As I watch the curls pouring from beneath her bonnet, too abundant to be completely contained, I try to comb the fingers of my good hand through my own hair. I can't even make it past my ear. "My dear, I'm so sorry about your arm," she says, sounding truly concerned. "Is there much pain?"
She checks herself, putting a gloved hand over her mouth and dropping her eyes. If I ever did that, I'd look like an idiot. "I oughtn't have asked that," she amends, blushing.
Amazing, how her skin can go from white to pink in an instant and look so pretty the whole damned time. Mine's been the same washed-out grayish color for as long as I can remember. Not that I'm jealous of her or anything. Just because she's beautiful, just because her dress alone could feed my family for at least a year, just because she's never had to work for her bread, just because she's got a loving father and enough money to throw handfuls of it away to poor imbeciles like us, that's no reason for me to envy her. Of course not.
"I'm sorry," she says again. "Did your sister bind it for you?"
I clear my throat and try to shift so the dirtiest part of my dress is facing away from her. She doesn't belong here in this hole; just talking to me is enough to contaminate her. And even though I know it would be the worst contamination of all, I can't help wanting to reach out and touch the hem of her skirt or just one curl, shiny as the hair on a doll. I wish she would leave and take her charity with her, just so I don't have to stand next to her. My father'd kill me if he knew what I was thinking.
"My father, mademoiselle," I finally reply. My voice sounds so tiny, and there's a rasp to it. I haven't caught the cough yet, like Eponine did last year, but it won't be long now.
And, damn her, she hears it. "Are you all right?" she asks, edging closer, as if that's going to make me feel any healthier. I hate her for her concern, the way she stands over me draped in silk and velvet, or whatever that warm-looking cloth is. I don't know whether to be angry or humiliated. If I could, I'd scowl and cry at the same time, but I never was much good at acting. So instead I keep my face blank, the way Papa hates, and shrug.