"Are you going to marry Grantaire, 'Ponine?" Azelma asked one day as the sisters walked home from his flat, hands clasped and swinging in between them.
Éponine started and her head snapped over to Azelma. The latter was gazing up at her innocently.
"Of course not," Éponine replied with a laugh. "He's my friend."
"You can't marry your friend?"
Éponine pursed her lips. "Mm. Not really, no."
"How come?"
Éponine frowned. She didn't know how to explain it to her younger sister — but she'd read enough of the romance novels her mother kept in hoards about the house to know that that wasn't how it worked.
"I dunno, 'Zelma," she said, shrugging. "But anyway, I'm in love with Monsieur Marius, remember? And Grantaire's in love with… well, nevermind."
Azelma cocked an eyebrow. "I think Grantaire's in love with you."
Éponine's eyes narrowed. "Don't be silly."
"I'm not! He acts like he loves you."
Éponine opened her mouth, but then closed it. Her glare softened a little. "He does love me," she acknowledged. "Just not like that."
"Not like what?"
She smiled, somewhat condescendingly. "When you're older, you'll understand."
Azelma huffed and stuck her bottom lip out in a pout. A moment later, however, her face broke into a delighted grin.
"Maybe when I'm older I'll marry Grantaire," she declared enthusiastically.
Éponine rolled her eyes. "Sure, 'Zelma. You do that."