Author's Note: I do not own The Scarlet Pimpernel, Eldorado or any of the characters contained therein. This is really just a 'missing scene' fic while Andrew and Marguerite are in Paris. I am not attempting to ape the Baroness' writing style, but what follows stems from a deep love for her stories and characters.

TWILIGHT

By Jade

'I thought you could do with these,' the old woman said gruffly, thrusting a bundle at him. 'For your sister.'

'Oh. Uh, thank you. Thank you very much.' Andrew dug into a pocket, searching for some coins. She shook her head and retreated back into her rooms, closing the door firmly. He stared at the solid wood for some moments - small acts of kindness now had the power to surprise him. He wondered when he had become so cynical. The bundle turned out to be two blankets, thick and clean and relatively new. He trotted up the stairs and knocked, more by way of information than a request for permission; he let himself in without bothering to wait for a reply from within.

Your sister. Whether or not the woman believed Marguerite was his sister was immaterial; although, she had pronounced the words without a hint of sarcasm or knowingness.

'Our landlady has donated these,' he announced.

Marguerite looked at the offerings blankly at first, as though she could not register what she was looking at. 'That was kind of her.'

She looked frozen. No wonder the old lady had thought she could do with something extra to warm her up. He had not realised how thin had she had become; her frame had always been slender, but she had never looked fragile before. The hollows at her temples were more pronounced, her pale skin seemed stretched across her cheekbones. He tried to make sure that she ate, but short of getting her in a headlock and force-feeding her there was not much he could do. Andrew deposited the blankets on the settee and crossed to the fireplace, warming his hands. The fire had burnt low and he prodded it with the poker.

'I'm sorry. I should have tended to it, but... Drink some of this.' She had moved from her position by the window and poured him a glass of brandy. It warmed him more effectively than the fire could; he drank half and gave her the rest. There was a brief flash of amusement in her eyes as she took the glass from him, as though she were playing out in her mind the usual debate they went through whenever he tried to get her to do something for her own good.

Your sister. They had travelled together through France a number of times, usually posing as brother and sister. They were rôles they slipped into easily and not only when out of necessity for business of the League. In a comparatively brief period, Marguerite had become closer to him than his own sisters. His elder, Georgiana, still spoke to him in that slow, clear voice one uses to children and simpletons - he had never enquired as to which category he occupied. His younger, Louisa, had managed to be born and complete her growing up while he had been away at school and university and then travelling across Europe. In the few brief months when they had occupied the same house during that period between his return from Italy and her marriage, it had felt as though he were engaging in light conversation across the breakfast table with a complete stranger. He had envied the relationship between the St Just siblings: their playful banter, their shared interests, their easy intimacy. It had never occurred to him before then that a brother and sister could also be friends. And yet, in the end, he had got his wish; and Marguerite Blakeney had given him the thing that he had barely realised he wanted, never mind needed: a female friend.

The brandy had brought a little colour to her wan cheeks. She turned from him, tilting her head back as she drew a deep, sharp breath. It was a habit she had when under great stress, as though she could not get enough air. Five days since her visit to the Conciergerie. Four since she had seen Jeanne Langé and they had taken up residence in their new lodgings. As a woman accustomed to long walks in the open, the enforced confinement must be one more thing preying on her nerves.

'We could take a walk to the river - get some fresh air.'

She looked at him as though she were a drowning woman who had just been thrown a life-rope and he cursed himself for not having thought of it sooner.

It was bitterly cold. The sort of raw, damp cold that finds its way through every opening of clothing and bites the skin. The cobbles were icy underfoot and banks of dirty snow had built up against walls. Braziers had been set up on street corners; he caught glimpses of sullen, pinched faces glancing at them as they passed. Paris was a beautiful city. At least, it should be. Marguerite was a Parisienne and he wondered how it seemed now to her eyes, but the question was too crass, too insensitive to be asked. She had pinned a bit of ribbon to her coat. Blue, white and red. The colours of the glorious revolution. Was it out of an attempt to blend in with the crowd? Or did she still believe in those beautiful ideals that had been so brutally corrupted and betrayed?

They discussed politics sometimes. Playfully: teasing one another about their respective upbringings and convictions that seemed so fundamentally opposed. Sometimes seriously: her wholehearted belief in the equality of genders and classes; his own uncertainty as to the wisdom of entrusting important decisions to people to whom either a change or continuation of government would make little difference. Educate them, she informed him, and everyone would see a difference. And she would tell him something of her own family - what she could remember of them. Her upbringing that had been a strange mix of the deprived and the privileged - the latter mainly due to her intellect and the condescension of those richer than herself.

They had walked in silence some little way, staying close together but not meeting the eyes of anyone they passed. It was the way everyone in Paris walked these days.

'I cannot bear to think of him there - in that cell,' she said suddenly. 'And yet it is all I can think of.'

'I know.'

'You didn't see him.'

It was there all the time - the thing they didn't talk about. The possibility of failure. The fact that this could be the end, for all of them. That Percy may never leave that prison alive. That Marguerite would return to England a widow - at best; an even greater likelihood that Chauvelin's spies would find her before she could get out, and then they would put her on trial and then...

They would be looking for her now. Chauvelin would want a repeat of that horrendous visit. Show the woman her martyred husband; show the man his heartbroken wife; and one or the other or both would break. And she would go back, if she could. She would risk everything to see him again. Andrew glanced at her uneasily; they had wandered in the direction of the Conciergerie and he could see her eyes restlessly raking the skyline, looking for that familiar, hated silhouette.

'Perhaps we should walk another way. Somewhere there's a bit more life. Bit creepy around here, don't you think?'

'Do you think I'll make a run for it?' They spoke in French. Anyone could understand what they were saying, but they would attract far more attention and suspicion if they spoke in English. 'Bang on the door and demand to see my husband? Do not worry yourself, my friend: I have learnt to control my impulses.'

It had been a bitter lesson. But it had been so much a part of her - that generous impulsiveness that would lead her to rush headlong into a situation, regardless of her own safety, and only afterwards, when her rational intellect kicked in again, would she realise how much danger she had placed herself in. Yes, she was more cautious now. It was safer for her that way. And yet he found himself missing the old Marguerite, the one who would have marched through the Palais de Justice, brazenly dismissing the threats of her enemies until she had got what she wanted. And she would have been magnificent. She was still magnificent. But that stoic self-control was driving him crazy.

How much more of this could she endure? Apart from that one fit of sobbing after she had learnt the whole truth of Percy's imprisonment she had not wept. It had, perhaps, been stupid of him to think that she would. She had never been one to wallow in maudlin self-pity. He almost wished she would - he wished she would cry, throw things, scream her fury from the rooftops. Anything but this. But she would see that as a weakness, a betrayal.

Like admitting the possibility of failure was a betrayal.

The thing they didn't talk about but both knew was true. It had become like a game they were playing: each maintaining a display of strength and trust in order to keep the other going. And in the hope that if they pretended it for long enough they might start believing it.

The sky was darkening; the sun, bloated and watery red, was fast sinking toward the horizon. Everything was becoming shadowy and blurred. But they kept walking. Her coat was black, merging with the gathering gloom; she had tied a scarf over her head, but curls of bright hair still escaped, falling across her forehead. The hollows around her eyes were so dark they looked bruised.

'I'm sorry you're having to go through all of this.'

'On whose behalf are you apologising? Percy's?' She paused. 'My brother's?'

He stumbled. She was still staring straight ahead. She knows, he thought glumly. They had been so careful to try and keep it from her, but she knows. He tried to think of something to say. Anger at Armand St Just was more overwhelming than he had imagined possible. It was an anger that Percy had wanted to spare her. Marguerite had not broken stride and her eyes were still fixed ahead. She knew. But she didn't want to talk about Armand.

'You have done nothing for which you need to apologise, Andrew.'

'I should have told you about Percy,' he muttered. 'You should not have had to hear it from him.'

Her laugh was a sharp bark, wholly unlike her usual melodious tones; she had stopped and was staring at him incredulously. 'Good Heavens, man, are you trying to find something to feel guilty over?'

He had to force himself to meet her eyes.

'We have always been friends, you and I, have we not?' Her voice was soft.

Andrew managed a smile. 'I like to think so.'

They continued their walk until they reached the river. Mist was forming across its surface; the air coming off the water was damp and even keener than in the relative shelter of the streets. The light was failing; in the dark grey of twilight it was almost impossible to make out the buildings on the opposite bank.

Seeing her brother had probably done Marguerite some good, but Andrew was glad that he had not had to confront him. He was not sure that he would have been able to stop himself saying or doing something unspeakable to the Frenchman.

It had started to snow again - a fine dusting appearing on their shoulders and catching in the escaped tendrils of her hair. His face was starting to go stiff and numb with the cold. It was making the tip of Marguerite's nose red; she sniffed and hunted in her pockets for a handkerchief. She never had one when she needed it. Andrew produced his and handed it to her.

'Thank you.'

She dabbed her eyes with it and then squinted across the river into the face of the wind. Andrew tried to decide who he hated more: Armand St Just for bringing them all to this; or Chauvelin for taking such macabre advantage of their misery. The man took a singularly perverse pleasure in torturing Marguerite. Was it because he saw her as traitor to her class and her nationality in having married an Englishman? he wondered; or was it some imagined slight from the past?

'Do you remember that time in Dover - before we crossed to Calais - when I asked you if I should run Chauvelin through my sword? Sometimes I wish I had just done it.'

'So do I,' she said quietly. 'To be perfectly honest, I wish that I had done it.' It was his turn to stop and stare. Marguerite tilted her head. 'What - do you think me incapable of murder?'

'Yes.'

Her eyebrows arched. 'What a charming fantasy. Shall we both pretend we believe it?'

'I don't need to pretend,' he said stubbornly.

There was a brief pause.

'I also remember you told me stories that night - I seem to recall one with Percy disguised as a hideous old crone.'

Andrew groaned. 'I don't think he's ever forgiven me for telling you that.'

'He never wears disguises like that when I'm with him.' It sounded like a complaint.

'Of course not - he wants to present himself as heroic as possible before you.'

She actually smiled then. And then she leaned forward, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder, and kissed him on the cheek.

Where had it come from, this affection for a woman with whom he had no bonds of marriage or blood?

He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and she leant against him.

'Come on. Let's find a café and I will stand you to a meal. Although, I cannot vouch for what will be served to us.'

'Dog, possibly.'

'Andrew.'

'Or maybe a nice bit of cat.'

'You are a reprehensible human being. And you're beginning to sound exactly like Tony - you've been spending too much time together.'

He laughed. He had begun with the idea of cheering her a little - and she was actually smiling, properly, for the first time in days; but she had succeeded in cheering him, as well. Andrew rested his free hand on hers. She squeezed his arm gently. And the pair continued together through the snow.

Fin