A/N: Thanks again to everyone who reviewed, followed and discussed stuff with me via PM. I bring the next chapter and the next chapter brings trouble.
Thanks to judybear236 for comments
Some more reviews, probably...?
Chapter 25: The roll of thunder in the distance
"Signs, portents, dreams, next thing we'll be reading tea leafs and chicken entrails. All we do know is that we are vulnerable now. We should expect something to be coming our way sooner or later. The way our luck works, it will probably be sooner."
He was the last to wake, and when he did, there was a part of him that was grateful.
The hectic events of the days before had given him uneasy dreams, and even though he still felt tired, wondering how many hours of sleep he had had, he was relieved to escape the images of the girl Éponine, twitching as he stitched up her shoulder, of specters of his friends being attacked and cornered and killed, and of Hélène, ever Hélène, in her bloody nightdress with horror in her eyes.
He sat up with a groan and shook his head in an attempt to clear his less than productive thoughts. This was leading him nowhere. For all the surprise the attacks had been, yesterday evening had been a beam of hope, the unification of the groups of their acquaintance into the council had worked better than he had feared.
In the end, sense had won over with all of them, and that was something to rejoice in. While he was generally loath to accept that from blood new and positive things could be born, one had to admit that Enjolras was partly right in this venture. Without the threat from whatever force was opposing them, a council as they had formed yesterday would have been so much more difficult.
He felt a small smile creeping on his lips. There was beauty in the thought that good was born from evil intent and that darkness might actually in the end provide its own downfall.
The idea was encouraging.
Feeling distinctively more energetic after finding that line of thought, he opened his eyes and assessed the situation around him.
He had spent the night on one of the – granted, uncomfortable - benches on the walls of the Musain. Enjolras, Grantaire and himself had decided to stay here with Feuilly, from sheer exhaustion and unwillingness to chance the trip across Saint Michel to reach Enjolras' apartment.
Grantaire had offered his own lodgings, which were nearer, but Enjolras had predictably refused – probably rightfully so, knowing Grantaire - and so they ended up here, in the Musain, where benches provided an uneasy resting place at best.
Enjolras was already awake, sitting at one of the tables next to the window, gazing out onto Place Saint-Michel with a slightly pensive frown, while Grantaire; surprisingly also up already, had occupied a place further inside the café, where less light was protruding and he could, ill-naturedly, hold his head in his hands with a slightly pitiful groan.
"Water, Grantaire", Combeferre advised from where he was sitting, his voice still slightly rough from sleep as he tried to straighten out his chemise that was rumpled from the night and reached for the waistcoat that he had discarded before lying down. "Lots of it, in fact. And maybe a piece of salt meat."
"Plague of my days", Grantaire grumbled at him without even looking up.
"There is a very simple way to avoid this." Enjolras had turned his head from Place Saint Michel towards the drunkard, his voice as cool as his gaze. He seemed to be rested, despite the little sleep he only could have had and unleashed his haughtiness in all its glory upon Grantaire. "Drink less and you will feel less wretched in the morning."
"Bah", Grantaire supplied, remarkably monosyllabic in sobriety given his normal exuberance in words. Enjolras' gaze slipped away from the drunkard to focus on Combeferre, slightly gaining warmth and humanity.
"Good morning, Combeferre", he issued a greeting and fully turned towards him. It was by his manner that Combeferre realized, that Enjolras was no less tired than he, but he was hiding it better, slipping behind an attitude that was more detached than usual. He had taken the last watch. "Or rather – good day, I fear." There was the hint of a smile around his lips, and he returned it automatically. His hand wandered to the pocket watch tucked away safely in his waistcoat, and looking upon it he found it to be slightly past noon.
"Has he been up long?" Combeferre asked with a nod to Grantaire as he got onto his feet and passed over Enjolras to sit at the same table. His friend had a cup of coffee gone cold in front of him, half drunk and then forgotten in his reverie, and Enjolras shrugged slightly.
"Half an hour maybe", he answered. "Madeleine and Louison are still sleeping, though. Lucien made some coffee before he and Feuilly left."
Before going to sleep, they had supplied some money to Lucien to convince him to drop off Feuilly at work before he went to the market in the morning and to buy the goods needed for another opening day in the Musain. Madeleine and Louison had shared the first watch by cleaning up the café from the assembly, and then woken Combeferre, who then had passed the duty on to Enjolras. Thus, they had survived the night.
"That would not go amiss", Combeferre confessed and got up again, walking towards the bar where a can of now cold coffee stood, including a few cups.
He poured two of them and placed one in front of Grantaire, who gave him a look that ranged somewhere between angry and thankful, before he stepped up to Enjolras' table again and took a seat.
"So what is on the agenda for today?" he asked. Enjolras placed his fingers against each other.
"While we are waiting for the leaflets with the images of the assassins, we should start our own investigations on the nature of our enemies, don't you think? This gypsy family that Stéphane Barilou told us about would be a good start. And to be honest, I would also like to know what happened to the General. I have not heard any news from his Palais since yesterday."
"No news may be good news in that respect", Combeferre tried to supply, but the critical look Enjolras gave him needed no additional words to go with.
"You are the medic", he gave back none the less. "Should you not be able to tell me?"
"There is still very little we know about this disease", Combeferre answered. "The way it spreads defies the theories of what we thought we knew about transmitting diseases. Infection and severity of the disease seem completely random."
He sat down at the table opposite to Enjolras with the cup of almost-cold coffee, taking a sip before he continued.
"It does not seem to spread via contact as other diseases do, and even the idea of miasma does not seem to allow a thorough explanation of its transmission. It seems to, at times, affect only one member of the household – and that is different from most of the epidemics that we have seen in the past, and the paths of contagion are really not clear."
Understandably, these facts had been a much discussed item in the medical lectures as of late; however, as far as Combeferre was concerned, no proof had yet been given to rule out or confirm any of the theories and rumors that were spreading around. Joly, predictably, had creatively contributed to the set of ideas running around, but he was not convinced.
"There is a certain pattern to the mortality", he continued, thinking aloud, "A certain age, weaknesses or previous sickness make it more difficult to recover. It usually takes a few of days, during which the course of the sickness is shaped and the outcome will be determined, but weakened individuals have been known to last as short as a few hours. Therefore…"
A slight chuckle interrupted his lecture, and he could see Enjolras laughing despite himself as he raised his hand to stop the words. Slightly ashamed, Combeferre realized that he had been rambling.
"Enough, my friend, enough", Enjolras interrupted. "The topic is grim enough as it is, I am afraid. What you are trying to tell me is that you do not know, correct?"
Combeferre assessed this briefly and had to confirm that his friend had grasped the heart of the matter.
"We will have to investigate then", he nodded and looked out of the windows again, where the shape of Lucien walked back towards the Café, his hand-cart loaded with goods he had acquired at the market. He did not enter the guest room but took the side entrance into the kitchen, where they heard him rummaging around and probably waking his wife and Lousion, who had likewise decided to stay in the Café and were still asleep.
Combeferre sighed.
That would mean no lectures again, today. If they were keeping up at this rate, serious trouble with respect to their presence at university was to be expected in short time. Yet, to be honest, he felt too tired to even try and put up with Arago's experiments or Dupuytren's dissections.
In companionable – if slightly exhausted – silence, Enjolras and Combeferre sat and watched the comings and goings on Place Saint Michel, where people were going about their daily business, the hustle and bustle of the quarter seemingly unfazed of the hectic events of the two past days.
A few minutes later, though, their reverie was broken as Lucien entered the main room of the café, bringing bread, cheese and some of the first summer apples as a substitution of a thorough breakfast – which the café did not usually serve, given the fact that it usually opened in the early afternoon.
The rules of the café's opening hours of course had not applied to the Friends of the ABC in a long time, and as a result, they had become used to Lucien's impromptu meals.
What was even more appreciated that the Café had – due also to the fairly opinioned nature of its owners – made it a point of keeping a stock of the most renowned journals of Paris, and thus together with breakfast arrived a set of papers, that Lucien placed on the table next to Enjolras and Combeferre to browse through if they felt like it.
Combeferre's gaze registered out of habit the journals present – Le National, L'ami du people and even an edition of Le Figaro; the reading of which was as entertaining as its appearance was irregular – but his hand went without even thinking to the so familiar script and layout that was Le Globe.
He stared at the article on the first page in horror.
"It seems that we will not have to look far for information on the state of health of Lamarque", Enjolras remarked from behind le National, while Combeferre was still digesting the title page of the so familiar newspaper, barely registering what his friend was saying. "Our friends from Le National have taken it upon themselves to report on the general's health."
Combeferre's first thought was that Alexandre would be livid not having had that idea before his competitors took it up, but Alexandre was dead, dead of course, and he could not dream of rising Le Globe to the most read paper in Paris any more.
It took an inhuman effort to tear himself away from the paper he was reading.
"So… what's it saying?" Combeferre managed and took a look at his friend – or better, at the newspaper hiding his face.
"It is vague enough", Enjolras admitted. "Even though it does state that Docteur Bricheteau has been seen to enter the Palais of Lamarque. According to this…" he briefly hesitated as he apparently continued to skim the bulletin that Le National had released , "Bricheteau has not commented himself but he has stayed for a few hours in the Palais. It seems, if this report can be believed, that while the general has indeed been stricken down with Choléra, his condition has not deteriorated as quickly as with some other cases, which seems to carry some hope in itself."
Combeferre's attention had drifted back to the newspaper while Enjolras was speaking, and only by the sudden absence of his friend's voice he realized that some answer was in order.
"Ah", he said, knowing himself that this was probably not an appropriate response, and the reaction followed swiftly.
"Are you even listening?" Enjolras asked, exasperation in his voice, and Combeferre heard the rustling of paper as Enjolras folded Le National back into itself, giving his friend a slightly reprimanding glance. "What is it you are reading anyhow – ah, Le Globe. I should have guessed." He seemed to debate internally for a moment, but then, coming to a decision, he placed aside his own newspaper and looked at his friend, with a mixture of annoyance and curiosity.
"So, what is it that commands your attention so?"
Combeferre felt himself utterly at loss to explain and as an alternative placed the newspaper flat on the table and turned it half around, so that Enjolras might have a look himself.
The leader of the ABCs fell silent, blonde brows rising slowly.
From the front page, the eyes of Alexandre de Cambout stared back at them, in a picture that was of remarkable likeness – the work of Pierre Berat himself, no doubt.
Combeferre had recognized the image as one from the time when de Cambout had taken over the journal and Michel Chevalier had written a generous introduction about this new editor.
The image had been altered, however, since then, the expression of glory and life mocked by the faded likeness of a skeleton head that seemed to be looming behind the glowing face of Alexandre – ghastly empty eyesockets staring at the former editor of the newspaper while the rest of the background faded into threatening black, giving additional effort to the fading effect of the skeleton head. The image was well done – probably the skill of Pierre Berat showing – but it was ghastly, and the headline was not less so.
Editor murdered, it said, in large, baroque letters that would have been pretty, had the message been any more so.
Enjolras skimmed the article that Combeferre had already read. It was well written, in a flowing feather with pointed expressions, the prose skillful and strong. The accusations, however, were only very poorly veiled.
"That… is bold", Enjolras managed, slightly aghast, and exchanged a look with his friend. Combeferre was at loss for words for the moment and only shrugged helplessly. "Whose hand is that?"
Combeferre's gaze went back to the article, but he did not read. He had already once skimmed, once read it, and he painfully recognized the voice, recognized the rage and pure, utter misery that was seeping out of every phrase, every line of the article.
He had been barely able to finish it, seeing molded into words all that he had seen the previous day, bottled up behind eyes that would not cry for all he would pray for them to do otherwise.
The article was unsigned but Combeferre did not need a signature to recognize the turn of words, the trail of thoughts that was so familiar, clear and open to him.
His voice was slightly unsteady as he gave the answer.
"Madame's…"
Enjolras hesitated for a moment, a slight frown appearing on his pale forehead as he raised his eyes from the article to his friend.
"Didn't you say Madame doesn't write herself?"
"She doesn't", he replied.
He had asked her that question early during her acquaintance. It had not taken him long to realize that Hélène's judgment on the quality and composition of texts was unerring, her feeling for language, nuances and shades remarkable. Given these qualities, and given the fact that she was not shy in giving her own opinion and thoughts, he would have expected her to contribute to the paper by also writing her own articles, but she had strongly denied that.
"She… always says she gets carried away when she starts to write…", he reiterated the explanation that she had given him, stating that some days would have to pass between her writing and being able to judge a text – which was difficult to say the least in a daily journal. He had found that hard to believe, but she had given him proof of it when he had pressed for it. Indeed, even at that time he had seen that the same secure taste she exhibited as an editor failed her in her own writing.
She had heartily laughed at this failure then and just reiterated that she would stick to editing and leave the writing to wordsmiths like him.
However now she seemed to have ceded to listen to her own advice. He skimmed a few lines again, absorbing the pain that was evident through every word of the article, Madame de Cambout's very angry, very public, very desperate way of grieving. This article was so personal and close to the reality of Hélène de Cambout's state of mind that it almost felt like a letter.
"I can see that", Enjolras commented, and Combeferre shook his head, an almost desperate laugh on his lips.
"I absolutely fail to understand how someone with a taste so infallible… infallible when it comes to other people's work can be so blind to her own. And how she could do something… like this…"
"Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, nor hell a fury like a woman scorned", Enjolras quoted Congreve, his voice dry but not unkind.
It was true, but it did not soften the devastating effect. In fact, for all the dash and passion she exhibited at times, Combeferre would not have thought Hélène capable of such breathtaking imprudence.
"This is so … unwise… dangerous…", he broke off shaking his head again.
"Have you known that she went to Le Globe yesterday?" Enjolras asked, and Combeferre briefly reviewed the events of the past day.
He had left the de Cambout mansion at noon, Joly, Bossuet and Marc Lamarin arriving to pick him up after he had spent most of the morning in the company of Hélène's father. She had given him a pale, distant goodbye, and he had not pressed her. He never did.
"No", he began with the obvious but then reconsidered, doubtful. "Yes", he supplied in contradiction to his previous statement, and then finally, honestly: "I don't know."
Words failed him, as he still tried to digest the magnitude of Hélène's imprudence. This action was at least equal to Enjolras standing in the middle of a marketplace shouting for revolution and downfall of the government. Worse in fact, because words spoken were fleeting while words written were not. It had always been the asset of Le Globe that they had carefully treaded the line between simple voicing of facts and opinions and the actual call for social change and uproar. Knowing the movement of Saint-Simonians that were behind the newspaper, fuelling it with money and articles alike, it had to be considered an asset that the de Cambouts had been able to temper that tone quite skillfully.
Especially since Armand Bazard had left, Le Globe had been something of a sworn brotherhood, a society not unlike to their own one, a living, breathing companionship.
And yet, all of them had watched Hélène soldier bravely into doom.
"Someone should have stopped this", Combeferre continued, more to himself than to Enjolras. "Someone should have protected her from this…"
"Who would have?" Enjolras asked.
Combeferre made a gesture of half-despair. The editing committee of Le Globe was a difficult body to start with.
"I don't know. The other editors. Michel Chevalier. Olinde Rodrigues… Probably not Enfantin. Dear god, he probably encouraged her in this…"
He could see the vote coming up – Hélène's angry plea, Chevalier's tempered arguments, Enfantin's passionate preaching. Rodrigues caught in between, torn between respect for Hélène, friendship for Enfantin and unease at the situation.
Alexandre's empty chair like an open wound in the room.
And yet, as he went along the lines of the editors, as he had seen them so often sitting in the back chamber of the print shop, he realized with bitterness that the truth was fairly different.
She had told him. For whatever reason, to whatever end, she had told him.
'We will tell our story, what they did', she had said the day before, 'and what they dared. And with any luck, we will set the city aflame.'
He had thought these words spoken in grief and pain of the moment. Never would he have thought she would follow this through. Of course, he should have known her better.
"I should have", he said, revelation robbing his voice of its tone. "I should have seen it. And I should have stopped it."
Enjolras raised a brow at the words of his friend.
"My friend", he began, in tempered tone. "Have you recently developed a gift for clairvoyance? Because this is the only manner in which I can imagine you could have seen this coming. This discussion is leading nowhere." Enjolras' voice was not ungentle, but sober, and that was a blessing. "The deed is done, and we must do our best dealing with it."
There was some sense in the words and Combeferre could not help a rush of gratitude for the presence of his friend. Without detours he shot straight to the heart of the matter at hand. And Combeferre followed the trail of thought to the logical conclusion.
"I shall speak to the editors", he announced, "to at least prevent this from happening again."
Enjolras nodded.
"That may be a wise course of action. On the other hand though, while this exposure is earlier than we wanted, it may also be of some use. This deed may chase our opponents out of the shadows again. So in watching Madame de Cambout, we may well find us against them once more, albeit this time prepared."
The thought alone of having Hélène trying to survive another run-in with the assassins made his stomach clench.
"She's not a tool, Enjolras", he contradicted heatedly. "Nor a bait."
"Unfortunately quite to the contrary", his friend said, his tone sober again, devoid of expression or emotion. "With this", and his hand went to the article itself, "she has made herself a tool, and you or I can do nothing that will change that. With this sacrifice already given, we should honor it by making the most use of it."
There was sense in Enjolras' words, hard as they were to accept.
Combeferre took a calming breath, a second one, and slowly folded the article back on itself and pushed the paper to the side.
"All right", he said, the effort of uttering these words showing in his tone. "What do we do?"
Azelma had always liked the market.
Nowhere was it easier to be alone than in a crowd, where one was just a face in many, slipping through the cracks of the world as she usually would.
It was like Picpus, but in moving, her body going through the motions by itself, as she looked around and saw both what was there and what was not.
The clear May sun made even the crudest surroundings beautiful.
Sometimes when she walked the market, she fancied herself one of those who actually were here to buy something, strolled casually from one stand to the others, the smell of cooked meat and baked bread her meal during the day to chase away the hunger.
Azelma was good at making herself believe.
Sometimes she even fancied this to be a different place, one of the markets the bourgeois went to, where the cloth sold was rich and colorful, and the pastries reminded her of her dimly remembered childhood, at a time when the inn was still getting food delivered from the town bakery, fresh, white bread and sweet cake.
And while she walked through two worlds, one that she saw, and the other one that only she saw, her body went through the motions of long practice, avoiding passers-by, sometimes her fingers slipping to something useful, that was being held or placed incautiously.
These times, Azelma figured herself to be the ghost of this market.
Today, however, things were not so easy. She was with Éponine, was here with her sister who would not appreciate her getting lost in this comfortable refuge of hers. Worse still, they were here for a purpose that required more than getting through the familiar motions.
There were three tinker stands, all with varying goods and qualities, and they were looking for tools that they could use on the nightly coup Éponine planned. Of course they had to make buying them as inconspicuous as possible.
They had lost no time. After Montparnasse had left the apartment there had been no reason to stay, and they had escaped into the summer streets which were a far better place these days than the clammy, dark apartment they lived in. The sun transformed the city into a place of wonders.
Azelma had followed Éponine; by habit, convenience and promise. Her sister had asked for her to help in the prison escapade she was planning, and Azelma would not deny her, even if the thought of slipping up the roofs of la Force terrified her.
But she had not said so. It had never served her well to wish to escape the plans and schemes of her family. Her father or mother would react to opposition with a heavy hand, and Azelma had learned quickly that compliance avoided pain.
Éponine had more subtle ways of conviction. She seldom used them, being caused in the same web that Azelma was, but when she set her mind to something she was not easily swayed.
Not, that Azelma would try. In the mess that her life had become, Éponine was the sole person that she dared believe still on her side. No amount of fear was worth risking that.
And so they had made their way to the market in silence.
They had entered the place from the north, through one of the smaller streets, passing through the narrow alleyway with tenements towering to either side until the bustle of the market lay open before them and for a moment, their step slowed.
They took a few steps to the side to be certain not to hinder the passing of further visitors to the market and surveyed the scene as they had learned to do, casual in posture, yet eyes alert, taking in every detail.
Azelma went through the motions again, skimmed the crowd for the occasional oddity; the stray bourgeois on the wrong side of town on an errant that she could not fathom; the quarrel around a stand that sold eggs, which might turn out nasty and should be avoided.
She could not spot the telltale signs of too-correctly tailored, simple clothing that would indicate a policeman without his uniform, but saw two Picpus monks in their white habits, standing in front of a cloth shop debating with the owner.
Nothing seemed to be beyond what she had expected in this place, and she turned her gaze to Éponine to see if she agreed or disagreed. Her sister, however, was not watching the crowd. Instead, her frowning gaze had gone to a tanner's shop, a small, crooked house of two stories, where a ladder with broad steps was leading up to the first floor.
That would be a good surveillance point, Azelma noted absently with the habit of long years. It was in clear view of the whole market, but she could not understand, why it was such a point of interest to her sister.
But apparently, whatever it was, Éponine dismissed it with a shrug and a shake of her head, as she turned back towards her sister with a crooked smile on her face.
"So", she began. "Sorry there was no breakfast for you, Azelma…"
This was nothing out of the ordinary. Therefore, the statement was quite remarkable and left Azelma slightly confused. However, to that problem there was a solution.
Her hand went to the small purse she had hidden in the sleeve of her blouse. It was really not much more than a cloth put together with some crude stitches, tucked away in a fold of her clothes, and yet, it contained all that she owned in the world.
It was more than usual, today.
Azelma had decided to use the unexpected grace of yesterday's begging luck. Bringing home a piece of five francs would have raised questions she had not intended on answering, and therefore she had treated herself yesterday with a piece of white bread. Her five francs exchanged, she had concluded that four would be more than enough to appease her mother – and the smaller coins made the sum explainable by a huge funeral with people more charitable than usual. She had hid the remainder of the fifth franc in her sleeve, together with the few sous she had managed to put aside before.
It was something she had seen Éponine do. Her sister thought that no one knew where her secret stock of money was lying, but Azelma knew. She had seen her. And she had concluded that unlike her sister, she would keep her money on her person. Always. It was just safer that way.
With nimble fingers, she extracted a few sous without even having to look at the money – every coin she owned was like a friend and she had preciously few of either – and presented them to Éponine on her open palm.
"I was lucky yesterday", she offered quietly, and her sister's gaze turned quizzical. For a moment, Azelma cursed herself. She felt no inclination to share her encounter with the bourgeois yesterday – that was hers and hers alone - but Éponine did not ask and shook her head instead.
"We'll need what money we can salvage to get good tools", she contradicted. "If we get a rasp that's not sharp, it'll take ages and we never get father out of that prison."
Azelma would have almost closed her fingers again. It somehow felt wrong to spend the precious few coins she salvaged from her parents' grasp on their liberation again, but presumably Éponine had raided her own supplies as well, and then she could not fully stand back.
Still, she felt some sorrow when she relinquished the precious coins into her sister's care.
"Then take it for this", she answered sadly, and Éponine sighed, but she said nothing as she pocketed the money.
"Alright, Azelma", she nodded. "Let's do it this way. Both of us pass at both tinkers. We'll look for things we can use for tonight; rasps, saws, picks. We'll see who gives us what price. That's what we can take as a basis for where we buy. Be sure to take a look at the tools, if they're rusty, if the handles are old. Pay attention that you don't just get shown the prettiest pieces, pick your own samples and check them, all right?"
Azelma nodded. She knew all this. She hated these tours, but she had done it often enough.
She hated speaking to the merchants, hated the scheming and plotting. She had to come out of the shadows, and for all her familiarity, this always terrified her.
Her world of dreams between the cracks of the world was so much safer.
But she did as she was told, like always, and passed from one to the other, fingered the tools and got herself yelled at for it, ran her thumb along the sharp side of saws and quietly asked questions of price and quality.
Across the place, she saw Éponine doing the same, but her manner was different. Where Azelma was careful, she was aggressive. She haggled, extensively and angrily, eyes blazing and fury sparking, and Azelma wondered whether her sister was actually enjoying this.
She was faster than Éponine, for she did not discuss as much, and in the end only one merchant remained for her to cross over. However, she could not, because Éponine was still there, and it looked as if she would be a moment. Left with nothing to do, Azelma leaned against the wall of a building and watched the crowds passing by.
She recalled the face of the curious bourgeois of yesterday, the man that had, apparently on a whim, pressed a full five francs into her palm. The boy with the kind eyes.
It had been a while since anyone had shown her kindness unconditionally and Azelma was not sure what to make of it. She did not pretend to understand the ways of a bourgeois, but still, random acts of benevolence were rare enough.
She had replayed the conversation between them a thousand times since yesterday's afternoon and the situation had lost none of its curiousness.
"This is a city of glass", he had said, inexplicably, and Azelma wondered what he might have meant.
She wondered if he would explain it to her, if she asked.
But these were fanciful thoughts, and belonged to the realm of her dreams, not the realm of dirty streets and run-down markets. It was never well to mix the two.
Azelma forced herself out of her thoughts again to see if her sister had completed her haggling, but Éponine was not at the third stand anymore and Azelma realized that it was time to get back to work.
Stepping towards the stand, she gazed over to the one she had visited first – and that was now in for a visit from her sister – but neither could she spot Éponine there. A middle aged-woman was choosing a set of scissors, but the dark head of her sister was nowhere to be seen.
Azelma frowned. She skimmed the crowd, looking for the well-known shape of her sister, a sight as familiar as the back of her hand, started to walk at random between the three tinker stands.
No Éponine.
She was not at the tanner's shop where they had agreed to meet and compare information after their deed was done.
She was not lurking around one of the three stands, keen eyes observing proceedings and goods alike.
And this was not like her. This was not like them.
Reluctantly, Azelma's movements became a little less careful, a little less flowing, and the harmony with the crowd that usually avoided her being remarked faded, and as she pushed through the customers of this market the fuss she created by stepping around between the stands would be all too obvious for someone with an experienced eye.
Yet Éponine did not come to get her.
That's when Azelma knew that something was wrong.