65

"You can't threaten people, Éponine!" Éléonore snapped as they walked away from the flat.

"I can when they're threatening my family," Éponine said. "I put up with too much when I was alive, I'm certainly not going to put up with it now I'm dead. Thank you for accompanying me, though."

"That wasn't the way to deal with this situation." Éléonore's hair was making a valiant attempt at escaping from its topknot. Éponine wasn't sure she'd ever seen her look so flustered before. "We can arrange for –"

"It's done now," Éponine interrupted.

"I understand that this is a –"

"I don't think you do," Éponine said. "I'm sorry, Éléonore. I like you. You're a good friend and you're a good person, and that's probably why you disagree with what I've just done, but I don't think you actually understand why I've done it."

"Of course I do," Éléonore said. "I had family, once, and there are people I care about here. That's why I understand, in theory, what you just did. But do I think it was the best course of action? Of course I don't."

"Combeferre and yourself are well suited," Éponine said. "That sounds like something he would say."

"I think you might have listened more if it were Combeferre speaking to you right now," Éléonore said with a shake of her head, topknot bobbing. "Just be careful, Éponine. I'm being serious."

"I will be," she promised.

XXX

She had resolved, when she went to bed that night, that she would resume her search for Joly the following morning. As it turned out, however, she would not have to look, as Joly came to her.

He was sat on the sofa when she came out of her room. Gavroche was sat cross-legged on the floor, playing with the cat. Joly was watching, and there was almost a smile on his mouth.

When he turned to look at her, she noticed that he seemed pale, and there was a faint sheen of sweat over his forehead and cheeks. Almost as if he had heard her think it, he produced a white handkerchief from the pocket of his jacket and mopped his brow with it.

It was funny; she couldn't remember seeing anybody sweat here before. Aside from crying and feeling tired, she didn't remember feeling anything else at all – she'd certainly never felt warm enough to sweat. There was no weather here to encourage it, either.

"Éponine." Joly stood, giving a little bow of his head. "I was informed you were looking for me yesterday." When he straightened up, she observed there were grey, purplish marks beneath his brown eyes. She wondered when he had last slept – he looked exhausted.

"Is everything all right?" she asked. "Please, sit down. Would you like a drink?"

"Water, please."

She conjured a jug of water and a couple of glasses, and shooed Gavroche and Hyacinthe to another room. Joly gulped down a glass within seconds, his hands trembling.

"If you don't mind me saying, you don't look very well," Éponine said. "Have you slept?"

He poured himself another glass of water. Some sloshed over the side from the shaking of his hand. "Yes," he said, but it was not particularly convincing. A moment later, he added, "A little bit."

"I didn't know people could get ill here," Éponine said. "How long have you been feeling like this?"

"It's getting worse." Joly sipped at his new glass of water, slower and more delicate. "Please, don't tell anyone. I don't want anyone to worry."

"They're already worrying about you," Éponine pointed out. Instantly, it seemed as if something closed off in Joly's face.

"Who asked you to talk to me?" he asked, bluntly.

"Not one of our friends," she said. "Somebody else." She didn't see the point in lying to him, but he didn't know the full truth.

He let out a dry laugh.

"And what can you do for me?" he said. "Can you bring me back to life?"

"No." Éponine poured herself a glass of water, but left it on the table rather than drinking it. "Nobody can do that."

"Then how can you help me?" Joly put down his glass with a thud. More water sloshed over the side.

"It's that lady, isn't it," Éponine said. "The one you were watching in the Portal."

"That's none of your business." For a moment, she expected him to jump to his feet and storm out, but after the initial twitch he stayed where he was.

"You miss her." There was no point in phrasing it as a question; even if she had, the answer was written all over his face.

His whole body seemed to sag, like he had lost all of his energy at once. His head hung heavy and he covered his face with his hand and the handkerchief. When he next spoke, it was through cotton and flesh. "She isn't happy."

"And that upsets you?"

"Have you ever loved someone, Éponine?" Joly raised his head. His eyes were red.

"I was a little bit in love, once," Éponine said, clearing her throat and almost smiling.

"I want her to be happy," Joly said. "And she isn't happy. Because I'm not there. And I can't..."

"You can't go back forever, no," Éponine said.

Joly balled his handkerchief up in his fist. "Can I go back at all?"

Éponine wasn't sure if Joly knew about what she could do, but she took a risk and said, "I could let you visit. But it won't be...the same."

"Would she be able to see me?" Something like hope crept into his damp eyes.

"I think so. I've only – I've only done it once, but yes, I think..." She chewed on her lower lip. "There is someone who would be able to answer your questions."

"Is this the same person who asked you to help me?" Joly said, raising his eyebrows.

Éponine nodded. "I can take you to her."

"Is it this woman that Enjolras has been to see?"

"That's the one."

"I..." He dragged the handkerchief over his forehead again. His hands were visibly shaking, and one of his feet was jigging up and down. "Yes. Please. Take me to see her."

XXX

They set off there and then. Éponine hoped that Clémence would be at her home when they arrived – and if she was, she hoped she'd agree to see them.

Despite the sweating and tiredness, Joly was walking quite fast, which she put down to eagerness.

As they walked, he talked to her. He told her about the woman from the Portal; he said her name was Musichetta. There was a loving note to his voice when he talked about her, the affection obvious.

"Bossuet loved her too," Joly said.

Éponine had heard of more unusual arrangements, so she made no judgement, and instead said, "Is that why you and he have fallen out?"

"Bérénice is very different to Musichetta," Joly said, slowly.

"Is that a bad thing?" Éponine said. "She isn't replacing Musichetta, after all."

"I want to be happy for them," Joly said, "But if he had seen what I have seen..."

"In the Portals?" Éponine guessed.

"She cursed us, once. For leaving her." Joly's fingers flexed, like he was reaching out to grab something that was not there. "When I try to sleep, it's those words I hear. Again and again, and the look on her face when she said them. She was so...broken. I can't..." The hand flexed again. "That was only days after we first came here. She does seem to be getting better, but...It's in her eyes."

"Do you think Bossuet would feel differently if he could see her?" Éponine said.

Joly didn't answer. They lapsed into a strained silence as Éponine wondered if he was going to bother answering her question.

When he next spoke, he said, "He said to me once that Musichetta loved me more than she loved him. I don't know if that was true. But it has made me wonder whether...Whether that's why I...struggle."

"In the end, I don't think it really matters," Éponine said. "You're struggling, and knowing why you're struggling won't change things."

They reached Clémence's house at last. They were met at the door by one of the men in the purple and gold uniform (Joly took a moment from his melancholy to note the hideousness of the outfit, the words muttered under his breath as they were led into a parlour). The servant didn't question their presence, and simply told them that Clémence would be along shortly.

The parlour had pale blue walls with white doves delicately painted onto the surface; a set of chairs covered in white satin occupied the centre of the room in a ring, with short and round table placed in the heart of them. A large mirror hung on the wall above an ornate marble fireplace; a golden chandelier dangled from the ceiling; and a huge painted vase occupied one corner, overflowing with large white flowers. The scent of the flowers hung heavy in the room.

Éponine sat in one of the chairs. It was harder than it looked, not necessarily comfortable, the arms of it too high. It was awkward to try and place her hands on them so instead she folded them in her lap.

Joly, however, was observing himself in the mirror. She could see from his reflection that he was not happy with what he saw; after a few moments, he shook his head, wiped at his forehead with his handkerchief, and began to pace up and down.

Clémence swept into the room after what felt like an hour. Her long, dark red hair had been curled into large ringlets, hanging heavy over her shoulders. Her dress was shades of pink, with long fitted sleeves and a matching bodice, flowing out from the hips. It began at the shoulders as a pale pink and gradually darkened as it reached the floor, and it looked to be made from thousands of miniscule little gems. It rustled when she walked.

"What a pleasant surprise," she said, in the tone of somebody who had been expecting their visit.

Éponine hadn't really processed the words in her mind before she spoke them when she said, "Do you have spies?"

Clémence stopped with her hand resting on the back of one of the chairs. "Pardon?"

"Spies," Éponine repeated. "In the town. Reporting to you." She couldn't think of how else Clémence would have known of their coming.

"Have you forgotten that I can see everything that will happen?" Clémence said, walking around the chair and lowering herself into it. "I have known that this day was coming for a long time."

Éponine felt stupid, and cleared her throat. "Then you know why we're here?"

"Of course." Clémence looked almost insulted for a fleeting moment. "Would either of you like something to eat? Drink?"

"No, thank you," Éponine said. Joly shook his head.

"Please, Joly, sit down," Clémence said. "Then we can talk."

Joly hesitated, but moved to one of the chairs and sank into it. He let out a little puff of air as he did so, as if sitting was a great relief to him. Éponine's eyes flicked from him to Clémence; Clémence's face now looked exceptionally grave.

"You are not well," Clémence said.

The hand that was holding his handkerchief twitched towards his face, as another bead of sweat rolled down his forehead. But he fought the urge to wipe it away, clearly in defiance of what Clémence was saying.

"That's not why we're here," he said.

"But it is," Clémence said. "It's all connected. I can answer the question you want to ask very quickly and very easily: you will not be travelling to the world of the living. You never travel there."

Joly seemed to deflate. He gave in at last, wiping his forehead, and the handkerchief stayed covering his face for what seemed like a very long time.

"Why not?" he asked.

"Because you don't." Clémence's voice was almost gentle, but firm. "I do not know why, you just – do not."

"I need to speak to her."

"There are other ways," Clémence said. She looked at Éponine, eyes sad. "You will work them out."

"You could just tell us," Éponine said, the last two words coming out as more of a hiss.

"Well, I did not see that happening in either of your futures, so I'm afraid I will have to remain silent on the matter." Clémence looked back at Joly. "This, however, I will not remain silent about. You are not well."

Joly crushed his handkerchief in his fist. "You have said that –"

"It happens, sometimes," Clémence said. "It is a very – severe thing. It has no name other than the Sickness, and it only infects those who struggle to adjust to this world. Those who don't receive help only get more ill, until..." She trailed off. She cleared her throat, and then continued: "Until they are forcibly ejected from this world."

"Forcibly ejected?" Joly repeated. "Meaning?"

"Meaning you live in the human world once more," Clémence said. "But not as yourself. You will be completely unlike you were in life. You will be a wretched being, prone to fits of anger and outbursts. You will not be happy. You will be a monster."

Éponine felt sick. The sight of weak, unhappy Joly was bad enough when she could remember her vague memories of cheery Joly – but the idea of him being forced away from everyone, angry, alone, aggressive...

She shook her head. "That will not happen," she said. She looked at Joly, and he met her eyes. "I will make sure that does not happen," she repeated, softly. "I'll find a way to let you talk to Musichetta."

A/N: Sorry this took so long! I'm back at uni and I have so many deadlines already :( I'll try and be faster next time!