16
It wasn't long after night fell that there was a knock at her door.
She had just been conjuring some chocolate cake for Gavroche when she heard it. Gavroche answered, and a second later she heard his excited, "Courf!"
She abandoned the cake without conjuring proper icing on top and wandered over to the door. The students were piling themselves into her flat – Courfeyrac, Prouvaire, as well as Bahorel and Feuilly.
"Hello," she said.
"Enjolras passed on your message," Courfeyrac said brightly. "Are you still wanting to come out with us?"
Éponine hadn't quite forgotten the request, but she also hadn't been preparing to go out. "Do you mind, Gavroche?"
"Can I come?" he said, as Courfeyrac squatted so Gavroche could climb onto his back.
"No," she said. "You can stay in."
Gavroche pouted, resting his chin on Courfeyrac's shoulders. "But I have nothing to do here," he said.
"I'm sure you can find something to occupy yourself," Éponine said, crossing the room back to the cake. She squinted down at it. "Gavroche, how important is the icing on this cake?"
"Very," Gavroche replied, still pouting, as Courfeyrac began to spin in circles.
Bahorel and Feuilly had flung themselves down onto Éponine's sofa, whilst Prouvaire was fiddling with the bouquet of flowers on the table. "There aren't enough colours," he announced, staring at the mass of red, and promptly began to conjure purple tulips and white roses to add to her arrangement. He did this every time he visited their apartment.
The students waited as Éponine conjured a bowlful of icing and a pallet knife to smear the icing over the top of the cake. She'd been conjuring a lot of cakes since she'd arrived here in her spare time but she still didn't know how to ice the cake in a neat fashion.
She gave up when she realised she was forcing the top of the cake to crumble and mix with the icing and dumped the pallet knife in the sink. She wiped her hands on a towel and turned to face the room, feeling somewhat triumphant.
"Are you ready to go?" Courfeyrac said, from where he was lying face down on the carpet with Gavroche sat cross-legged on his back.
"Ready to go when you are," she confirmed.
"C'mon, Gavroche, get off me," Courfeyrac said, as the other men in the room assembled near the door. They all filed out and Éponine crouched to say goodbye to her brother.
"Are you sure you'll be all right?" she asked, fussing with his shirt.
There was a mischievous glint in Gavroche's eye. "I'll be fine," he assured her. "I can think of some things I can do."
She narrowed her eyes in suspicion. "I'd better come back and find the flat in one piece," she warned.
Gavroche tried, and failed, to look innocent. She rolled her eyes and bade him goodbye before following the students out of the flat onto the street.
"We had been wondering whether to ask you to come with us or not," Courfeyrac said to her, almost bouncing like a puppy. "Are you excited?"
"I suppose I am," she said, amused by his childlike excitement.
"I'm sure Gavroche will be fine," Prouvaire piped up in a gentle voice.
"He'll probably stuff his face with chocolate cake," Courfeyrac said.
"As long as he doesn't make a mess, I don't mind."
It took them a few minutes to walk to the inn that the men wanted to drink in that night. It was like returning to being a young child for Éponine: it was like returning to the inn at Montfermeil. At first, she felt a little uncomfortable amongst the rabble; it felt like she would turn around and see one of her father's lackeys at any moment in time.
Sensing her discomfort, Courfeyrac did her the gentlemanly thing and got her a drink. As there was no need to pay, the drink was supplied in barrels with glasses stacked next to them so you could help yourself to the drink whenever you wanted one.
Courfeyrac handed her the glass nearly overflowing with drink. "They call this Bliss," he explained. "It's the nearest thing to alcohol you find here."
Éponine stared down at the clear liquid that looked like water. "Bliss?" she said, her tone dubious.
"Try it," Courfeyrac said, his eyes twinkling.
She took a sip. Then another, and another, and another, and before she knew it, the glass was empty. It tasted like all her favourite things at once – fruity and sweet and a little bit sour – and it went down possibly too easily. The more she drank, the more she felt herself changing with the drink.
An odd feeling swept over her body. She felt lighter than air; her mind was working very quickly, perhaps too quickly, but it also felt clear. Nothing in her mind seemed crazy, and nothing seemed impossible. Any worries she had melted away completely as euphoria completely took over her body.
"It's good, isn't it?" Courfeyrac said with a knowing grin, taking a more measured swig from his own glass of Bliss.
Feeling a little breathless in her giddiness, she said to him, "I can see why you spend so much time here."
There was a sparkling look of joy in Courfeyrac's eyes at her words. "You've been talking to Enjolras, haven't you?" he said, his grin growing even wider. "He disapproves, doesn't he? I wish he'd let loose and join us. He might even enjoy himself."
"Smuggle some of this into his food," Éponine suggested, wiping her finger around the bottom of her glass before sucking the Bliss from her fingertip.
Courfeyrac watched her with amusement. "Would you like another glass?" he offered, and she nodded eagerly.
The second glass gave way to a third and then a fourth, and by then Éponine was definitely feeling like she was on another planet altogether. She felt like she was flying, in a strange way; she had the disorientated feeling of someone who was incredibly drunk, but without the accompanying nausea or slurring or falling over. She was deliriously happy. It was so much more pleasant than feeling drunk.
This also put her at ease with the inn itself when she realised that there were no fistfights here; there was a lot of dancing, a lot of shouting, a lot of singing, but no violence. No arguments. No cross words. Everyone was in the same state of euphoria as Éponine.
It wasn't long before Éponine was dancing with Feuilly, who seemed to be the happiest out of all of them, and then watching Courfeyrac and Bahorel do a little jig on top of their table, glasses in hand, Bliss sloshing everywhere.
Prouvaire had just spun her away from him when she spotted Grantaire seated at the bar, hunched over a glass.
She let her hand slip out of Prouvaire's and let herself be swallowed up by the crowd. She used her smaller size to weave through the crowds of people until she was beside Grantaire. Without speaking, she pulled herself up onto the stool next to him.
She still felt giddy, and one of her feet was tapping on the rungs of the stool beneath her feet. Her knees bounced up and down. It wasn't long before Grantaire turned his head to face her, black hair falling over his face.
Éponine wasn't sure she'd ever had a proper conversation with Grantaire when they'd been alive. She knew of him: she knew him as the drunk, the loudmouth, the cynical one who could occasionally rile Enjolras up into a near apoplectic rage. The times she'd been near him, she'd found him to be quite amusing, occasionally very witty, but with an edge of bitterness she could definitely identify with. She sensed in him something she knew was in herself, and that was the aura of someone who had not had the easiest of lives.
But looking at the man now, there was something different about him. His eyes weren't narrowed and cautious; they were wide open, very much the metaphorical windows to the soul. What's more, there was something very near to happiness in his face.
"Can I help you, mademoiselle?" he asked.
There was also no recognition in his eyes. Éponine couldn't be surprised. Even though her face was the same – still as gaunt – her body the same – just as skinny and underfed – and her hair the exact same colour – dark brown, like dirt – there were obvious differences. She was wearing a nice, plain, clean dress, and her face was not ingrained with dirt and grime. Her nails were cut short and scrubbed clean, and her hair was now smooth and shiny and there were no tangles in it. She looked respectable, smelled pleasant, and did not resemble the street urchin he would have known when he was alive.
"Just a conversation," she said, smiling at that him.
"Oh, I'm sure you'd be much happier dancing," he said, eyes twinkling. Yes, it was definitely the Bliss that had changed Grantaire; she couldn't remember a time she'd ever seen him look like that.
"Are you offering?" she asked, feeling bewildered at the change in this man. If it wasn't for the fact he looked like Grantaire, and obviously was Grantaire, she would have thought she was talking to a complete stranger.
"I might be," he said, the glass of Bliss hovering near his mouth. He raised it higher and took a sip. "Are you agreeing?"
She found herself giggling. It was the high-pitched titter she sometimes did unconsciously or, when her father had roped her into a job, the one she used on unsuspecting men to reassure them she wasn't about to steal their money.
At the sound of her laughter, Grantaire's face changed completely. Any trace of humour slipped, leaving a blank expression. The glass was placed back down on the bar top with a dull thud, and his eyes flickered from Éponine through the crowds of people. At that moment, Courfeyrac and Bahorel chose to hoist Prouvaire into the air, making them completely visible.
Grantaire's head whipped around. "You're Marius' shadow, aren't you?" Grantaire demanded. He let out a low laugh. "I didn't recognise you at first, but you laughed at damn near everything Pontmercy used to say."
Before she could say another word, Grantaire knocked back the remainder of his Bliss and slid down off his stool.
"Goodbye, Mademoiselle Jondrette," he said, his voice almost curt.
She watched him fight his way through the crowds of people as she slowly climbed down from the stool. As his broad form disappeared, she felt her good mood dip slightly.
But then Courfeyrac was there, pushing a larger glass of Bliss into her hands, and after downing that she could almost forget that she had ever seen Grantaire at all.