That night, she learns the identities of the rest of the Amis.
There is Bahorel, who laughs loudly and brashly and often; Feuilly, with eyes bright; Combeferre, who talks alike with all, even seeming to soften the marble man an instant when he makes a brief appearance.
Talk is easy, free, and happy; with plans in motion at last, everyone is in high spirits.
Éponine's answers are concise, when questions are posed to her, and she jerks her skinny shoulders in a shrug when they ask for her opinion on social matters, on the hierarchy, on informing the public.
They manage to drag from her the names Azelma and Gavroche. They are common names, and the telling builds their trust in her, but still she is made uneasy.
She eats some and pockets the rest – feeling that among these highborn, well-spoken men, her eating habits, would be coarse and common, even with all their talk of equality with the masses – and when they first show signs of wearying, she steals away.
But she cannot sleep.
She had though it was strange, before, that she should be placed in the room so close to the stairs. Should not the others – someone more important – be able to escape quicker, if needed? Now she gets it.
From here, she can hear the creaking of the ship and the whistling of the wind as if she stood in open air. It emphasizes her surroundings more than anything else has, and she is acutely aware of the way the ship sways with every groan.
She has traced over every letter of Marius' notes until she is sure she could map out the position of each flourish, even here in the dark – could mark out even the passage which brought her the most joy, if she wanted, some discourse on his studies and barely comprehensible but for mentions of Waterloo – but she cannot find comfort for it. Escaping into a world of her own is easier when the reminders of reality are less constant.
When she can be still no more, she rises, and slips up the steps as quietly as possible.
If she were a lady in a nightgown, she supposes she would look rather mournful. As it is, Éponine only looks small huddled in her coat. The wind worms into her clothes and makes them billow, then past them, as if she were bare. This, at least, is comforting in its familiarity.
She pads across the deck, tracing the lines of each board with her toes to determine her path, until she has reached the edge.
Éponine rests her hands on the railing and faces the darkness.
Now, she can hear the soft lapping of the waves as the ship bobs, and this softens the harsh noises at last. As her eyes adjust, she can make out the sails fluttering gently, and the bright red flag snapping and rippling up above.
Éponine leans, peering closer into the darkness.
Under bridges, she would dream of stumbling, tumbling, falling from the arches and drowning; the Seine a lady with hands like whispers, the only hands to ever reach willingly for her.
She told Marius, once, of this thought that would take her sometimes. She would not like to drown – the water would be too cold. He had frowned at that, and made her promise, swear never to let the water take her. He laid his hand on her shoulder and from his nearness, he brought warmth. The rivers seemed so much more like ice from that day onward.
But Marius is far from her now, and if she is honest, so are her chances for happiness.
She wonders if the waters would be as cold as the river who called to her with arms wide open, in the days before Marius and messages. She is far from home and farther from happiness; messages she may have now, but she does not have Marius, and now, she likely never will.
The waters look calm now, but she knows they are raging beneath, and would swallow her up if they got the chance.
The ship gives a quiver just then, and she lurches forward, A thought takes her, idle – never wanted to die, exactly, just sometimes stopped wanting to live, when hope was far away and gone – and Éponine, eye level with the churning ink, marvels at how easy it would now be to answer that call. Would she be mourned, if she fell?
"Do you often leave the safety of your warm bed to wander the night before a storm?"
She almost does pitch into the ocean with how she startles, and she only recovers enough to half turn.
The moonlight glints among his curls, silver mingling among the gold. It casts an almost regal air about him – the thought of his reaction to being told this would make her laugh at a different time – that lingers around his eyes and the set of him mouth, softer than earlier. Untroubled, she might guess.
'I could ask you the same,' threatens to slip from her lips, but she stills, the phrase stopped on her tongue.
If Éponine had the words, she would call him ethereal, as beautiful as an angel and capable of the same terrible coldness, but she has no such command.
She knows only that even removing the rich, red coat he normally wears does little to soften his image, and she is wary of sparking his wrath with too-bold words. (She thinks she sees why they called him a statue.)
She scuffs her bare foot against the wood and pinches her mouth together. "No."
To her surprise – and a touch of dismay – he comes to stand beside her. She cannot leave unless he allows it now.
"Normally," he responds, resting his arms on the railing a short distance from her, "neither do I."
Éponine doesn't question this, and asks, instead, "how do you know there's a storm tomorrow?"
He shoots her a glance from the corner of his eye. "How long have you been out at sea?"
"Two weeks," she says softly, "and four before." She would be more irked at not getting a straight answer if she had cared more about the answer.
"Six weeks out…" he repeats, then, "and you are unused to it?"
She hums an affirmation.
"What brought you out here, then?" He motions to the vastness all around.
"I… look after the lady. Or did. Nobles like to send along a, a –" She frowns as she fishes for the word. "…an escort. It pays." Unless it's a favor for someone so love struck he doesn't even look at her.
Another question strikes her. She hesitates, but he was the one to bring it up and – like it or not, she wants to know. "You won't hurt her, will you? Only, she's not a bad sort, exactly," she adds hastily.
He turns light eyes to her. "Do we seem the type to you?"
She knows the answer he'd like, but she knows, too, that shrugging it of won't quite work. They seem harmless, almost, when they laugh together, but there are stories she's heard – and she is kept here. "I don't know much to say either way," she confesses.
He lifts an eyebrow, and her mouth turns down sharply. "Rest assured, murdering an innocent citizen of France is not at all what we want."
"What will you do with her, then?"
If he is surprised at her words, he doesn't show it. "She will be returned safe and sound to Baron Pontmercy once he will pay a ransom –" (She winces at this) "– then comes the matter of distributing it where it is best."
"…why?"
He seems farther in thought now. "It's harder to get enough out directly, and this sends more of a message," he says, somewhat absently.
"No, I mean…" She takes a deep breath, eyes resolutely fixed on some point in the distance. "Why do… any of it? What does it matter, if it isn't your concern?"
She expects a speech. She expects anger. She expects him to see through her disguise as a sympathizer and out her right there. She expects – anything but for him to level his gaze at her with such an intensity she can't bear to hold it but cannot drop her eyes.
"Monsieur," he says, voice low and grave, "the suffering of the people is always a matter of my concern."
Éponine is silent. That he believes in his words is obvious, but can she?
She nods her head slowly. "Thank you, Monsieur Enjolras. You've… given me much to think about. Now, it is late, and I should… go."
He nods, now thoroughly lost in thought.
Éponine turns back only once more, at the edge of the stairs.
He is a mournful figure there, and she wonders.
(She does sleep much more that night, but at least it is not because of the ship.)
A/N: HEY LOOK WHO'S IN THIS ONE
(falls to the floor and weeps because everything was going so well up until dialogue)