Hello, dear readers! I owe you all an apology. I'm sorry that I haven't updated in so long. There have been a number of things going on: acting projects, obligatory family visits, and on top of that, that last couple of days I've been a bit ill myself––must've caught it from Gavroche ;) …And it's also my birthday (virtual cupcake for the first person who tells me what movie that quote is from). But I promised myself I was going to finish this chapter tonight! It's another filler chapter, I'm afraid, not terribly interesting, but longer than the last one––the next one will be good, I promise!

One last thing: a long overdue response for Gavroche T, to your kind note, from your namesake! He says: "Thanks, mate! Still not sure I trust Javert, but as long as I got 'Ponine and 'Zelma takin' care of me I guess I'll be alright. Don't you fret; it'll take more than the flu to knock me down. P.S. As for takin' the medicine: you ever try that stuff? Yuck!"

Azelma carried the breakfast tray slowly and carefully up the stairs. With every step, the china teacups rattled, the little silver spoons clinked against one another, the teapot quivered unnervingly. They seemed like priceless treasures to the girl who could not remember having anything but a cracked bowl and a rusty spoon to eat with; she was terrified of dropping or spilling something. At the top of the stairs, she nearly ran into Javert. "Oh, I'm sorry, Inspector," she mumbled. "Brought breakfast, have you?" he said––it was more of a statement than a question. "Yes sir," said Azelma meekly. "Well come along, then," said Javert. Azelma obediently followed him into the bedroom.

"Mm, smells good!" Eponine exclaimed, "Is that for us?" Javert gave an affirmative nod. Having cleared a space on the bedside table for their breakfast, Azelma served everyone tea before pouring a cup for herself. She perched on the end of the bed, alternately sipping tea and nibbling at a slice of bread, until Javert passed her a plate and pointed out that she was getting crumbs on the quilt.

"Doesn't that bread look good? Have some," Eponine coaxed Gavroche.

"I'm not that hungry," Gavroche replied, "What about you? You haven't eaten in at least as long as I have."

"You're the one who's sick; you've gotta have something to keep your strength up. I'll eat later."

Gavroche shook his head disapprovingly. "You're too skinny, 'Ponine," he scolded, "I know Maman and Papa don't give you enough to eat."

"Fine, then: I'll have some bread if you will, too. Deal?"

"Deal."

Javert watched Eponine and Gavroche sink their teeth into slices of bread at exactly the same time, grinning at one another. He wondered how many times a similar deal had been struck between them––not often enough, evidently. "There's more," he said, "You can eat as much as you want."

When they had finished breakfast, Azelma and Eponine collected the dirty dishes and piled them back on the tray. Just as they were about to carry them back downstairs, Gavroche started to cough, and then sat up with his hand over his mouth. Eponine ran back to his side, begging him to "hold on a minute" while she looked around desperately for something for him to retch into, but it was already too late. Javert leapt out of his chair. "Get the chamber pot!" he yelled. Eponine stared blankly. "What?"

"The blasted chamber pot; it's under the bed on your side, otherwise I'd get it myself!" He turned to Azelma; who stood frozen in the doorway. "Don't just stand there, girl," he said, "Go get Mme. Pascal!"

"All over the bed," he muttered, "We'll have to change those sheets; I've got to find another quilt; this is not how I planned to start the day!" Gavroche started to wipe his mouth on his sleeve; Javert caught his wrist. "Don't do that; you'll get it everywhere!" he scolded. Gavroche cringed, tears glistening in the corners of his eyes. "I'm sorry, Inspector!" he said, "I didn't mean to throw up; honest, I didn't!"

Javert sighed. "I know you didn't," he said, relaxing his hold on Gavroche's wrist, "These things happen when you're sick; it can't be helped." He picked up a slightly damp washcloth. "Here," he said, "let me clean you up a bit." Gavroche shrank back when Javert's hand came near his face. "Hold still," Javert chided, "I won't hurt you."

Mme. Pascal came into the room, with Azelma at her heels. "Oh dear," she said, "Oh my…Come girls, help me get that bed cleared off."

While she and the girls changed the soiled bed-clothes, Javert endeavored to get Gavroche changed into one of his own shirts. "I don't need help, Inspector," Gavroche grumbled, "I'm not a little kid, you know."

"I know," Javert replied, pulling Gavroche's ragged shirt over his head. The sight of Gavroche without a shirt caught him off-guard: he could see every one of the boy's ribs, and his spine formed a long ridge up his back. Javert bit his lip; no child should be that thin, though he knew that, sadly, too many were. He hastily covered up the pitiful sight with a clean shirt. He was rolling up the sleeves when Mme. Pascal ushered Dr. Leblanc into the room. "Why, Monsieur, you're not even shaved yet!" she scolded, "Hurry up and get dressed; you'll be late for work!"

"Good morning, Inspector," said the doctor. "And good morning to you, young man," he added, seeing Gavroche sitting up in bed, "I'm glad to see you're awake. I was here last night, but you probably don't remember––I'm Dr. Leblanc."

"My name's Gavroche," said the boy shyly.

"Well, Monsieur Gavroche, will you let me have a look at you?"

While Dr. Leblanc examined Gavroche, Javert took the opportunity to make himself presentable. He had just finished shaving when the doctor stepped out of the bedroom. "How is he, doctor?" he whispered anxiously. "Well, he appears to be feeling slightly better," replied Dr. Leblanc, "He's awake and alert, at least. His fever is still quite high, which worries me. I'm also concerned about his not being able to keep down food––it may be just because he's so malnourished. Keep trying to get something into him, even if it's only liquids." He shook his head. "It's so hard to tell with children––sometimes they appear to be getting better, but then the symptoms return worse than before." Javert frowned. "I see," he said, "Thank you, doctor."

…

"Is there anything I can help you with, Madame?" asked Azelma. "Thank you, dearie, but you don't have to," Mme. Pascal replied.

"I don't mind. Gavroche is asleep and Eponine's sitting with him; I need something to do."

"Well…if you'd dry the dishes, I'd appreciate it. Here's a towel."

Azelma picked up a freshly rinsed spoon and cautiously began to pat it dry. "Go ahead and give it a good rub, you won't hurt it," Mme. Pascal encouraged. "Now, your name is Azelma, am I right?"

"Yes, Madame."

"Pretty name. Do you know where it's from?"

Azelma shrugged. "Some book my mother read. She used to read a lot, but she doesn't anymore. She taught me and my sister, a little; we both know how to read and write."

"A good thing––those are two skills no one should be without."

"When we were little, Maman wanted my sister and me to have everything. She never wanted us to have to go without anything we needed."

Out of the corner of her eye, Mme. Pascal took in the bony knees and bare feet sticking out from beneath Azelma's tattered skirt and shook her head sadly. "Are both your parents still living?" she asked.

"Yes, Madame."

For a long while, the only sound in the kitchen was the soft clinking and splashing of dishes in the sink. "Where do you come from?" Mme. Pascal asked.

"From Montfermeil, Madame. It's a little village in the country."

"Was it a nice place to live?"

"I suppose."

"Were you happy there?"

Azelma stopped in the middle of drying a plate. "I…don't know…" she answered slowly. "Our family was all together then. My parents kept an inn. We always had a roof over our heads, good food, nice clothes. And I suppose I was lucky to have those things, but back then I didn't think of it. I guess sometimes you don't realize how good something is until you don't have it anymore. Where should I put these?" she asked, holding out a stack of plates.

"In the cabinet on your left, bottom shelf," said Mme. Pascal.

Azelma slid the plates carefully onto the shelf and closed the door. "Will Gavroche be all right?" she asked.

"I don't know, dearie, but I hope so."

"I think I'll go up and see him."

Azelma crept softly up the stairs and tiptoed into the bedroom. Eponine was sitting in a chair pulled beside the bed. She did not realize her sister had come in until she felt Azelma's arms around her. "Hey 'Zel," she said, leaning her head back against her sister's shoulder. "How is he?" Azelma whispered, looking down at Gavroche. "No better, as far as I can tell," Eponine sighed, adjusting the cloth on his forehead. "I wish there was more I could do for him."

"You already have done a lot, just by being here for him. Just think how much worse it would be if he had to go through this alone."

"I don't want to think about it," said Eponine, shaking her head. Azelma sat down beside her on the edge of the bed. "We'll always have each other," she said softly, "As long as we three stick together, none of us has to be alone."

…

Javert returned home that evening, looking forward to a warm supper and a comfortable bed…until he remembered that, at present, his bed was occupied and he was sharing his home with three unexpected guests. Mme. Pascal came to meet him at the door. "Ah, good evening, Monsieur!" she said, brushing the snow off his hat before hanging it up, "Glad you made it home all right; the snow's coming down in sheets!" Javert hung up his heavy overcoat. "How did things go today?" he inquired, "No more…incidents, I hope?"

"No sir, we've had a very quiet day."

"Have the children eaten?"

"Yes sir; the girls and I had supper earlier, and Eponine is looking after Gavroche. Please, go and have a seat in the dining room, and I'll bring your supper in a moment."

All throughout supper, Javert caught snatches of conversation between Mme. Pascal and Azelma coming from the kitchen. He tried to ignore them, but eventually his detective instincts got the better of him. From their hushed conversation, he was able to piece together the sad but familiar story Azelma had to tell––a family fallen on hard times, parents' affections grown cold when their lives were crowded with cares and concerns, children turned out into the street and forced to fend for themselves. It was a common story, he knew all too well. Every day he saw dozens of homeless waifs wandering the streets, and yet his heart did not go out to them as it had toward these three.

When supper was finished, Azelma tiptoed in to clear the dishes; when Javert thanked her, she made a clumsy attempt at a curtsy, and scampered out of the room. Javert climbed the stairs, bracing himself for another long night. Perhaps he could convince the Thénardier girl to take the night in shifts so that they could both get some sleep. As he came upon the open door of his room, he stopped and looked in. The girl––Eponine, was it?––was seated by the headboard, supporting her brother with one arm around his shoulders, while her free hand held a mug to his lips. She seemed to be gently coaxing and encouraging him. Having drained the contents of the mug, the boy nestled into his sister's arms. Eponine pulled him into a close embrace and let her cheek rest on top of his head. Rocking gently back and forth, she began to sing softly, a quiet, haunting melody. Javert drew back from the door, not wanting to disturb the peaceful scene. He would speak to her after the child was asleep. Had he not known whose children they were, he never would have been able to guess these two belonged to the Thénardier family––it seemed impossible to imagine anything like tenderness or affection coming from that vile clan. And yet, Javert knew well that in some instances, children were made of a different stock than their parents…he was living proof. He took one more peeped once more into the room, and the slightest trace of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Perhaps there was hope for the younger generation after all.