Chapter 13 - Are You the One That I've Been Waiting For?

"So you see, Inspector, we're very worried for them both."

Javert nodded as he took another sip of tea.

"I understand, Madame."

Monsieur Julius took his wife's hand and squeezed it tight. Jocelyn reached for her handkerchief again and dabbed at her eyes.

Perhaps it was a mistake, coming back to Provins. But if Javert had been asked to explain the path of action that had brought him here, he'd struggle to relay it.

The first few weeks of his time in Paris had gone by in a blur. He'd patrolled the streets on his beat, he'd torn apart fighting drunkards, he'd arrested whores for soliciting in the streets, he'd thrown petty pickpockets in a crowded jail cell for the night… It all seemed rather tedious to him. No different than the other law enforcement jobs he'd performed elsewhere in the country. Somehow he'd expected more of Paris. The capital. The jewel in France's crown.

There'd not even been a breath of this supposed student uprising that the Préfet had alluded to on his first day. And no one would talk to him, as he'd yet to build up a network of informants.

It had been a slow and monotonous grind. Learning the streets, arresting the unfortunates stupid enough to get in his way, waiting for a revolution that didn't seem to exist.

And each night, when he went to bed in his chambers in the barracks, he thought of her.

Not even in the void of sleep was he truly alone. He would see her face, hear her laughter and feel the soft whisper of her touch.

Somehow, he could not sever her from his mind. She was an addiction that he could not kick. He wished that he could have somehow had more memories of her, then at least he wouldn't keep playing the same two encounters in his mind again and again and again… Javert must have replayed the words that passed between them, at that ball and in that rose garden, a thousand times as he stared up at the ceiling of his chambers.

And what else was there to do, in those silent hours of the night, than to picture her saddened face, her distraught face, so full of tears, the last time he had left her.

He was a man of the Law. He was meant to offer assistance and help to those who needed it. And he had left her crying in the convent.

That was what didn't sit right with him. It was like a thorn in his brain. He couldn't rest at night, knowing that all he had left her with was his handkerchief. Not safety, not security, not protection from whatever had hurt her…

Night after sleepless night, this went on. In the days, he would pound the streets of Paris in a sort of comatose, and at night he would stare up at his canopy, unable to sleep.

He would hide from her memory in the swing of his truncheon or the roar of his commands. But when night fell, and all he wanted to do was fall into an exhausted sleep, he couldn't.

His peace was gone, his world was lost in shadow, and he was caught in this never-ending trap.

Was she a succubus from hell? Visiting him in his nightmares to torment him in the darkness. Or was she an angel from heaven? Giving him just the slightest taste of paradise in his miserable, empty life?

Either way, whatever she was, it didn't matter. It had shone a light on his joyless and vacant life. And now her shadow had been cast across it, there was no going back.

And so, when he had been granted a few days leave, he had taken his horse and ridden for Provins.

He could dress it up however he liked: a ride in the country, a patrol of the perimeters, a visit to his previously accommodating hosts. But in his heart he knew why he felt compelled to return to Provins:

It was for Grace.

And so, here he was, sitting in the drawing room of Jocelyn and Julius's Chateau. Only to find that she wasn't here at all…

"Did…did she leave any note? Or any hint at all of where they might have gone?" He asked Jocelyn cautiously.

"None. I had Artemida turn her room upside down. But nothing." She said, a tremble in her voice.

Julius shook his head in solemn agreement.

"The house is so empty." Jocelyn said, taking a turn about the room and wandering over to the Pleyel. "It's so quiet without Grace here." She added, running a hand over the lid.

But suddenly, without warning, Jocelyn's gentle hands fumbled and the lid of the piano slammed shut.

"Oh!" She exclaimed. "Clumsy me."

Javert flinched, the noise igniting something primal and old in him. Every hair along the length of his arm stood to attention and he fought hard to fight down a shiver in front of his hosts.

It was too much like gunfire. It was too much like the desert.

But he fought down his panic and tried to compose himself. He dared not display any hint of weakness. He hated that he even had one to begin with. And this wound ran deep and old.

"We expected this from Marcelin…" Julius grumbled, his voice firm. "…but not from Grace."

He swallowed hard. Clearly neither of his hosts had noticed his distress.

"But you…" he said, stopping to clear his voice of the tight crack in his throat. "But you strongly suspect that she went with him?"

"Who else? Both of them were gone with the morning light." Jocelyn said, resuming her seat on the couch before him and dabbing her eyes again.

"But had your son not returned to you, on the night of the soirée? Why leave so abruptly if he had only just come back?"

"He…Marcelin was…" Julius began shakily. "He came back to ask us for money. And I'm afraid…we had quite a bit of an argument about it."

"Money for what?"

"Money for… his revolution, Inspector."

Javert's eyes widened a fraction. There it was: the student uprising that the Préfet had alluded to. And the Enjolras boy was apparently caught up in the middle of it. But as he felt a stir or excitement in him, the thrill of the chase, Jocelyn and Julius both shared a look of hopelessness between them.

"I see." Javert said, trying not to sound too excited. "And Grace shares his beliefs?"

"Not that we were aware of!" Jocelyn exclaimed. "For all I knew, they'd shared one conversation, maybe two, before they both left in the middle of the night together!"

Javert thought for a moment, remembering when he'd seen the two of them arm in arm, walking through the streets of Provins. It made his blood boil with jealousy to even think of this question, but he had to ask it regardless…

"Have you considered the possibility that the two of them may have…eloped together?"

Jocelyn laughed and covered her mouth with her hankie.

Javert blinked at her in surprise.

"I couldn't force Marcelin to look at a woman when I was trying to find him a wife!" She exclaimed.

"You mean…you don't think…?"

"What my wife means, Inspector, is that Marcelin's sights have always been focussed on much…loftier things than marriage." Julius chimed in swiftly.

Javert raised an eyebrow at his host, but did not question it further. Clearly they knew their son, and they did not have reason to suspect that Grace might have disgraced herself with him.

"Do you still pay your son's allowance?" He asked eventually.

"Yes. Monthly. I couldn't bring myself to completely cut him loose." Jocelyn said with a sad shake of her head. "And I'm informed that he still collects it from the bank."

"Then surely finding them both is easy." The Inspector said brusquely. "Follow the money and you'll find the man."

"Well, yes, but… Paris is a huge city, Inspector." Julius sighed exasperatedly. "We only know where he'll be at one small moment during the course of a whole month! And once Marcelin collects his allowance, he can disappear back into Montmartre without a soul to mark him."

"And that's why you turning up at our door was such good fortune, Inspector." Jocelyn added hopefully.

"Me, Madame?"

"Paris is your realm. You must know every Rue and Avenue as intimately as the back of your hand. If anyone could find them, you could."

Javert sighed to himself. Searching for one man and one woman in a whole city of people was just short of an impossible task. Especially someone who didn't want to be found.

"Please, Inspector. It's Grace I worry for." Jocelyn said quietly.

The mention of her name made Javert's skin prickle. He locked eyes with Jocelyn and he caught something of a knowing look in her eyes.

"Please. I saw whatever it was that passed between the two of you at the soirée." She said gently.

Javert's face erupted into a fierce blush. "Madame, I don't know what you-"

"If you care for her…even a fraction of how much we care for her, then you'll help us find them." Jocelyn uttered, reaching out and clutching Javert's hand. "Grace doesn't know this world the way Marcelin does. Marcelin threw his lot in with the Montmartre sort a long time ago now, but Grace is new to it all. She was so lost, so sorrowful when she first came to us… And sometimes, she doesn't seem to understand how this world works. But just to know that you have seen her would be enough. Then you could tell me…you could tell us both…that she's alright. And we'd be assuaged."

Javert looked long and hard into the woman's face. He glanced at Julius too, poised supportively at her side and waiting for the Inspector's reply also.

Of course he wanted to find Grace, not just for his benefit but for hers too. Knowing that she was somewhere out in those lawless slums that he'd been policing turned his stomach. But at the same time, he was ashamed to admit that it excited him too. She had been close, all this time. In Paris all this time! Perhaps he had ridden past her or walked just a street away from her and never known. But once he'd found her, would he be able to return her to a place of safety? Or would he be forced to watch as something damaging irreversible happened to her?

"I'll find them." Javert said firmly.

Jocelyn almost wept for joy.

"But if I find that their actions are in violation of the law, then I cannot put their safety above my duty."

"Of course. We understand." Julius nodded. "Thank you, Inspector."

With that, Javert stood to his feet. He felt it best to leave this Chateau before he promised away anything else. He'd already agreed to too much, and he knew it. It was unprofessional of him to do personal favours for anybody, especially for rich middle-class minor nobility like the Enjolras's. If he was proud of one thing in his long career as a man of the law, it was that not even the faintest whiff of the word 'corruption' had ever been attributed to him.

As Julius and Jocelyn bade him farewell, his mind was already set to working. He rode his horse up the gravel drive, thinking of all the methods of tracking and surveillance that he might use to find Marcelin and Grace.

They might be going by false names, so it was useless just asking about for those individuals. The people of Montmatre hated the police with a passion, so asking them to come forward and present themselves to the Prefecture would be fruitless. The unfortunates who lived in the slums and derelict houses of the city closed ranks the instant a policeman came asking after somebody in particular. And despite the excitement that he'd felt earlier, Paris was a city with over half a million people in it… he could spend the rest of his life walking the streets and never once bump in to either of them.

Hopelessness pulled at his previously hard heart. As he rode out of Provins, his mood turned bitter and sharp. Perhaps it would serve him better to think about Grace and Marcelin as fugitives on the run? He'd always struggled to let people of this nature go… he knew that for certain…

There had been a fugitive, many years ago, that he'd been hunting for…

He shook his head violently. Remembering anything about that sorry state of affairs was an embarrassment to him.

He let the countryside ride past him as he trotted on his horse. It was late harvest now, and the men worked the fields bringing in the corn and barley. There was a chill in the air. Winter was coming.

Again his guts twisted as he pictured Grace out in the streets of Paris with the winter weather approaching. The feeling was foreign to him; he wasn't used to feeling sympathy for anybody. It was a useless emotion that had been beaten out of him early.

There were women working the fields too. Collecting in the crop and giggling merrily in groups, casting a nervous eye up his way as he rode past them. Many of them had rosy cheeks and crooked smiles. One of them had a baby strung across her back as she bent low to cut the barley with a sickle.

Perhaps women like this could survive a winter in Paris. But women of the upper classes? Women like Grace?

Camille would rather have died than spend one minute in the fields. She would rather have given up everything of him, rather than spend a minute in a class that was beneath her.

He couldn't help his mind from falling down that avenue. He had rarely permitted himself to remember it, as it was too painful for even someone as cold as him to stomach.

All this talk of women and worries.

All of this recent reminiscing and remembering he'd been doing.

It was going to come to this eventually.

That night when he'd lost the first real joy he'd known in his life.

Froid's consumption had progressed alarmingly fast.

The sheets around him were flecked with blood and spittle. Coughing up more each time he hacked and spluttered.

The room smelt like laudanum and sweat. And that awful carbolic soap that Froid had made him use every day under his roof.

But Javert had sat by his bedside for three days straight when the doctor had told him the end was close. He'd listened to the last struggled breaths his mentor had taken. Dutifully wiped the blood from the corners of his mouth and propped his back up against his hard pillows.

Even when Froid had died, he'd stayed with him until the undertakers had carried him away.

From start to end, the old man had been ill for perhaps six months. Efficient. Quick. No nonsense. Just how Froid would have liked it.

And he'd died with the required amount of pain and punishment. A self-flagellant to the end, was Froid.

Javert remembered those blood-flecked sheets, the air thick with the acrid smell of opioids, even the emptiness of the bed in front of him as he'd stared down at the space where his master had once occupied. He could never quite bring himself to refer to him as his adoptive father. That would be too sweet for Froid. But nevertheless, he felt an absence where the man who had saved him from the prison had been.

"I think I found it." a small voice said at the bedroom door.

Javert roused himself and took a long stride towards the lawyer's clerk.

The man was bespectacled and small. A classic working gentleman. In his hands, he held a sealed envelope and Javert's eyes darted straight to it.

"It took me quite a while to go through all of the paperwork I found in Monsieur Froid's office, but it was there. With the deed to this property."

Javert nodded. Soon after his master's death, men had come knocking to enquire after the Will, the deeds, the money… All he could do was point them in the general direction of where Froid might have hidden all of that sort of stuff. Not once had Froid ever discussed those sorts of issues with him, and Javert had never thought to ask.

But as the Clerk held the piece of paper out to him, he was suddenly aware of all that it might hold. Camille had often speculated on an inheritance to come.

"Who else is he going to leave his money to?" she had sardonically asked him.

And she was right. There had been no relatives come to visit Froid in his final days. And nobody else had come sniffing for his fortune now he was dead.

Javert took the letter in his hands, still sealed with a blob of red wax. He turned it over in his palms a few times as the Clerk watched him closely.

They had not spoken much in his last days. Froid couldn't say much, really. But what might he have said to Froid if he'd felt able to bid him a proper goodbye? He might have asked why he had chosen him, out of all the unfortunate children in France. He might have asked why he'd never been shown even a scrap of affection when he was a child in this house. He might have asked why Froid had disliked Camille so much, even though she was the only thing that made him happy.

But all that would have to go unanswered. Forever now.

Still, he broke the wax seal with something akin to bubbling anxiety. The Clerk watched him carefully, scrutinising every move he made. Javert realised that he was clearly there to ensure that he didn't destroy the documents or lie about their contents. Froid must have employed him to execute his Will in the years before his death. Javert paused and looked up into his pointed face. He was making him nervous.

The letter burst open in a cascade of cream paper and scratched black ink. For a man of Froid's age and means, at first glance, it appeared quite compact..

"Would you like me to tell you what it says? Or can you read, boy?" the Clerk asked gently.

"I can read, sir." he said with a swallow.

His eyes darted over the Will, growing large as the moments passed.

"Well, read it aloud boy!" The Clerk said animatedly.

Javert looked up with a bewildered look and swallowed hard.

"Umm…" he began, trying to find his voice. "I Honore R. Froid of the city of Caen do hereby make my Last will and Testament in manner and form following that is to say. I request that my body may be interred in the cemetery of Saint John with as Little parade as possible, and in the presence of none but the Priest and-"

"Skip forwards a bit, boy! Get to his assets!"

Javert ground his jaw tight and bit back his annoyance.

"To my dutiful ward, the boy known as 'Javert', I give and bequeath for his sole and exclusive use my prize horse, Vendetta-"

"The horse! Ha! A good start, I suppose. What else?"

"All remaining parts of my estate, not herein otherwise disposed of, I leave to the city of Caen, to either be sold with immediate effect or kept in trust for other purposes."

The Clerk went quiet. His mouth opened and closed like a fish.

"In Testimony of all which I have hereunto set my hand and seal this 21st day of March 18-"

"That's it?!"

Javert didn't quite know what to say. He's just stated plainly the contents of Froid's Will. Did he want him to repeat it?

"He left you the horse?!"

"Yes, sir."

"And that is all?!"

"I believe so, Sir."

The Clerk shook his head and sighed deeply. "Everything else…donated to the city of Caen. All that wealth…" he paused for a moment, looking around the bedroom. "…given away."

Javert was still processing what he had just read… and a smile bloomed across his face.

"Are you quite alright, boy?" The Clerk asked.

"Thank you, Sir. I must be going now."

He made for the door, almost running to be out of there.

"Boy?! Boy!" The Clerk called after him, but he did not stop.

He took Vendetta from the stables, ignoring the bite of protest that the horse gave him, rode him into the streets… and did not stop for breath until he was outside of Camille's father's estate.

It took a while for him to stash Vendetta in the stables. To keep himself hidden as he approached the house. To not alert the valet to his presence as he threw stones against Camille's window.

Eventually he saw the orange glow of candlelight behind the glass. The window swung open and there was his beloved's face, peering down at him through the gloom of early dusk.

She was dressed in her nightshirt, her hair loose and long. That black hair, so dark and inky against the stark white of her outfit, made her look ethereal and startling.

"What are you doing?!" She hissed in a whisper.

The wind roared around her and pressed the nightshirt close to her body. Javert's desire stirred as he glimpsed the mound of her breasts underneath the white fabric.

"I thought we agreed next Wednesday?"

"Come down!" He hissed back, trying to keep his voice low. "The Clerk found the old man's Will!"

Even in the semi-darkness, he saw Camille's eyes bulge with greed.

"I'll be ten minutes. Meet me at the folly ruins."

Javert smirked and receded back into the shadows.

He made his way to the Greek ruins in the estate's ground, just as he had been instructed, and waited patiently. He paced up and down the crumbling columns, almost shaking with excitement.

As night fell, and the moon illuminated the stone pillars, Camille finally appeared.

She approached with her cloak hood drawn tight around her head, shivering in the cold night air. Her teeth chattered and she cast Javert a slight look of annoyance.

"My maid thought that there was a branch tapping against the window." She grumbled. "I had to pretend to faint and ask her to get me a glass of water to stop her investigating the racket you made!"

Javert seemed not to heed her. He scooped her up into his arms, whirling her around and laying a fiery kiss on her mouth. Camille squealed and tried to push him away.

"What on earth is the matter with you?!" She squeaked.

But Javert laughed in reply and kissed her again.

"So…it's good news then?" She asked breathlessly, when he'd released her from his mouth.

"The best."

Camille's eyes flashed with that animalistic quality that he'd seen at their first meeting. She smelled blood.

"How much then?" She asked. "The house? The fortune? All of it?!"

"Nothing."

Camille's face fell.

She looked at him with an expression of dread.

He looked at her with an expression of love.

"What?"

"He left me nothing." Javert repeated. "Well…That hellspawn horse. And that's it."

"The horse?" She said flatly.

"Everything else has been dedicated to the city of Caen."

"And you're happy about that?!" Camille said through gritted teeth.

There was enough anger in her voice to make him pause. His smile slowly faded too and he took her in. Her clenched fists, her hard face, her vague snarl of disgust…

"But…don't you see?" Javert asked. "This means…we're free. I'm free of him!"

"Free?!" Camille scoffed.

"Yes! I don't want his money. I never wanted any of his money." Javert said hurriedly. "And me and you, we don't have to be beholden to him any longer."

He took a step towards her, making a grab for her hands.

"Camille…we can be married tomorrow now, if we want!"

She snatched her hands from out of his. The sudden movement was like a whip-crack of pain to his heart.

"You fool. You damnable fool!" She grumbled. "You don't understand, do you…"

"I…I understand that I love you. And I don't have to listen to that monster's demands any more. He can't control me anymore. He can't control us anymore!"

Camille began pacing up and down the ruins, grinding her teeth together.

"Camille, aren't you…pleased?"

"Pleased?!" She roared. "Why would I be pleased that you're now a penniless pauper?!"

He felt like he'd just been run through with a bayonet.

"I… I don't…"

"I wouldn't even have entertained you as a promising suitor, had it not been for the fortune I was sure you were going to inherit."

He felt his heart cracking inside him. The heart that he hadn't even known he'd had until Camille had looked his way.

"The gentlemen I turned down!" She moaned, flapping her arms exasperatedly. "All because I was waiting for you! Waiting for Froid to die! My father was furious with me when I snubbed that cotton-merchant from Nice!"

"My love…" he croaked out. "Please…please don't say these things." He touched a gentle hand to her face and stroked her pale cheek. "We could go away… tonight! We could find a Priest and pledge ourselves to each other forever."

"And then what?" She spat, stepping out of his touch. "Condemn us both to a life of misery? Live in some hovel? Bring the pigs inside with us in the winter so they won't freeze? Eek out the turnip soup each night with a bit more liquid, until it's nothing but piss-water?!"

"You told me that you needed me…" he said thickly. "That you hungered for me… That you'd die without me!"

Camille scoffed and shook her head.

"You gave yourself entirely to me! And I to you!" He shouted, tears welling in his eyes.

"Be quiet, you fool!" She growled, glancing round the deserted ruins. "No gentleman will have me if it gets out I'm spoiled goods."

"Camille, stop it…" he whispered, tears on his cheeks.

"And spoiled, no less, by a gypsy waif."

"Stop it!" He cried.

The knife twisted deeper, cutting out all feelings of warmth and trust and happiness inside him. In their place was left stone and pain.

He looked up at Camille with eyes that saw her differently now. He saw her cruelty, her greed, her opportunism. Everything that he'd ever hoped to want for him and Camille fell apart beneath his eyes.

The two of them stood in silence for a long moment. Camille tapped her foot impatiently. Javert took deep breath after deep breath as he pushed that new pain down into place inside him. It took him a while to compose himself, but he did. And when he placed that mask of cold indifference on his face, he had no idea just how long it would remain there.

"I suppose that this means that we are to part ways then, Madame." He said dispassionately.

Camille merely nodded. "And may I presume that you will be… discreet about the nature of our relationship, Sir?"

"You mean you don't want me telling anyone that I fucked you?"

Her palm cracked hard across his face.

He hadn't been expecting it, and the force of her slap made him see stars.

"If you do, I will make sure that everybody in decent society knows what you are!" Camille spat into his face. "The son of a convict. Gypsy scum. Gutter garbage. You will never work amongst decent people for as long as you live, I'll make sure of it."

He bit back the angry tears. Puffing out irate breaths through his nose like an enraged bull.

Everything that he had believed about himself, every awful thing that he'd seen in himself, Camille had seen it all too.

The world seemed to be spinning too fast. He felt sick to his core, but also cold.

That coldness seems to spread inside him. Until it had filled every crevice and corner of him. Around his chest, around his heart, where all that warmth and love had once been.

He did not wish to punish himself further. He turned and left Camille in the Greek ruins, the pain of heartbreak weighing heavy on his shoulders.

And that was the last time he saw her.

Javert had spent the whole ride back to Paris in miserable recollection of that night.

The last he'd heard of Camille, she'd married one of her father's associates and had gone to London to sell false diamonds to the English. But that news had reached him many years after he'd left Caen. He'd taken Vendetta that night and ridden to the next large town, hoping to escape the pain in his heart.

He'd ended up running to the other side of the world, trying to escape it.

Funny. He thought, as he made his way back into Paris. I fled all the way to Egypt, trying to outrun a woman. And now here I am again, back in France, searching for another woman entirely…

Grace was toying softly with the beaten-up piano in the Cafe d'ABC.

It was early morning, so the rest of the Amis wouldn't be here just yet. Sleeping off hangovers and pushing last night's conquests out of their beds, no doubt.

She tended to rise early, get out of the shared lodgings that she and Enjolras kept. It was a simple room. Small and smelling of damp. Somehow they'd managed to salvage another bed from the landlady. So they slept separate, with Grace's bed pushed up against the window and Enjolras' on the other side of the room. It was too tiny to really give due credit to modesty and privacy, but Enjolras had managed to string up a curtain of sorts in the middle of the room. Purple fabric, with too many holes in it to really be useful, but Grace appreciated the gesture.

She would lie in her bed at night, listening to the soft sounds of Enjolras sleeping on the other side of the curtain, and glimpse the stars up in the sky outside of her window. The days were full of planning and laughter with the Amis, the nights were full of drinking and singing songs in the Cafe, and she slept well when the wind wasn't blowing in through the bedroom window or the sound of the rats scraping away at the mortar in the walls didn't keep her up. All in all, it had been a good couple of months.

Still, she couldn't help but feel that Enjolras wasn't the great promise of 'a story' that perhaps she'd originally hoped. He barely had time for her. She was lucky if Enjolras pried his eyes off of maps and ledgers and pamphlets for long enough to look her way. And whatever the Story Teller had in mind for her, she wasn't going to find some great love story with Enjolras.

It was clear to her, pretty instantly, that Enjolras wasn't interested in women. At least, not in the way the other Amis d'ABC were. Enjolras' great love was the Revolution. He seemed almost laughably oblivious to the flirting and flaunting of the girls who would come round the cafe in the evening, only to be led away in distress by Combeferre or Courfeyrac. They were all too happy to pick up the pieces though and would often be seen by Grace taking that same girl to their bed at the end of the night…

So, she felt at a bit of a loose end. Perhaps the Story Teller had been lying to her all along, and Enjolras was just a red herring in this strange world that she'd fallen into.

Money was tight. Enjolras had to try and stretch his meagre allowance to provide for two people now. The landlady was now charging him double, even though they were still only occupying the one room. She said that if there were two people under her roof, then he had to pay twice…which he hadn't argued with. But that left very little for the realities of day to day living: Food, clothing, and anything else.

Grace didn't complain. How could she? She'd begged Enjolras to bring her here and place her at the heart of his revolution. But she always felt hungry, and her bedsheets always smelt of damp mildew.

And yet, she'd never felt happier…

Well, in 1831.

She had a reason to get up in the morning. A reason to put on her clothes. The troubles that had plagued her before in 2023 seemed poultry and meagre compared to now. She had friends and acquaintances that made her laugh until her sides hurt and drink until her vision would spin.

And even if Enjolras had turned out to be a bit of a dead-end, she kept her eyes peeled for those other people that she felt the inexplicable draw of 'the story' to.

The winter was drawing in. She wanted to start playing Christmas tunes soon. But not quite yet. So, she'd been giving the empty cafe some old songs to comfort her. Bohemian Rhapsody, Imagine, Bridge Over Troubled Water…She cycled through her memory, trying to remember all the songs that she'd played for the punters back home in pubs and wedding venues. The popular, cliche hits that would have everybody singing along.

She'd almost been annoyed every time someone had requested one of these songs, slurred and drunk, at the tail end of the reception or with ten minutes until last orders. Now, they were her little reminder of home. A secret that only she knew about.

"I like that one. What's it called?" A voice suddenly called out to her.

She wheeled around to see Eponine standing in the doorway of the cafe, leaning quietly against the doorframe with a sly smile on her face.

Eponine. Dear Eponine. With the heralding of that gentle, tragic music. Another person in 1831 that she felt 'the draw' to.

"Uhh… Handel's symphony number 33 in… c major."

It wasn't. It had been Someone Like You.

"Hmm. I don't know it." Eponine shrugged. "Then again, I don't know anything about music. Music is for you posh lot, not gutter-snipes like me."

"If it weren't for a 'gutter-snipe' like you, I would have been robbed half a dozen times in this city."

And it was true. Eponine had rather taken her under her wing since their first meeting in that dark and putrid alleyway. Eponine had a way of sensing when someone was in trouble or needed help, and she had sniffed out Grace's bewilderment like a bloodhound. The two of them often went walking together, along the banks of the Seine or up and down the boulevards of the city at night. When the boys got too rowdy and the cafe too noisy, Eponine would scoop her up and take her for a stroll, where they would talk about a broad and colourful spectrum of things until the dawn light came.

Eponine laughed and waltzed into the cafe. "True. And then who would I have to play me your posh music?"

Grace laughed too as Eponine sat beside her on the piano stool.

"Play something for me."

Grace thought for a moment and stared at the piano keys. She'd already tempted fate by playing modern songs out in the open for anyone to hear. She stretched her fingers over the ivory and flexed.

Gently, she tapped out the first few notes of Fur Elise.

"No, I've heard that one before!" Eponine suddenly exclaimed. "Play me something new. Like the last thing you played."

Grace frowned and stared at her friend. Something about what Eponine had just said didn't feel quite right to her.

"What's your favourite song?" Eponine asked, before Grace could put a finger on why she felt odd.

"Oh, God…" she sighed, thinking through her mental rolodex of songs. "Umm…Depends what mood I'm in."

"Well, what mood are you in now?"

"Homesick." Grace sighed, dusting a speck off one of the black keys.

She was always homesick. Her mind automatically focused on the satchel that she had hung at her side. These days she had it sewn to the lining of her coat to prevent another thief from stealing it. She could almost feel the press of her phone against her ribs and in her mind's eye she could picture those photographs of her Mum and the ever-dwindling battery life.

50%, as of last night.

"Alright, play me a song that reminds you of home."

A lump formed in Grace's throat. Suddenly that rolodex cleared and a song came to the forefront of her mind. Her Mum didn't tend to have much music on in the house, despite having produced a musician daughter. But there had been one time, when Grace had been back up in the Lakes for Christmas, that she'd caught her stepdad and her Mum having a dance in the kitchen to this song. Slow and loving. And it had warmed up every little bit of her. She'd cleared her throat rather theatrically and they'd both gone red-faced and embarrassed, but Grace had insisted that they carry on with a three-way waltz to this tune. They'd laughed and giggled their way through it, arms around one another.

Grace's eyes went a bit misty as she positioned her hands over the keys.

But she cast one last look back at Eponine. The song rather suited her too. A strange magnetic force that had drawn one person to another, two strange and opposite people thrust together, . If the Story Teller hadn't used the word 'Him', she might have been tempted to think it was Eponine who she was meant to find all along.

It was a gentle and delicate tune. As soft as an angel's whisper. A little plangent and mournful, but beautiful in its simplicity.

"I've felt you coming, girl, as you drew near

I knew you'd find me, 'cause I longed you here"

"What does that mean?" Eponine asked.

"Do you want to hear the song or not?!"

"Sorry. Sorry…"

"Are you my destiny?

Is this how you'll appear?

Wrapped in a coat with tears in your eyes?

Well, take that coat, babe, and throw it on the floor"

"Ahh." Eponine said with a smile of understanding.

"Are you the one that I've been waiting for?"

She played, letting the chiming keys of the piano ring out in the silence of the cafe for a wonderful moment whilst Eponine listened with bated breath.

"Out of sorrow entire worlds have been built

Out of longing great wonders have been willed

They're only little tears, darling, let them spill

And lay your head upon my shoulder"

Grace glanced up and stared out of the Cafe window.

"Outside my window, the world has gone to war

Are you the one that I've been waiting for?"

"That is a beautiful melody…" sighed a voice behind Grace and Eponine.

Grace abruptly stopped playing, not instantly recognising the voice who had spoken.

"Marius!" Eponine exclaimed, jumping to her feet with a broad smile.

Eponine dashed forwards to envelop him in a vigorous hug, and Grace was left staring at the gentleman in the doorway.

His smile was sweet, his cheeks full and rosy. He picked up Eponine with two strong arms that swung her about the room as he laughed. He was so like the others of the Amis d'ABC, in that his youth took Grace by surprise. But Marius looked little better than a boy. Eighteen or nineteen, perhaps, with wispy whiskers on his cheeks and the sparkle of someone who had not known much pain in life in his eyes.

But upon hearing his name aloud, that sorrowful, heart-wrenching tune played in Grace's mind. Like a grief that could not be put into words…

A grief that can't be spoken… Grace suddenly thought.

Her mind ignited into fire again. Again, she felt like she'd inadvertently trespassed somewhere where she shouldn't have gone.

But she blinked her way through the pain, latching on to those words that she'd slipped past the wall.

A grief that can't be spoken…

She looked down at the piano keys, mentally mapping out the notes that sounded out in her head.

A (There's), A (A), B (Grief) , A (That), G (Can't), F (Be), F (Spo-), E (-ken)

But the happy and vibrant man in front of her was as far away from the dour and melancholy melody in Grace's head as you could get.

"Oh, 'ponine, I missed you!" he sighed, embracing her again.

Grace tilted her head and studied Marius carefully. Was this the 'Him' that the Story Teller alluded to?

But then again, the story Teller had also said that she'd already met her mysterious 'Him' by that day in the convent rose garden. And this Marius, whoever he was, had only just waltzed into her life.

But something else made her pause for thought and hang back from the meeting. Eponine's face was aglow. She'd never seen her new friend look quite so… alive. She was all smiles and laughter, when normally she wore an expression of glum practicality. Where once there had been frown-lines and the signs of a hard life of poverty, now there was nothing but pure joy and happiness.

"Was it terrible? The funeral?" Eponine asked him.

"It was…difficult, yes. But also difficult to grieve for the father that I never really knew."

"Pfft! I think I'd rather have no father than the one I've got!"

"Well, you clearly make up for whatever charm he lacks, dear 'ponine."

Eponine turned a shade of crimson and giggled.

Giggled.

The girl who had taught her where to avoid if she didn't want to get stabbed, or which streets to steer clear of if she didn't want fish-guts on her boots.

"And who's this, 'ponine?" marius asked, peering over her shoulder straight at Grace.

Grace was suddenly shaken out of her speculative trance.

"Uhh… Romily. Romily Degas." she said, trying to slip seamlessly back into her male persona.

She cleared her throat and adjusted her belt buckle.

"Degas! Courfeyrac wrote and told me all about you! The new recruit?"

Marius thrust out a hand to Grace and she took it in a firm shake. But Grace didn't even have time to muster a reply before Marious had turned back to Eponine, placing his arm around her shoulders.

"I want to know everything that's happened whilst I've been away." he said to her. "Has anyone beaten Bahorel at arm-wrestling yet?"

"Courfeyrac's had a few go's, but he still hasn't caught on to the fact that Bahorel puts weights down his sleeves…"

"Ha! Oh, 'ponine, you notice everything!"

And much like Eponine had seen straight through her disguise, Grae saw straight through hers.

She's in love with him.

"Degas!" Marius called back to her suddenly.

Grace flinched and stood up straight.

"My aunt forced me to accept a few francs from her before I came back to Montmartre." Marius said with a roll of his eyes. "How would you fancy accompanying me and 'ponine' to Saint-Germaine? I know of a wonderful cafe there that serves the best coffee! It is said that Rousseau, Voltaire, even Napoleon himself all supped there!"

"Coffee?" Grace asked, intrigued.

Coffee, she'd begrudgingly discovered, was quite the luxury in the 1830's and her veins cried out for a hit of caffeine in the mornings. And with her newfound state of poverty, it would be a luxury that she could seldom afford. But if someone else was paying for it, then why not…

"Alright. Lead the way, 'ponine." she said, casting her friend a knowing look.

Eponine blanched, slightly taken aback that someone, apart from Marius, was addressing her by that pet-name. Grace flashed her the biggest derisory smile and Eponine glowered at her.