Even out of skirts and with hair bound, it is clear that Éponine is no boy. In fact, it is so obvious now that he wonders how they could have been fooled.
Admittedly, the rags she wears to become Jondrette are loose and ill-fitting – and with the estimated interception date looming ever nearer, she is never long out of them – but there are moments when this is not so. She will angle her hip or fold her arms and the illusion is shattered.
Perhaps it is because she is not trying to put on a full disguise here – from what she has said, she did fear discovery before, but she does not have such fears now.
And yet, she does not act much like a lady. In fact, her actions are almost indistinguishable from those taken when she called herself Julien around them.
She has the unfortunate tendency to hunch into herself – curious, as he thinks appearing smaller would make her look like more of a victim than less – and she clings to patches of darkness in a way that may be unconscious.
There is clear evidence of rough living – how rough, exactly, is not completely clear, as she seems, at times, to be smoothing over details when she recounts her stories – upon her, but she speaks with less argot than he would have guessed.
"I wanted to impress Monsieur Marius," she confessed to him when he'd asked about it, and ducked her head. Her mannerisms become more noticeably more… well, feminine isn't the right word exactly, but more something whenever the topic of Pontmercy is brought up.
It's… somewhat exasperating, actually. She's much more productive when not on the subject, but, fortunately, it lasts less and less as time goes by.
(Or he is, out of necessity, getting better at knowing when the conversation will devolve into discussing details of that particular aspect of her life. He doesn't really care which it is, as the effect is the same.)
She is bold, she is brash, and she is bright, when she cares to show it.
And, currently, she is perched on his desk.
On the paper that has now been pushed to the side, she has etched out a crude layout of the Diadem, or what she imagined the Diadem to look like from his descriptions.
It's rough and smeared, but the picture itself was never the point. Éponine instead used it so speculate where they would be most likely to run into trouble, where they might find the mirror or other riches to profit from, and which areas should be avoided entirely, with his help.
Now, however, with that task finished, Éponine is looking over the plans for after, which means, currently, contact lists.
"Agnés," she says slowly, sounding out the name on the list, then looks up. "I know a better fence. Monsieur Badeaux. A little farther from the docks, but he's half-decent, and twice more than most you'll find. Could get you a better price, and quicker, but there's little chance he'll deal with someone dangerous."
"And you know this from experience?" Enjolras scratches out his last sentence. He wants to direct, yes, but this is all but saying "monsieur, we would like to sell a mirror we have stolen from the king." It's a bit much.
She shrugs skinny shoulders, then reflects, and adds to it. "Yeah. He'd never do business with the Patron-Minette up front, now with 'Parnasse, or with my father. They always sent me, instead. And he gave Azelma an extra sou whenever she came 'round to sell a little ribbon, though I can't imagine he'd ever be able to make anything off it." She nods to herself. "Badeaux is who you want."
"Parnasse?" He pauses in his writing, finding he has begun to replace his words with the ones she speaks, and decides to resume writing when there are less distractions.
She grimaces, which evokes mild amusement from him.
"Montparnasse was terrible," she says. "And charming with those who let him in close, so he could be terrible all over again. I didn't give him the chance," she adds.
"Mmh." Something in her phrasing reminds him of a possibility. He tries it out, letting the letters feather out onto the paper before nodding, and inking them darker. And there it is.
"There's that first draft, if you'd like." He is, in all honestly, the slightest bit curious to see what she thinks of it.
"Ah, let me see." She pulls the paper away with fingers that are delicate beneath thin scars and calluses and which, briefly, minutely, brush his.
Yes, there is no way to mistake her as anything less than a woman, now.
And it is causing him no end of frustration.
A/N: Dang, I'm just dragging this out, aren't I?