead hid inside a column and pretended to be a ghost?

Of course, he would say it was all because of his face. And maybe that was so. Éponine couldn't begin to know what it was like to try to live a normal life with a severe facial deformity like that. What she did know was that it would have been absolutely insurmountable for herself, emaciated and dirty and clothed in rags, to find decent employment and thereby improve her situation even just slightly. Once you had fallen through the floor of respectable society—past even people like Marius or that old man he was friends with, who were pretty much destitute and yet still had some dignity left to cling to—once you had fallen that far, you were out, and that was that. You were worse than a dead person, because dead people at least got to rest undisturbed. Yes, at that point, perhaps it made sense to just become a ghost.

There was a lot which still didn't add up to her, and she knew Erik wasn't an innocent man. He'd told her himself that her hands were far cleaner than his, and heaven only knew her hands were the furthest thing from clean. Rightly or wrongly, she didn't much care about whatever he had done in his past, and she wasn't sure how much she cared even about what he might be doing currently. What he did was his own business, though she would really prefer that no one get hurt. But if he involved her, it would become her business.

She had trouble even explaining to herself why it would be so acutely devastating were she to ever find that Erik had used her for criminal ends. Only that, there was a vast difference between the opportunity to be of use, and being used. And Éponine was all too familiar with the feeling of being used.

She mattered to her father and the Patron-Minette (with the possible exception of Montparnasse—but while he might care for her a little, it still wasn't so much that he couldn't leave her for a bit while she bled to death) only insofar as she was usable. Because of this, she had gone along with things she hated, because this was her lot in life, and because if she stopped being a lookout, or delivering letters, or following people, or casing joints, then she would starve, and there was no point at all in starving, was there? And it did give her something almost like satisfaction or pride to be used because she had a clever mind and quick eyes, rather than for anything worse. Still, even when she earned a word of praise or some fleeting affection from her father, she had no illusions that she was anything but a tool to be used, and tools could be discarded without sentimentality.

And even Marius—she had so desperately wanted to be of use to him. At least as a friend, if she could never be more. He couldn't know, of course, how crushing it would be to her when he tried to give her money for finding Cosette's address. Turning something that she had done for him, at great cost to her own personal feelings, into a cold transaction. But she could have even forgotten the sting of that, had he not treated her so coldly afterwards, whenever she tried to speak to him. Really, what did she expect? What could a fine young man like him possibly have to do with a woman like her? Still, the revelation that he, too, viewed her as something to be used and then discarded—was that really all she was good for, all she was worth? If even a good, honest boy like Marius would only value her for the same skills that the gang of criminals did...well, maybe that said more about her than it did anyone else.

Would she be able to stand it if it turned out that Erik saw her the same way? Particularly if he lied to her about it? If he did not even have the decency to tell her that was all this was?

But Erik had told the Daroga, "I will not be the latest in a line of men who have hurt her."

And to her, he had said, "I promise."

And Éponine told herself that she was making the decision, just like that, to trust that promise. Of course, she knew nothing was ever really that simple, least of all trust. But she was determined that she would not allow her thoughts to go down any further lines of questioning. She was going to silence any doubts that arose with the remembered sound of Erik's voice saying those words: I promise. And that would be that. She was going to fling herself blindly into the abyss, having faith that she would not land badly, because Erik assured her that she wouldn't, and Erik had never given her reason not to trust him. It felt weightless and frightening, but also incredibly freeing and warm. It was a new feeling for her, this choosing to trust. And it allowed her to drift off to sleep with a smile on her lips.

—●—●—●—●—

When she awoke, there was a lamp burning dimly in the room, and she saw that the bed was made and Erik was gone. The clock let her know that it was nine o'clock. She arose from the couch, wincing a little at the persistent pain in her chest. Ribs took a long time to heal, she remembered hearing. She put on her dressing gown, and went out into the drawing room. Erik was sitting at his desk, still wearing his own red dressing gown, but not his mask. He smiled at her.

"Good morning, Éponine."

"Good morning," she said with a yawn. She paused at his desk and allowed her fingertips to dance lightly over the twisted and malformed flesh on the right side of his face. Then, nodding in the direction of the table where the breakfast tray stood, she asked, "Is that coffee?"

He nodded, smiling faintly, and then he turned his attention back to whatever he was doing at his desk, while she went over and poured herself a cup of the strong black coffee. She hummed snatches of the opera from the night before. She could still hardly believe she'd really been there, and dressed so elegantly. She hadn't even told Erik how much she would love to see an opera, but he had taken note of the fact that she loved music, even if she couldn't sing like he could. He'd told her he wanted to help her get her mind off the bad news of her family. The thought alone would be enough to draw tears to her eyes, but the fact that he had actually acted on the thought and given her such a wonderful evening...

He finished whatever he was doing at his desk and came to join her where she now sat by the fire. She couldn't find the words to express herself properly, but she thanked him again for the night before. He started telling her about how Romeo and Juliet was first a play by an Englishman called Shakespeare quite a long time ago, and how it was actually an Italian story before that... She sipped her coffee and ate brioche and smiled fondly as she listened to him go on.

Finally, he stood up. "You will need to rest and recover today," he told her. "I fear that was a lot of walking for you, last night."

She didn't want to admit it, but she was feeling rather sapped of strength.

He excused himself, saying he had to go get dressed for the day. Éponine had the thought of washing up the breakfast dishes, but she told herself she would see to that in a bit. She slouched slightly in her chair and closed her eyes. She didn't realise she had fallen asleep until she was startled awake by the door to Erik's bedroom opening again. He was fully dressed, including his mask. He picked up two envelopes from his desk and slipped them into an inner pocket of his jacket. Then he crossed the room to Éponine, and stood uncertainly for a moment. She waited for him to speak, and he didn't, and the moment lengthened until it was uncomfortably long.

"Are you going out?" she finally tried.

He nodded. And continued to stand there, looking like there was something he wanted to do or say.

She gave an awkward smile.

He continued to stare solemnly.

"Is there something else, Erik?" she prompted gently.

"I...would it be all right if I kissed you goodbye?" He flushed and quickly stammered, "Only on the forehead."

Éponine might have laughed at the innocence of the request, except that she felt her own face blushing as well. It was just that he was looking at her in such an intense and earnest way, and laughing was the furthest thing from her mind. She couldn't find her voice, and could only nod.

He placed very tentative and gentle hands on either of her shoulders, and he gravely bent forward. Her breath hitched and her stomach fluttered as she felt his breath on her face. He placed the sweetest and most shy kiss on her forehead, and then drew back hurriedly, looking at her like he half expected her to disintegrate or go up in smoke or disappear. Instead, she smiled at him, and in response, he grinned widely back.

"Do you need anything while I am out?" he asked her.

She shook her head.

"Then I shall see you when I return." He said seriously, patting her hand in an awkward gesture, and left. All as though they weren't in the cellars of the Opera, and he was just going off to work in some boring office for the day.

—●—●—●—●—

"Only—if you'd have asked me first, I would have told you that I don't find ladies' pockets so simple to pick."

"Why?"

"Because," Éponine explained, "the pockets aren't part of the dress, they're tied on underneath. And then there are slits in the skirt so you can reach them. And those openings are well-hidden in the folds of the skirt."

"Really? I never would have guessed. That's rather clever, that you can change your dress without emptying your pockets!"

"I suppose," Éponine said, not really sharing his enthusiasm in that moment. "But it's rather inconvenient for our purposes. Especially when I'm meant to be a ghost, so I shouldn't really be brushing against her skirts too much, fumbling around for the opening."

"You can still do it though?"

Éponine considered a moment, then sighed. "Yes. I can still do it."

This was the following evening, so she'd had two full, largely uneventful days to rest, and was feeling a little stronger again. He had informed her that today was to be the day they would collect his salary from the box keeper.

Éponine was still firmly not allowing herself to question Erik's bizarre means of collecting his salary. Perhaps it was just a sort of game that he amused himself with—really, the reason didn't matter, as he had promised her to her face that it was nothing criminal. She was going to trust him. And it seemed he was trusting her not to botch this up. She cracked her knuckles nervously as she followed him through the maze of passageways. She was wearing her green evening dress again, since it was still currently the only dress that fit her, and she needed to blend in somewhat, which she couldn't do in ill-fitting clothes. She also wore a bonnet with a veil, in order to further obscure her face and identity from the curious.

"Here we are," Erik said. "The foyer of the ballet is just through there. It will be abuzz, at this time, with the subscribers and the ballet girls and their mothers and particular friends. Will you recognise Madame Giry?"

"Definitely."

"I told her she is not to appear to recognise you, so she will simply walk past. You need to get the envelope from her without anyone noticing, and without her feeling anything."

"Yes. I understand." Cold fingers of doubt were gripping her stomach. Brushing against someone you were standing beside in a crowded inn or a bustling market was so simple that a child could do it—seriously, for she had learned when she was just a very tiny child. But to pick a lady's pocket while she walked purposefully by? That was madness. Absolute madness. She would never have attempted such a thing. And yet, here they were.

He pressed on some part of the wall, and gently pushed Éponine forward, and at the same moment, the section of wall rotated, and she found herself blinded by suddenly being thrust into a space that was glittering and gilded. Nothing could have prepared her for the mirrors and gold and sparkling chandeliers. There was something about standing there in the midst of all of it that was more overwhelming than viewing the richness of the auditorium from the comfort of a box the night before. She was standing in a shadowy alcove, her eyes slowly adjusting to the dazzling brilliance of it all, and to the cheerful din of voices and raucous laughter from gentlemen and tittering giggles from little ballet girls and the proud voices of their mothers. No one seemed to notice the veiled lady who had suddenly appeared.

Blinking to clear the spots from her eyes, she willed herself to focus, and to keep an eye out for the personage of Mme. Giry amidst all this din. She put her hand against the wall she had just passed through in order to steady herself.

She jumped slightly at the sound of Erik's voice: "You're doing a marvellous job. You're going to be fine."

It made her smile and square her shoulders determinedly. And a few moments later, she saw those stringy black feathers bobbing as though they were alive from atop a dingy black bonnet. She thought she saw Mme. Giry's eyes glance her way briefly, but just as quickly, the woman seemed not to see her, in accord with Erik's instructions. She did, however, weave her way to the left side of the room.

Holding her breath, Éponine stepped forward as far as she could while still remaining in the shadow. Mme. Giry passed by at a pace which was not so slow that she did not appear to have a destination in mind, but slow enough that Éponine was able to slip her hand nimbly into the opening concealed within the side-seam of the skirt and draw an envelope out of the pocket. Mme. Giry walked on, and Éponine backed up until her back hit the wall, and suddenly she was spinning around into the passage again, and she might have lost her balance had Erik not caught her.

As much as she didn't like living on the wrong side of the law, she had nearly forgotten the particular adrenaline rush that she always got after pulling off a stunt like that. She flung her arms around Erik's neck with a triumphant laugh, overwhelmed by how alive she felt in that moment. Her bonnet slid backwards off her head, and but for the ribbons tying it under her chin it would have fallen to the floor. "I did it! Oh my God, I really did it! I haven't lost my touch, then, have I?"

Erik had at first staggered backward in surprise when she flung herself against him like that, but now he was tentatively returning her embrace and telling her that she had done very well indeed.

Finally letting go of him, Éponine put her bonnet back on and smoothed her skirt. She weighed the envelope in her hand before handing it to him. "Feels rather thick. That oughtta buy a few things, anyway."

"They pay me a not-inconsequential salary for the services I render here," Erik said importantly, as he slipped the envelope into his jacket.

Éponine reached up to straighten his cravat familiarly. "Can we go and eat now? I'm starving after all that."

Erik chuckled fondly and placed a tentative hand on her back, guiding her once more in the direction of the house on the lake. "Yes. We'll go and eat together. I'll pour you a glass of wine as well, if you drink it slowly."

She bumped against him playfully with her shoulder, feeling a wave of fondness that felt warm and exhilarating, and so much better than the uncomfortable feelings that arose by questioning the business of the envelopes. Erik promised, and even though she wasn't a fool, and even though there were plenty of questions she could ask, or holes she could pick at, she cared deeply about Erik, and she was sure he cared for her too. She had never before experienced such a profound understanding with any other person. The feeling that so many pieces of their souls were shared, mirroring one another, and with their reflections throwing radiant light that dispelled so much of the darkness.

She was going to trust.


A/N: In Erik's defence, he truly doesn't comprehend that this is such a big deal, both because he's lacking the context and also because he is moreso deluding himself than wilfully lying to Éponine… but… ! Gah.

I'm so upset, and yet I'm quite literally doing this to myself. Help.