"It may be possible to lay low afterwards –"
"Possible? If we wish to avoid capture, it's a certainty—!"
"But then, are we to spend a year hiding? What would the point of that be?"
It's a cacophony of conflicting opinions, and it is all Éponine can do to keep everything straight.
Feuilly speaks, then. "Didn't you say – earlier, that within Saint-Michel they feel as though they manage just fine without help…?"
This is directed to her, and she shakes her head. "You can need something and not have it and go on living, but there's no 'just fine' about it. They're hurting, that's for sure. It's the admitting that's the problem."
She receives a nod for this, and the conversation continues, but she is thinking of almost-mothers Azelma's age, stick-skinny and wailing, running door to door on doe legs when their newborn lay still, thinks of the cries that echo into the night as doors shut against them and they become no-longer-mothers; beggars done without food so long they become paper wisps, see-through and brittle, and remembers teeth sticking to thin lips as they let out peals of dry laughter; thinks of herself, who grew up without the affection she craved and into something hard and sharp, a weapon against every cruel word, but hollow inside, crumbling at a single delicate touch.
It's only when someone bangs a fist on a table – calling for attention to the subject rather than expressing anger – that she jolts out of her thoughts.
She frowns at herself and settles back further in her chair.
This is becoming a problem.
She is lost in thought too often – much too often. It's fortunate that she was not supposed to be taking notes today or she would be hopelessly lost.
Irritatingly enough, this trend seems to be recent, ever since her mind became plagued with thoughts of closeness and alleyways.
She supposes it's because she's not been in a situation like that – not one where a misstep could lead to incarceration or a beating, nor one where such closeness was required – for months, or, perhaps, because she's never seen anything close to cracks in the so-called marble man.
She has gone through bouts of this with Montparnasse and Marius, and so she attempts to shake these thoughts away for the moment and focus on the discussion, resolving to hang about a little longer in order to find a way to push the image from her head, by any means necessary.
(If she can push this image from her head, why would she not be able to control the rest of her thoughts?)
It is a rather remarkable plan, she'll admit. Plundering valuable objects is all well and good on its own, but planning a raid on the Diadem is something else.
The target is, specifically, a mirror – not just any mirror, but one commissioned by and for the express use of the king himself.
(Napoleon had his elephants; seems Louis-Philippe appeals more directly to his own vanity.)
It sends their message clearly, and they sail away with not insignificant profits.
It's just that it's… dangerous. Noticeable. And the last thing she wants right now is for them to be noticed.
And yet, as she has realized, she cannot dissuade them.
If she had, perhaps, stayed with them – revealed all slowly instead of running off and forcing a reveal, then she might be closer to achieving that, but as much as she seems to be repairing their trust in her, it is certainly not something she wants to test.
So she must instead convince them to let her help.
With these two goals in mind, Éponine waits as the Amis gradually go on their separate ways, until it is only her and Enjolras.
Who, at the moment, seems entirely preoccupied with his own thoughts as he jots something down in the logbook before him, preoccupied enough that she is able to draw near to him before he notices.
She digs her nails into her palm for concentration and says, plainly, "you need me."
His eyes snap up to hers, and she is momentarily lost for words in the intensity of his gaze. It is likely for the best that she not ask what occupied his mind, then, though she will not apologize for interrupting them. 'Wasn't this supposed to take away from those thoughts?' She digs her nails in a little harder.
"On the raid," she clarifies. "You need my help. If everything is to go smoothly, you need all the help you can get."
There is a pause before he responds, during which he returns his focus to the logbook. "There was never any question of disallowing you."
There was, of course, but this response is as good as a 'yes.'
"Of course," she says, and it is the too-casual tone which makes him lay aside the pen with a sigh that is implied. "Permission won't do much good if I have only these to run around in." She gives her skirt a tug to demonstrate what she means.
"And why, exactly, is this necessary?" he asks dryly. "Your identity is no secret to us."
She clucks her tongue. "Now, m'sieur, you may be known across the coast, but Éponine Jondrette of Saint-Michel is still perfectly acceptable." A pause, and the she adds, "well, nearly. I've got the rest of it though, as a 'parting girt' from Cosette." She lifts her cap with a grin. Her hair is properly pinned up beneath – little chance of ruining her disguise should she take a tumble.
He frowns. "I don't remember you having those when you came aboard."
"They're small. Could put 'em anywhere and not notice," she says casually, but her grin widens. The statement is not meant to mean much – indeed, all she did was fasten them to the inside hem of her skirt, but it certainly sounds crafty.
"Hmm." She has little left to say, and he, sensing this, once more returns his attention to his markings. "…Combeferre tells me you left some clothes from a raid in the drawers; these have not been moved."
She grins again, but it is softer around the edges. "I'll do you proud, I will. Won't be one thing out of place when it comes time." 'And there,' she thinks, as if she has triumphed over herself, 'all is normal as usual.'
At least, until she catches the hint of a smile on his face. It's gone as quickly as it appeared, but it's enough. '…or not?'
(Much to her frustration, she finds she is no more able to concentrate than she was before. As a matter of fact, the daydreams seem to creep in more frequently, if that is possible.
She will later be able to pinpoint this moment as the start of it, and all because she began to wonder if she could block out that memory with a new one.)
A/N: I… have… no idea if Louis-Philippe had any affinity for mirrors at all, but for the purposes of this, we're going with yes.
This one is sort of… eh. Sorry about that.