"Make that darker – and put more space between the next words."
There is ink dotting along her forearm and a slash of it along her nose. She has a habit of writing with her fingers too close - too close to the nib, too close to the paper - and so when she rubs at her face, it leaves smudges of dark ink in the wake of her fingers.
Enjolras had been set in the goal of more productivity, earlier, but when he had to slow his speech-writing to spell out every other word, he settled simply on teaching her.
They have been working on Cosette's letter - coaching her in what to say so the lady can reproduce it.
Éponine's allowed her many mistakes, allowed to cross out words so they're ugly and dark, because he's still thinking of the best way to put it.
In all honesty, she thought she would have had a harder time of it. It's not that he is a particularly patient teacher - in fact, she can catch flashes of masked irritation the farther off her spelling is. But she wants to learn, and he is teaching her, unsatisfied or not.
He leans in close to peer at the page, one hand – his good one - bracing him against the back of her chair. "What does that say?"
She huffs out a breath that brushes against the ends of her hair, brushing against her forehead from under her hat. Maybe she should trim it? Just a few inches. "Restitution," she answers calmly.
"No," he says dryly, "that says 'restitewshun.'" He draws out the word. "Julien, if you're unsure, don't do it phonetically."
She looks at him blankly. "Phonetically?" She asks. To her credit, she mimics it rather well, with minimal stumbling.
"It means – if you don't know how to spell a word, you can ask me."
She rolls her shoulders to fight against the growing stiffness. "Thought I did."
Enjolras does not answer, and the pause is significant enough that she takes to sketching in the margins – sharp 'M's and thin 'E's and looping 'C's – and so his next question seems sudden. "So how is it you know to write in partial thoughts, but not fully?"
She sends him a cautious glance, judging. "My family was… well-off, once," she begins slowly. If she omitted some details, well, why should he care? "Owned an inn, when there was only three. It didn't last." Idly, she scratches new letters above the ruined word. If t-e-w wasn't it, maybe t-w-o? "Running it was too much, and it didn't make enough to take care of five." Let alone seven, she thinks, and a flash of sick guilt sears her stomach. She mourned their losses long ago, before she even knew their names, until things got worse and she figured they were better off with someone else. "So we sold it. Sold everything."
The pen only occasionally touches the page, now, and she does not raise her head. Were it not for the quiet noise of encouragement Enjolras makes, she would probably stop there.
"It made it worse though. Harder to pretend were doing fine when we'd lost all the books, the dresses –"
He raises an eyebrow. "Dresses?"
She could have kicked herself. "My sister – Azelma – was hit hardest," she says, and hopes she does not seem to waver. "'vroche and I did alright in rags, but she missed the finery." It's true enough, in parts. She missed the clothes as much as 'zelma did, though, and they learned to adjust together. "Before, though… my parents read to me, taught me to write in the logbooks." My mother fed me on fairy tales and tragic love. "And after, there was no time. That, monsieur, is how you learn partway." She taps the pen against the paper, eager to be doing… anything but this. "And starting again may get me the rest of the way."
Appearing to agree, Enjolras runs a hand through his hair, leaving curls to bounce gently, and leans in again. He plucks the pen from her grasp as he begins to scan the contents of the letter – and she freezes as there is a brief moment of contact.
Éponine once was charmed by style, by pretty faces and voices that did not crack. Montparnasse played on this, for a time, until she realized how quickly beauty can turn deadly; Marius taught her to value softness of expression and kind speech, but this – this is different. Personal questions and proximity together is oddly… intimate, in a way she has only skimmed upon before.
Closeness has been a thing to fear far longer than a source of comfort.
These thoughts come quickly, but in the time they come, Enjolras has already made several marks. He crosses out an entire section, and that is what makes her pay attention, irritation flaring. If her spelling was that bad, why wouldn't he –
"No," she hears him mutter, "that isn't quite right."
And like that, her last of her hesitation vanishes. So the marble man is human after all.
She fixes him with a curious look. "You're not really accustomed to writing ransoms, are you, monsieur?"
"No," he replies, and this gives her the first real hint of anything beyond patience since they began. Resignation and frustration both abound as he glances at her. "And you?"
Not people. Jewelry and trinkets – heirlooms worth more sentimental value than what they could glean from selling it outright. A dog, once, though her father swore to stick to what could be pocketed after all the fuss they'd made trying to keep it.
She shrugs – and then is struck by a moment of sudden boldness. "Enough; and, now, if I speak and you will listen, I will tell you how I have seen it done."
So it is that the gamine teaches the bourgeoisie in turn.
A/N: I changed so many things around in this, so… hopefully it still makes sense? I made some revisions to the previous chapter, too, but those should help.
(…no, but seriously, writing this interaction was difficult and painful and if you have any critiques to make characterization better, that would ease my mind like nothing else.
Also, I will get to replies very, very soon, I promise - thank you so much to everyone!)