A/N: Thanks for the reviews and support!

I do not own our new character here. He belongs to BBC.

Chapter 22: No Escaping Eyes of Stone

The first weekend of September, or rather the last weekend of the summer finds Combeferre with a camera in hand, chasing after Florence in a crowd just outside one of the city's oldest houses of prayer. "Flor, I think the marker is back by the door!" he shouts over the din of the bells tolling the hour.

"That's the compass! All churches this old have one!" Florence calls over her shoulder as she rushes up the steps on the cathedral's side entrance. "I'm sure it's down by the bell tower's entrance."

'She's the one with the map and the guidebook,' Combeferre notes as he takes off his spectacles just long enough to wipe off any smudges in order to allow him to better appreciate the church's three soaring white spires as well as its arched doorways and vestibules. It's an odd juxtaposition with the dusty square outside the cathedral; this place is always full of people strolling, hawking all kinds of goods, or simply hurrying to worship. Today is a Sunday, a time for pilgrimages, thus alongside the usual hustle and bustle are huddles of these wayfarers poring over maps or muttering litanies as they file into the church. The hot breeze carries with it the fragrance of bread and sugar from the parish's community bakery, just off to one side of the square. Combeferre politely mutters 'excuse me' and 'sorry' as he weaves his way past a group of children lighting a whole row of tiny candles under a statue of the Blessed Virgin. He is not sure whose idea it was to go on a trip to get pictures of every historical marker in this particular quarter of the city but he's not about to second-guess the matter when they have already tracked down twenty-one of the National Heritage Society's plaques on various government buildings, schools, churches, and even street corners. If they are lucky, they will find their twenty-second marker within the next few minutes.

Florence suddenly runs ahead, up towards the heavy door below the church's leftmost spire. "Over here," she says, pointing to a black square plaque with the tricolor seal seen on all the city's heritage sites. 'The Cathedral of Our Lady of Grace and its adjoining monastery were built in the year 1688 by the Order of the Divine Word prior to the order being disbanded during the revolution of 1789. The church was deconsecrated in the year 1790 but was rededicated by the diocese in 1801. The church and the monastery were heavily damaged during the Allies' carpet bombing during the final days of the Second World War. The decrepit monastery complex was demolished in the city's rezoning in 1946; however the church was repaired through the efforts of the parishioners. Renovations were completed in 1968, along with the installation of new stained glass windows in the west vestibule.'

Combeferre sighs at this prosaic write-up. "Is this the church with a story about its bell-ringer?"

"No. That one is across town. I actually did know that bell-ringer, somewhat." Florence replies.

"Was he-"

"Misshapen? Yes. A murderer? No one knows."

Combeferre nods before taking a picture of the marker and then the bell tower. This is not a day after all to be speaking of urban legends, especially those so sorely maligned in days gone by. Instead he contents himself with watching Florence racing about as she takes snapshots of the vestibule, the statues, and even the spires up above. She practically glides her way into the cathedral doorway and the sight makes him smile; it is as if he is catching a glimpse of the vivaciousness of her beauty, the girl she had once been in the days when she and Meg Giry had danced together, the days before the accident that put her off the stage for good.

Florence is oblivious to this scrutiny as she crosses the vestibule, keeping her eyes trained on the mottled marble tiles. "This church is said to have a secret tunnel," she whispers as she runs the tip of her right boot along a crack. "It was a last refuge from bandits."

"It is probably closed to explorers. The geological safety of this region is still in question," Combeferre notes. "There is a threat, however slight, of liquefaction occurring in some areas near the river."

"I thought that was in case of earthquakes," Florence points out as she takes his hand to lead him further into the nave. She stops in her tracks as she catches sight of a sharply dressed gentleman with wire-rimmed glasses. "I've seen him before," she mutters.

Combeferre does a double take just to ensure the identity of this person. "That is the Minister of Trade and Commerce, Mr. Magnussen," he says. Just mentioning the name of this man has him feeling as if his skin is going to crawl. "I've seen him in some fundraising events at Saint-Michel."

Florence surreptitiously glances at this personage who is now admiring a stained glass window. "He also is a distinguished guest at the university," she adds. "Fairly often, I will admit."

The thin tone to Florence's voice has Combeferre on edge but before he can ask he suddenly sees Magnussen look their way. "Doctor Combeferre, I presume? Professor Johnson as well," Magnussen greets with a slight smile. "This is a charming place for a rendezvous."

"We're revisiting the city's historical markers," Combeferre replies. He nods apologetically when a woman in a lace veil looks up from her prayers just long enough to throw him a reproving glare. "We are disturbing the other churchgoers-"

"Allow me to walk you two out," Magnussen says evenly, but his tone is one that does not brook any contradiction. He accompanies the pair as far the steps on the church's east vestibule, but then he moves now to stand between them and the street. "Now this is far more conducive to conversation, I am sure you would agree," he notes as he looks Combeferre in the face.

"It would still depend on the topic," Florence cuts in as she discreetly takes Combeferre's arm.

"Do you consider acquaintances an indiscreet topic then, Miss Johnson?" Magnussen asks. He straightens out his tie before casually leaning against a rail. "It is interesting that you have renewed your acquaintance with Percy and Marguerite Blakeney."

"It is only because we have a mutual friend who was recently in need of care." Combeferre knows better than to deny knowing the pair; any search of old photos would tell anyone otherwise. "It is impossible to ignore old friends in this city."

Magnussen's smile is thin. "Their rescue work is commendable in some measure. However it, especially the debacle with the boy Macky DeWitt has caused serious speculations in important places."

It takes Combeferre a moment to realize that Magnussen is referring to none other than the same boy who his friends met in the diner just a few weeks ago; one look at Florence's wide eyes confirms his guess. "Exactly what speculations?" he asks once he can find his voice.

"Usually accusations of scandal and illegal solicitation are not the Ministry's concern. However the matter has cast much doubt onto some important personages and investments," Magnussen replies as he takes a step, resting his hand near Florence's. "This is a very costly hindrance."

Florence hisses as she jerks away and her grip tightens on Combeferre's arm. "This should be the concern of their lawyers then, not your department," she hisses.

"Are you suddenly an expert in governance?" Magnussen laces his fingers together as he eyes the pair again. "I would strongly encourage that your friends the Blakeneys, as well as Attorney Enjolras, reconsider meddling in affairs outside of their spheres of influence. The consequences for stubbornness are not particularly rewarding."

Combeferre's teeth are on edge but he manages a nod. "They'll hear of it, surely. Thank you for your time, Mr. Magnussen," he says slowly. He takes a step back towards the church door, taking care to keep Florence close to him. 'Do not let him see your back,' he tells himself all the way till he and Florence are safely inside the church, where they can make a quick exit back towards the square.

Florence is pale and looks as if she'll be sick. She sits on the first bench they find and holds her head in her hands. "There is a reason that the dean of my college likes to call him the Puppeteer," she says between deep breaths. "Now you know."

Combeferre pulls her closer and rubs her back. "Do you need anything, Flor?"

Florence sits up straight and looks over her shoulder. "Just get us out of here." She taps his shoulder to call his attention to where Magnussen is now standing at the church's door. "I don't think you should get your phone now...he's probably figuring who you'll call."

Combeferre feels his stomach twist when Magnussen waves to them before walking to a sleek black sedan on the other side of the square. "It's time to go for some ice cream," Combeferre finally says when he can find his voice again.

Florence's jaw drops again. "Ice cream?"

"An old cure from intern days," Combeferre explains as he slings his arm around Florence's shoulder while they get to their feet. 'We'll need a whole gallon then to stave off what he has in store,' he notes. He could almost chide himself for resorting to this old superstition but at this point he's ready to take anything to ward off the chill that Magnussen's appearance has brought.

Fortunately for them there is an ice cream parlor three blocks away, and from here a relatively straightforward route back to Florence's apartment. Much to Combeferre's amazement, the once cluttered space is now spacious, owing to the fact that nearly everything is now in boxes. "We're not moving to our new place for two more days," he reminds her as they sit on her now bare sofa bed.

"Two more days which I know you'll spend throwing all your things into crates," Florence says nonchalantly as she opens up the gallon of cookie dough ice cream and sticks two spoons in. "I'm making my life easier."

Combeferre grins as he extricates a large gob of ice cream and shoves it into his mouth. The sickly sweetness is invigorating in a strange way. "I have to warn Enjolras, Eponine, Marguerite, and Percy," he finally says as he brings out his phone to send a message.

"Karen as well," Florence supplies as she watches him texting. "She's the major hand behind that takedown. Speaking of which, I must say I like her very much. Not sure about the other guys, I heard there's trouble on that front."

"What front?" Combeferre asks, now picking up his spoon again.

"I heard from Chetta, who of course heard from the guys that Feuilly and Bahorel had some words over Karen," Florence explains before getting another spoonful of ice cream. "If I didn't know any better I'd think Feuilly was jealous."

The thought nearly has Combeferre choking on his latest serving of ice cream. "Feuilly has always seen himself as Bahorel's personal brake. Don't judge him."

"Hey, I know what's going on. It's just that those who don't know them as well may think something different..." Florence trails off before shaking her head. "It's only a misunderstanding. They're old enough to clear it up among themselves."

'Old enough to understand that nothing is forever,' Combeferre would like to think. Maybe he can't be the best judge of the matter, but he has the feeling now that Karen is certainly that needed change in the wind. Suddenly he gets the feeling that they are all years older than they were yesterday or two weeks ago.

Combeferre goes to the window to open it for some much needed air, and that's when he sees the black sedan slowly drive by the curb. His hand tightens on the sill as he watches the car seemingly come to a stop for a few moments before speeding off down the street. "We have to go now," he whispers as he slowly shuts the window.

Florence slams the lid of the ice cream container. "He followed us, didn't he?"

"Yes."

"We can't go to your place then."

Combeferre nods as he follows her to her closet in order to help her throw her remaining clothes and effects into a suitcase. "We may as well move your other things then,' he tells Florence.

Florence pauses in the middle of folding up some clothes. "What about yours?"

"They'll have to wait." Right now there are more urgent things to do such as warning his friends of this latest development, and then actually relocating to another apartment, not too far from here. He can do without his own things for a while, for as long as he can be sure that Florence will be safe.

It's nearly evening by the time they stop driving around the city, and they make their way up to their large three room apartment on the top floor of a new apartment complex. They have nothing there, but when Florence holds out her hand to him, he's only too glad to sink beside her to the floor.

It's morning again when Combeferre wakes to the feel of Florence still dozing in his arms, as well as the beeping of his phone receiving yet another message. "Are we late for work?" Florence groans as she buries her nose in his shoulder.

Combeferre blinks blearily at the message. "Not yet. Ramen night tonight though."

"It's Monday."

"There's news. You know how the grapevine goes. Everyone is in on the loop now, so now everyone has to be on their guard too."