A/N: Sorry for taking somewhat longer on this. It was very difficult to write and I am rather busy at the moment... I tried my best to portray the geography of La Force as Hugo did it, but I am not sure I got it all right. I could not find a map of La Force, so I had to improvise. Anyhow, I hope it's okay.

Thanks go to all those who read, reviewed and discussed with me.

If you leave me a comment, you make my day :-)

Chapter 33: Getting out and getting in

"Hello, old friend."

The night was warm and gentle, a soft wind rustling through the streets, not chilly, but tender, toying with her skirt and her hair like a caress she barely remembered and for a moment, Azelma Thénardier was content.

She was sitting on the steps of the small church of Saint André, looking up at the stars that were clear enough that night and wondered if this day had really happened.

Her sister being captured had been a horrendous experience, and she carefully steered clear of what she had seen in the small hovel that Montparnasse had led her to, the scene of horror that might have come straight out of a nightmare.

Azelma closed her eyes against the nausea and fear.

She would not go there.

She had not really been there.

She was somewhere else.

Nightwind caressed her hair as she leaned back into the wall of the church and the world became warm again, and soft, and comforting.

She had become good at being not where she was. It was a way of survival, a way of not-partaking that allowed her to distance her from the dirt of the street, the shabby hovel she lived in, even the cold voice of her parents that had made her forget that she had ever been loved.

When it all began, she had fled to memories of old, when they had still cared for her, had fled back to the inn and her usual playgrounds, into thoughts of summer that were now gone and so far away that she barely remembered what had been real, and what had been a dream.

But as she grew, the memories faded, and Azelma had found different illusions.

It was summer, always summer, always warm, and she had found other ways of feeling safe; other images, like from her sister's stories, like from the songs she could hear when there were travelling performers at the market.

Right now, it was a hand in her hair, careful and tender, running through the strands and whispering dreams of summer.

In a voice that sounded vaguely familiar.

He had dark eyes, she remembered randomly. Dark eyes, almost pitch black despite or even because of the sun that had been brilliantly in the sky every time she had seen him, but his eyes were dark as coals and they invaded her dreams.

She wondered if he even had been real. Carefully, her fingers found the little purse in her sleeve and the comforting weight reminded her, that it had really happened.

The first time at least. The unexpected kindness.

The second time now was a completely different story. Her nightly images had been of him as well, the kind, unfamiliar face, the careful smile haunting her sleeping hours as well as the waking ones, and so Azelma could not be sure that she had not imagined it, imagined the concern in his dark, dark eyes, imagined him appearing at this place, that so very much did not seem like his.

Maybe, she would have to ask Montparnasse if it really happened. Sometimes, she was not so sure she knew anymore.

But questions like these usually led to snarky, mocking comments from Montparnasse, and Azelma was not sure if she even would want to put up with it. If she would want to desecrate this golden memory with his words.

"Hey, 'Zelma."

She flinched at the voice, eerily familiar in another way, and saw a boy slouching against the wall of the church, looking over to her.

She froze.

She had not seen Gavroche in months, not spoken to him for longer; her little brother had slipped from the family in a most painful way.

There had been a time, when he, despite the fact that he was not living with them, showed up at their apartment; to speak, laugh, sing or quarrel, but these times had become sparse and finally, after the last, dreadful run-in with her father, he had stopped coming.

Her father had tried to include him in one of his plans and Gavroche had refused adamantly. Of course, Thénardier had not taken this well and things had gotten out of hand, with her mother chipping in words on the uselessness of boys in general and Gavroche in particular.

He had never come back since then, and with him the last of the cheer from their family had fled.

Azelma had dreamed sometimes that he would come back but he never did. And even if he had, there were the words of her father, a command to her and her sister to never again speak of it, and never again speak to him.

Azelma had obeyed as she usually did. She had a suspicion, though, that Éponine had not.

As a proof that this suspicion was only too true, her little brother was now standing in front of her.

He looked as if he had been well – as well as could be assumed, at least - and something within Azelma was relieved, even though this still left her with her decision of what to do.

The invisible eyes of their father followed them everywhere, but here, in the night, and not quite within their familiar haunts, Azelma wagered she might be able to take a chance.

"Gavroche", she greeted her little brother, and a smile lit up his young features as he scampered closer to her, as if the acknowledgement of his presence had been an invitation.

"Good to see ya", the boy continued, smiling, as he reached a seat on the other side of the stairs and made himself obviously comfortable there. "How've you been?"

Azelma bowed her head in embarrassment. Not only did he act as if nothing had happened, he also seemed intent to keep up a mockery of being civil, and she was not sure how she should meet this.

"I'm good", she answered, softly, her head bowed and her face hidden behind a curtain of hair. Like this, no one from outside would see she was having a conversation with her brother. "You?"

"Splendid." His voice was young and fresh. "Summer's great. You should come with us some time, take a swim at the basin de la Gare. We do it from time to time. It's fun."

Azelma wondered how she should, how she could answer that. If her father ever found out she did something like what he proposed, there would be consequences she did not want to think of.

The thought alone brought forth the urge again to flee to soft fingers in her hair and a dream of dark, warm eyes, but her brother continued to speak and his voice was too clear to get lost in the images.

"Anyhow, I brought the stuff you couldn't get", he said. "Tools and like. Parnasse told me to do so 'cause you were indisposed. He's bringing the linen, he said."

Azelma nodded mutely, slowly gripped by apprehension.

She hoped that Éponine would have recovered enough to tell them what to do. With an undertaking such as this, she felt insecure enough. Not to have a guide in this, or to have only Montparnasse – actually she was not sure which of those was worse – would do nothing to alleviate her fears.

Her worries were unwarranted though, for only a few minutes later first Montparnasse, and then Éponine made their way to their rendezvouz point. Her sister looked tired but otherwise recovered from the ordeals of the afternoon – a fact that deeply relieved Azelma - and she brought interesting news on the fact, that obviously the location that her father and Patron-Minette were kept, had changed.

Unlike their original plans, with all that had happened, no one had found the time to revisit the prisoners during the day alerting them of the possibility of escape. Yet, on the whole, Montparnasse seemed to be very satisfied with the news.

"That's a stroke of luck", he remarked smiling and seemed to reach towards the skies in one of the grand gestures that he was known to exhibit. "Things could not be better."

Éponine seemed less convinced. She had taken a seat at Azelma's side, which meant that she was actually sitting on a lower step of the staircase, and looked up at Montparnasse with slightly narrowed eyes.

"What do you mean?" she asked and Montparnasse took off his top hat, turning it in his hands while a smug smile appeared on his lips.

"Easy", he said. "The New Building has a charming name, but that's about all that's charming to it. The walls of that hovel are all but crumbling, you see? There's nothing much left to them. Also, there's a huge chimney that goes from top to bottom. The New Building has only one cell per floor, where all the prisoners sleep. There's a separate place for the watchman, but they are usually not all that sharp – and if they are, a bit of money often solves the game – you did think of bringing money, did you?"

Éponine sighed in exasperation. "None of your concern, 'Parnasse." Which was as good as admittance that she still had her savings with her that she had taken in the morning. The same, of course, went for Azelma who still had her small pocket with what remained of her encounter yesterday.

"Ah well", Montparnasse gave back unfazed. "Anyhow, if I were you I'd try to go via that chimney. You might use one of the signals to get their attention – I'm sure they'd remember the cat, for example, and that might still be reasonable within their surroundings – a stray cat goes everywhere."

"You know much of that place", Éponine answered. "Fancy coming with us?"

Montparnasse laughed in response.

"Oh no, no no no, my dear. That's not what will happen, for sure. Remember? I told you so before. I just got away, I have no intention of going there again. I'll stay outside and keep watch. You kids do the running. It's your father, after all."

"Don't worry, 'Ponine", Gavroche piped up. He had stayed silent throughout the whole conversation, but his eyes were bright and he was shuffling around excitedly. It will be a great adventure."

An hour later found the three Thénardier children on the roof of one of the buildings surrounding what – unbeknownst to them – was called by those who knew the prison the Saint-Louis court. On Montparnasse's advice, they had entered via a part of the wall that was composed of the ruins of an older building. It had fallen prey to the flames long ago, but the stones had withstood the fire's fury and now were integrated into the prison as an intrinsic part.

A small hut had eased their entrance, but they had needed the nimbleness and skill of Gavroche to climb the wall first, with the girls to follow a few steps behind, using the rope of linens that Montparnasse had brought – although now, that they had decided not to smuggle it into the prison in the end, a normal rope might have done the trick as well – and that Gavroche had fixed around an uneven part of the wall.

From there on, standing on the narrow stripe that was the top of the wall, a jump of a meter and a half had led them to the roof of one of the buildings there, which was slightly lower than the outer wall itself. The three of them jumped together, generating a single impact rather than a suite of them, and now they lay flat, pressed against the shingles, listening breathlessly if their intrusion had been remarked.

From beyond the buildings that separated this court from the next, clear noise was to be heard, but it did not come closer, more localized than moving, so, after a few deep breaths, Éponine gave a signal to her brother and sister to move on.

The first part was easy, crawling along the building they had landed on; on the wall side of the roof so that the sentry that was moving his rounds in the court, would not remark them.

Things became more difficult when they had to change to the next building. The task would have been impossible indeed, if not for the ladders and panels that had been placed here to ease the works that were currently ongoing on the roof.

The one time that a prison kept in order would actually serve them well, Azelma mused, doing her best to focus on the task at hand, scrambling as noiselessly as she could, following her little brother that marked out the path, knowing her sister behind her, who took up the rear as it was due for the lead of this operation.

They had to pass through areas where the sentry in the courtyard could have well seen them, but they were children of the streets, all three of them, and they knew a thing or two about shadows. Although the night was clear, the new moon was night and it was dark enough.

Gavroche moved with all the confidence of a king of the street. He was no stranger to dangerous passages, and his experience served them well. He was mindful to use paths only that the older girls were able to follow, and they communicated through the whistles and signs that they had arranged before to avoid additional sounds that might attract attention.

They reached the Charlemagne court without being seen and found it fully lit and in uproar. A large group of national guards had assembled here, accompanied by some members of the uniformed municipal police as well as two men in the nondescript clothes that were meant to seem casual but to Azelma's experienced eye screamed "investigator".

Her first reflex was to retreat back to the shadows when she saw the uproar, but she knew this was stupid. In fact, this assembly with all the light it was giving would make it infinitely more difficult to spot the Thénardiers in the dark, and it would in fact be the best to just move on and try to refrain from making too much sound.

She stepped aside, following Gavroche, and made room for Éponine, who first, taking a look at the spectacle, seemed to come to the same conclusions Azelma had; but then she hesitated, turned, and Azelma heard her saying a tiny word.

"Shit."

This stopped both her and her brother, and they huddled closer together again while they took another look at the scenery to spot what had made their sister pause.

Azelma could not discern anything of substance, but apparently Gavroche did, for he seemed to heartily concur with his sister.

"Yeah", he said. "Shit."

Azelma threw questioning gazes to both sides, and it was her brother, who uttered an explanation.

He pointed towards the center of the assembly, and indeed, a clear center could be seen that Azelma had not remarked before.

There was a fat man in a military uniform, surrounded by all his minions, towering in front of a small woman dressed in black widow's garb, her face hidden behind a veil. Her hands were bound and shackled, but she held herself with determination and strength despite the fact, that two members of the National Guard had taken position to both sides of her, holding her arms tightly enough that Azelma assumed that there was quite some pain.

"That's Madame de Cambout, I guess", Gavroche whispered into her ear. "Friend of Marius'."

That explained both Éponine and Gavroche knowing her, although Azelma herself was not sure to have seen her before.

"What's she doing here?" Éponine continued. "That's no women's prison."

"No time", Gavroche answered, and Éponine nodded after a moment's consideration. Whatever had brought the woman to La Force, right now she was offering a convenient distraction, and none of the Thénardier children were prone to turn such a gift away.

The third courtyard was silent again, and now Azelma could see what Montparnasse had meant, for what had to be the New Building indeed did have a crooked look to it, and the wall had been patched up at quite some areas with wooden panels. Where stone could be seen, it carried a slightly brighter color than the rest, and she could well imagine that the whole installation had to be fairly brittle.

A single sentry was walking in the courtyard, and again the three Thénardiers chose the wallside part of the roof to hurry along, protected by the shadows until finally they had reached the top of the New Building.

The first part of the journey was achieved.

They took a moment to catch their breaths, hidden in the shadow of the enormous chimney, while Gavroche took up the rope and began twisting and turning it around his legs and midsection to form a crude seat of sorts.

"See?" he grinned. "Comfortable as a chair."

Azelma did not even want to ask where he had picked up that particular skill – although for a moment she was curious enough that she would have almost forgotten that she was not speaking to her younger brother.

On the other hand, maybe this quarrel between her father and Gavroche would be solved with tonight's deeds anyhow. It was hard carrying a grudge against someone who had just bailed you out of prison.

Yet, with her father, you never knew.

As soon as Gavroche was finished, he climbed the rim of the chimney, and Éponine and Azelma took the end of the rope to slowly allow their brother to glide down, safely and almost soundlessly, if not for the quiet scratching of linen on stone where it was sliding over the chimney.

It was a good thing their brother was not very heavy.

A tug told them to stop, finally, and from the depth of the chimney, Azelma discerned a quiet, but distinctive meowing, echoing hollowly up to them. Éponine braced herself against the chimney to hold the rope alone and motioned to Azelma to watch the sentry in the courtyard.

She complied immediately, but the soldier had not yet remarked that anything was unusual about this night, as he stood in the middle of the yard, obviously slightly bored.

A second, louder meow had him look up briefly and Azelma held her breath, but he did not seem to linger on the thought of a stray cat walking the roof of the New Building.

Time passed lazily and Azelma barely dared to breathe.

This was familiar territory – watching and warning – even though it was unfamiliar to be so deeply in the heat of things; and Azelma felt slightly more at ease than during the scampering over the roofs, but now that all was quiet her heart was beating louder in her chest.

All sounds were magnified – the sounds of the wailing cat, the soft scratching and screeching from inside the chimney, her own, loud breath resounding in her ears – and she watched the sentry with hawk's eyes, but the man's attention seemed to be more turned towards the second courtyard, from where, faintly, some noise could still be heard.

Madame de Cambout, whoever she was, indeed provided some protection to their actions unwittingly.

She had no idea how long she had crouched there, knees growing numb as she pressed against the chimney to stay in the shadows, until finally she heard a soft hiss, and knew that this was the call Éponine used to call her back.

Azelma retreated, not leaving the sentry out of her sight until she stepped behind the chimney again. As she reached her sister, Gavroche was already climbing out of the chimney, grinning broadly. Wordlessly, he was giving his sisters a sign of success.

She released a breath she had not realized she had been holding and felt her sister next to her do the same, while Gavroche, noiselessly whistling, relieved himself of the provisory climbing harness he had fashioned.

Only moments later, their father was with them, a wide smile on his face.

"Knew my little brats wouldn't let me hanging, eh?" he said, and Azelma would have almost taken his quick pat on her back for pride, had she not known so, so much better.

Now that he was here to help Éponine with the rope, Azelma went back to her lookout post, wincing at every little sound, at every movement of the man below who slowly did his circles, the light of his lamp throwing ghastly shadows on the wall.

Azelma wondered how a prison could, at night, be as peaceful as this.

She asked herself what would happen if they would get caught. She would mourn her freedom, of course, but a prison would give her time; time to retreat to her dreams, without the daily necessity of earning her bread, without the dread that had inevitably gripped her during the execution of the schemes and plans of her father. It would be a life caged, but no less caged than her life these days, her captors being bound to her in iron, and not in blood.

But then she would not see the boy with the kind, dark eyes again.

Only belatedly she realized that the sentry had stopped his solitary walk. He had turned his lantern away from himself, so that the light would not blind him and peered into the night, posture alert.

He was gazing directly at her.

Azelma wondered how she had been seen, but then she realized it was not herself who had given her position away. Behind her, a heavy weight was stumbling over the roof, disrupting shingles and making enough noise, so that it could not be ignored by the man in the court.

She threw a quick glance over her shoulder and saw Gueulemer scrambling for a halt on the shingles that did not seem to hold his considerable weight, slipping away under his feet.

He had set an incautious step or two, and that was all that it had taken to unsettle the decaying roof of the decaying building, and now he was sliding downwards, taking splinters of wood and shingles with him.

Azelma feared that he would take her with him in his fall, as he was sliding towards her directly, but the time was too late to avoid him as he was tumbling and she was still crouched on the floor.

She reacted on impulse, in a split second, jumping, instead of away from the towering man, towards him, her little body crashing into his, creating a tiny momentum against his movement, but it was enough to have him fall down into the shingles, and while he spread shards and wood everywhere, the lower part of the unsteady thatching held his weight and his sliding stopped.

Azelma, splayed half over him, winded by the impact, only dimly realized that the man in the court was blowing a whistle.

And her father let out a curse.

She felt herself being torn up – dimly realizing it was her father who had taken her arm – while Éponine and Babet brought Gueulemer to his feet again.

Time was running out.

From below she could hear rapid steps approaching, and from two of the windows in the building on the opposite side of the court, she could see movement.

Guns being readied.

She dove behind the chimney right before the shot fell.

The outer wall of the prison seemed so near from this side of the roof. Just a rift, wide and deep, and then a stone wall, crowned with small iron fence bars. She could almost grasp it. But Azelma knew from experience that the rift was too wide to jump.

Éponine, in the meantime, had shown remarkable presence of mind. Using one of the wooden splinters from Gueulemer's fall, she tied the end of the rope around it. Babet, guessing her intention and working hand in hand with her helped her to throw it over the wall, making sure that the splinter was caught between two of the iron fence bars and the rope thus secured.

Gavroche went first as the next shot fell and Azelma heard frantic scrambling from inside the chimney. Her father joined her, a few shingles in hand that he threw down the shaft mercilessly, and the howl of pain from below was a telltale sign that he had gotten lucky in his aim.

As soon as her little brother had reached the wall he freed the rope and used it to climb down to the streets, presumably using what little weight he had to support it so that the next of them could come. This was the sort of thing they did not need to be told. It was ingrained too deeply in any case.

"Azelma, you're next."

She did not discuss with Éponine but followed her sister's command, throwing her legs over the now tense rope – feeling how it gave in slightly at her weight – and slid over to the wall. She scrambled over the top (her skirt made a sickening sound as it tore on one of the irons) and then reached the bottom next to her little brother, adding her weight to his, as the rope tensed again, providing escape to the next of them.

From now on, she had to resort to listening as all hell broke loose inside the prison, steps and screams and whistling, and Azelma knew that it was only a matter of time until they would show up here as well, and she would get caught unless the others made quick work of escaping.

Next came Babet, closely followed by her father. As soon as they were four on this end of the rope, did they dare to bring over Gueulemer, and it took the weight of all of them to keep the escape route steady, but they managed, as another set of shots rang from inside the prison.

Gueulemer all but dropped down the wall, and as he hit the ground, Azelma saw that he left a bloody print on the stone where he had slid along, landing on all fours and taking deep, heaving breaths as the side of his simple tunic colored in dark.

Éponine came last and she was frantic, almost jumping down the wall, only briefly holding on to the rope, cursing under her breath.

Steps were coming closer. Time was running out.

"Too many of them", her father hissed between clenched teeth, his eyes darting around frantically. "Dive into the night, my children. Each into another direction."

They did not need any more advice than that, and the first who was gone was Gavroche, melting with the shadows like one born to it, and Azelma hesitated only the quickest of moments to see her sister step up to Gueulemer saw a short exchange between the two.

"Can you manage?"

"Yeah." Painful, but certain.

"See Toureille." She placed something into his hand, and in the dark of the night Azelma saw a coin exchanging hands.

"Yeah."

"Go!" Her father had no patience for her musing and an unkind slap onto her cheek brought her out of her reverie, but for once, Azelma did not mind the abuse.

She turned her back and ran, melting with the shadows as her brother had done.

And did not look back.

Griollet had taken the first watch even though he knew that he would probably come to regret it. Yet, he was well aware that he was not a friend of the early morning hours – even though his daily work required indeed that he got up before sunrise for most of the year – and thus he had volunteered to rather stay longer into the night than get up a minute earlier than was absolutely necessary.

Marmotte*, they called him at work, with all the fondness of companionship, and while at first he had been annoyed at it, now the nickname had become familiar and worn, and he figured that these days, he would actually miss it if no one would call him that way.

They had taken up the advice of Les Amis de l'ABC from the evening before and grouped – since they were ten – into two groups of three and one group of four during the nights and kept watch in turns.

Tonight, they were in Abati's house, not because it was the most spacious, but because it was easily to be defended, in the back part of a small court with only one entrance, easy to monitor and the safest place they could think about.

They were preciously few as it were.

In addition, the place was an oddly comforting one, of comparatively bright colors and some exotic flair given the fact that Laurent Abati was born not on the French mainland, but instead at the far-off, exotic coasts of Martinique. His mother's origin had gifted him with dark skin and his father – although he was a natural son – with a considerable allowance that made his stay in Paris possible, and he had brought quite a few trinkets of its Caribbean home shores with him that made the apartment an interesting place to stay.

At best of times, of course, for today, it could hardly be denied that indeed there were preciously few of them left, and this colored everything else that there was. The section of Picpus had, in its proudest days, constituted of more than twenty-five members, but for all of their efforts the day before all that they had found was the meager crowd of ten.

Griollet shied away from wondering what had happened to the rest of them.

A question, that was about to be answered, in parts at least.

His fright at the sight of a person entering the court with a mixture of determination and cautiousness remained only for a very few moments, for the sight was a very familiar one, and all the more welcome because it came unexpected.

"Abati!" he turned, calling towards his comrades. "Deverre!"

Both of them were at his side in a matter of instants, and they opened the door to let in Beuragu without hesitation.

Like Abati, he originated from the Carribbean and had come to Paris to study, but even though he was known for being typically immaculately dressed – in fact, this quality of his was the frequent aim of jokes amongst his friends from the Picpus section – his clothing was now in disarray and it could clearly be seen that he had had his share of rough times.

None the less, they were relieved to see him, for he had been unaccounted for since this whole nightmare had begun, and they greeted him with enthusiasm, with pats on his back and relieved hugs.

Beuragu was shaking with exhaustion, as became apparent all too soon, and he collapsed gratefully onto Abati's couch as soon as he was offered a place there, hiding his head in his hands.

"Dead…", he murmured, and Griollet's blood turned cold. "Dead. At least Namarre and Ferterey. I've… seen them. Came for me as well."

He was shaking and Griollet crouched in front of him, trying to decipher the expression in his eyes, but he could see that the young Mulatto was beside himself, eyes almost unfocused, tears standing in them.

"I ran… saw nothing", he forced out the words, still shaking. "All is hazy… I hid… no sleep. No sleep since he came… don't remember…"

Cold trickled down Griollet's spine.

"He came? When did he come?"

"Three days, I think…", Beuragu whispered. "In the morning… I heard him, though. Jumped out of the window… I ran. Looked for you… everywhere… and sometimes I saw him. Shape in the dark… lingering around your places…. Around my place. He's everywhere, Griollet, everywhere." A tremor ran through the visibly exhausted man. "Never saw his face. Just the shape. He's everywhere, and following you. God… be careful… if he catches you alone he'll kill you. I saw it… saw it with Namarre and Ferterey… and there was nothing I could do." He choked on tears and took deep breaths to steady himself.

"You're here now", Abati tried his hand in comfort. "There's four of us here, and neither are the others alone. It's grievous news that you bring." He had a calm manner, Abati, as if rooted deeply in himself, like an ancient oak tree, steady and strong. It was exactly the right thing. "And we must think on it, but tomorrow. Tomorrow, for now you must sleep, my friend."

"Can't sleep", Beuragu murmured, "can't be caught…", but the feeling of safety, the presence of his friends already started to weave a spell that was impossible to resist.

"Nonsense"; Griollet prompted in, trying to adapt Abati's calm manner, but his parody was by far below the accuracy of the original. "You can and will sleep now." The man was exhausted enough to barely know what he was talking. Whatever he had seen was important, but it was more important that the information was digestible, and above all, that his friend was well. With gentle force, he made him lay down on the couch as Deverre produced a blanket to cover the shivering man in.

Predictably, it worked.

And as Beuragu finally fell asleep, his three friends sat around the couch wondering, and the feeling of dread at the disjointed words of their comrade was gnawing its way into their bones.