A/N: I really, really have to hurry up a bit more with the chapters...

Hope you guys are still there reading it... I'll try to be faster with the next one.

Chapter 65: Butterfly

What we are isn't a matter of flesh, it's a matter of will.

The woman in the mirror was a stranger.

Morning light was a harsh thing, throwing in sharp contrast what the later stages of the day would gracefully soften or even hide, but in these hours, Hélène de Cambout was unable to deny that circumstances were wearing on her, and that it had beginning to show.

Of course, the features still were the same, of sorts, the same, pointy nose and chin, the eyes still as brown as they had ever been. And yet, for all that she would have wanted to, she could not attribute the change she saw to the fact alone that she was not sitting at her dresser, but instead hunched cross-legged on a narrow bed, a small mirror placed upon her knees.

She ran a brush through her hair, through long, brown strands that had begun to loose their vivid coloring to circumstance, but still, she refused to Turn into one of the ghosts that haunted this prison and took up the fight. Appearances were insubstantial. But they could make all the difference in the world.

With long, even strokes, the brush ran through her hair, parting and reforging it again, an intricate game, almost like a prayer. Familiar motions, a brush for a breath, her own way of preparing herself for the day. A morning ritual, of sorts. Come catastrophes, an angry government official, a visit from her in-laws, Marius and Courfeyrac barging into Rue d'Olivel in an uproar or a printer press dying out during the night, Hélène de Cambout would first diligently brush her hair before she would take on the chores of the day.

Alexandre had thought it hilarious and invented several interesting ways of distracting her from the task at hand – often successfully, one might add. The thought of him was painful beyond words and she closed her eyes for a moment, almost feeling his breath in her neck, his laugh in her ears.

He had loved her hair.

Hélène bit the insides of her cheeks to bring life and morning into focus again. She was not on her own, but sitting in the big dormitory of those still awaiting judgment and she was not at liberty to grieve. She was not at liberty to let go. She was not safe.

But if the Amis of the ABC were able to sustain a state of permanent siege, so would she, and brushing her hair would ready her for whatever the day was willing to throw at her.

Of course, she had already been up for a while. Morning sickness had called her from her sleep, but Combeferre's medicine had softened the worst of it, and at least she had been able to keep what little she had eaten in the evening. Finally the bell called them all to rise, and unlike the day before she had refused to join those that worked in the prison's sewing shop and instead dealt with the reprecussions of the night past.

Her friend – if it was one – who had warned her, agreed to bring the news to her colleagues from Le Globe, and after she had been indeed released from prison, Hélène had been left alone to prepare for the day.

Combeferre's medicine had indeed chased away the worst of the morning sickness, and her stomach had acquiesced to keep the bread that she had offered it for breakfast, which was indeed a substantial improvement to before.

And so, Hélène turned to the next step on her agenda.

A nun and two guards were watching the dormitory, that was at this hour only occupied by very few inhabitants – most had gone off to do some chores or walk the courtyard. Most preferred to have an occupation, and she could understand, but here, were the non-convicted resided, rules were slightly more lax than in the main prison. She had a choice, and Hélène had different aims than just to distract herself today.

She turned around to the nun and sent her a questioning gaze.

"Sister?" she asked, softly enough so that her voice did not carry, and yet loud enough to be heard, and the woman, exchanging a gaze and a nod with the guards, complied and stepped closer.

She was probably a good ten years older than Hélène, a pale narrow face with eyes of somewhat peculiarly tilted shape that gave her appearance an overall feline note. Her face was neutral as she stepped up to Hélène and crossed her arms, gazing down coolly at her. Hélène made it a point to continue stroking her hair, her fingers holding the brush hiding well what she was carrying in her hand.

"Sister", she began, voice lowered even more, "I was wondering if you could do me a favor."

Pale lips narrowed.

"It is not my task to bestow favors to prisoners."

A standard phrase, Hélène thought. Not good, not bad yet.

"I understand", she replied. "And I appreciate the decency with which we are being treated here, I really do. I understand you are doing what you think is correct."

A quick flash of something in her eyes. Pride maybe. Or anger. Still. Not good, not bad.

"That is irrelevant", the sister answered, but her voice had become a trifle softer. That indicated at least that she knew Hélène was trying to play a sort of game with her. So definitely good. A start, if nothing else.

Hélène nodded.

"Do not get me wrong"; she began, tempering her tone between conversational and somewhat subdued. "I would rather be anywhere but here if I am honest, but circumstances being what they are I appreciate the fraternité that you exhibit."

It was not even a full lie. After her first, hellish evening in La Force, that had certainly shown how very much her arrest had been a political issue – and how very much one probably wanted to make her disappear that very evening – Saint Lazare was a holiday in comparison. The meals were simple, but at least edible, and the nuns shrewd and cool, but not unkind on the whole.

There was, of course, the disquieting warning of the night before. But Hélène had to take chances. She let the brush run through her hair again, with regular, even motions as she continued.

"In that sense… I was wondering if there was a way of giving notice to my father as soon as the date for my trial is set."

Another stroke through her hair. Her hand was slipping slightly on the brush, revealing a bit of what was underneath. A frown appeared on the forehead of the nurse.

Hélène was neither particularly in favor nor particularly proud of the attempt of bribery. But her range of actions was fairly small, and if nothing else then she remembered from a particularly caustic article that Enfantin had written – and that never made it to the paper in its initial form – how much money could turn the tables in a situation such as the one that she was in.

'By any means necessary', she could almost hear Alexandre say, shoving her in the side. And so result trumped principles in her current situation.

"Madame de Cambout", the nun responded coolly. "Such a thing is neither within my power nor within my responsibility. To inform any support you might need for the trial is something you will need to take care of yourself."

Hélène considered her words for a moment. Had she not seen the money in her hand? No, there had been a quick flicker of a gaze towards it, brief, but undeniably there. Was she really not receptive towards bribery? That was, knowing the system of prisons, hardly believable.

"This is what I am trying", Hélène answered and let this hang for a moment, the assumption that she was meaning the attempt and bribery, and nothing else, standing between them for a moment. And then, lowering her head, she smiled as if caught. "To my best of my abilities, you can be sure of that. And yet… I would have thought that amongst the women of the church, of all places, one would be capable of finding charity." She let the note slip down somewhat further and lifted her other hand, taking out the money to hold it, still hidden, out to her. "And I am someone who knows the value of a favor."

The nun narrowed her eyes and pretended to consider. Hélène wondered if she was trying to haggle for a higher price. She was not sure if she had guessed the amount correctly – although she was no stranger to the fact that a stray coin opened doors that were otherwise closed, she was not exactly familiar with protocol here.

But the nun had hesitated for a moment too long. She was at least considering, and with that, Hélène realized that it was just a matter of prizing and negotiation.

"I hate to ask this of you", she continued cautiously. "I am aware how much this must seem out of sorts."

"It is", the nun answered, back in her usual tracks, a stern line travelling up her forehead. "I have no idea how you would imagine this within my line of action." She shook her head. "This is a prison, and although I am aware you have not been convicted yet, you must have done something at least for suspicion to fall on you."

Her hand snatched out, lightning quick, and before Hélène realized what had happened, the note had been taken out of her hand and vanished in the arms of the nun's garment.

"What…", she began, but her question was interrupted by the call of one of the guards.

"Sister Jeanne?"

She flinched and looked up.

"Bring her here"; the voice continued. "She has a visitor."

He was as welcome a sight as always.

Unlike the last two visits she had gotten from him, today he was sitting in a chair already when she arrived, getting up politely only at her entry to bestow a courteous greeting to her. A mannerism seeming so much more like him. Gone was the hectic unease of the day before, replaced with the deep, friendly, sure calm that never failed to set her at ease.

Maybe, she realized, that was what had drawn her to him. Alexandre spurred her own, fuelled her own fire, and they burned brightly together, but when she was with Combeferre, she felt at a strange sort of equilibrium, that , right now, was like a balm on sore wounds.

With Combeferre there was Marius Pontmercy, looking tired and somewhat worried, but circumstances had by no means managed to quench his easy, young friendliness that seemed as intrinsic to him as his curls.

"Messieurs?"

He gave her a quick smile and beckoned her to sit again. Following his advice and taking his medicine, she felt better today than she had the day before, but still she was grateful for a moment of repose.

"Madame de Cambout", Combeferre began, flawless in his attitude towards her, perhaps for the first time since this whole wretched story had started. There was some tension in his shoulders, but he was hiding it better, so much better

The specters of the night seemed a lifetime away.

"I hope to find you in better health today", he began, his gaze wandering over her form with a slight, worrying frown, and Hélène lost no time in responding.

"You do indeed, and I have you to thank for it", she confirmed, and allowed for a wry smile to creep onto her feature. "I am feeling better, although, I will admit, that does not say much, all things considered."

He blinked in mild surprise and answered the smile.

"That may be so", he replied, almost genuinely amused. "Still, an improvement is an improvement and as such to be cherished."

"Philosophy, Monsieur", Hélène answered. "An interesting diversion, but I fear, we have little time for this today."

She almost regretted destroying the moment of ease, but the way that the smile fled his features, slowly, reluctantly, and with an almost invisible nod, told her that he understood only too well. Neither of them was particularly suited to leave things well enough alone, and there was too much to be done.

"That is right", he answered ruefully. "While of course I was planning to visit you today anyway, I have received a message that suggests… some urgency."

Hélène nodded. She let her gaze wander around the naked walls, in search for invisible eyes that she could not make out. The cells for the visitors offered some measure of privacy – if one was able to disregard the guard standing in the corner – but she was no fool. The probability that she was watched was very high.

It was of no importance. Hiding was not exactly what Hélène had in mind.

"I have received a warning yesterday", she explained, cutting straight to the point. "A warning that indicates that I may not be safe in here for more than just one reason."

Marius frowned.

"What do you mean?" He bowed towards her, elbows placed onto the table, lips hidden behind folded hands. "Beyound the obvious, I presume?"

Hélène gave a soft, derisive snort.

"Obviously beyond the obvious", she echoed. She liked Pontmercy well enough, but sometimes he was trying her patience. "The warning was vague, but it seems that someone with…"

"Madame." Combeferre's warning was patient, but it carried enough of a worry to stop her words and beckon her to look up and into his eyes. Grey, stormy, they carried a remnant of the torment of the last days, well hidden again under the man that she had come to know. His fingers were drumming a nervous, almost silent rhythm onto the wood of the table. She raised both brows.

"What?"

His eyes darted around the room.

"Is it wise…?" he indicated his worry without giving it full voice, but of course she understood it none the less. She felt a rush of affection at his habit of thinking ahead, and considering all possible dangers. And her impatience, her weariness, vanished in nothing but smoke and memory.

"I don't care, Monsieur", she answered, softly, but with determination. "I have nothing to hide. Which is why I am giving you this." She let her hand slide along her shoulder into her collar and retrieved a few sheets of paper, covered and covered with narrow letters. She placed it in front of him and gave it a little push in his direction.

His finger hovered above the paper for a moment, and he seemed off-kilter and slightly unsettled. His breath was deep and calm.

"That…", he began, then gave himself a quick shake and took it, glancing at the pages unseeingly. "An article…?"

Hélène smiled.

"Refuge in audacity, if you will", she explained. "I dare them to hurt me after this article has gone public."

He turned the paper in his hands thoughtfully. It was obvious he did not like it, but that was not surprising. Combeferre preferred to tread softly. Hélène preferred to prance and wiggle around the danger. Alexandre had taken the bulls head-on.

But she had no time for the sophisticated approach, this time.

"It was the best protection I could think of", she explained, somewhat defensively despite herself. "I write about the threat I have received. If something happens to me afterwards, this will… raise questions, the least."

"Your faith in public opinion is admirable", Combeferre remarked quietly, turning the article in his hand, reading this line or that. "They might not care."

"Not in itself", Hélène concurred. "But this article, in combination with who I am and what has happened to my husband… if someone would weave a dangerous story about all of these facts, this could be as close to that machine infernale as we could get."

He shook his head, and again his gaze held hers, grey and worried and full of calm determination.

"I will not see a revolution that is spilling from your grave, Madame", he answered, serious and strong. "This is the one thing that you cannot ask of me."

She felt an almost irrestistible pull to place a soothing hand on his, to share and calm his worries, to find something to anchor her own fears to. But such a gesture was, of course, out of the question.

Hélène resorted to holding his gaze instead.

"I don't", she answered, hearing herself that his concern had changed her voice as well, softened it against her will. "I want to see this new world as much as you do, Monsieur. And I want out of here. Yes. I'm scared. And I have preciously few ways to turn. This…", she pointed to the article, "is as much assurance as I can think of. Any other ideas are welcome. In fact, a reading and adaption of the article is welcome."

She would not care for the same kind of catastrophe that her first article had brought about.

He frowned, trying to read her meaning in her eyes, and for a moment, she saw his desperation again, buried deeply, but still there, pain and affection and that connection between them that ran deep, much deeper than it should. It cried out to her as well and Hélène felt the surreal, unreal pull that he was able to place on her, seemingly effortlessly.

"Please", she whispered, not trusting her voice.

She was Hélène de Cambout. She did not beg.

And yet he reached to her and carefully took her word for safe keeping and there was no shame, no weakness in it for once.

Moments passed before he nodded.

"All right, Madame", he answered, voice calm and almost unwavering. "I will."

Silence.

Cosette stared into her cup of coffee – the brew was still hot but looked no more appetizing than it had when it had first been poured. She knew drinking it would be a good idea. Coffee rallied the spirit and chased away the dark thoughts and sleepiness of the night past, and she was in dire need of those. Unfortunately, coffee also had the latent tendency to upset her stomach when it was already queasy, and that was the fact that won out in the end.

The night had been rough again – sleep had found her, but so had dreams, vivid, bright, dark dreams full of images and a child's fear. The more she succumbed to them, the more she understood that whatever was haunting her hours must have been something hidden behind the veil that separated her from anything that had happened before Petit-Picpus.

She had concluded that either she had not always lived with her father, or at least led a very different life compared to what she had become today. There were memories of an inn, of a family unfamiliar to her, of angry, hateful words, slaps and chores, cold and tears.

None of the images she had seen, however, featured her father.

Cosette wondered if there was the reason for his silence to be found.

She watched him under half-bowed lashes as he dug in his breakfast methodically, spoonful by spoonful, all intent on the task he was performing.

Her father ate like someone who, in a long time, had known food to be a thing not to be taken granted. He ate as if he would not be sure to get another meal except the one he was currently eating. Cosette had seen that mannerism often, with the people that they visited and tried to help with a little coin and something to eat, and now she wondered why she had never realized that her father was eating in quite the same way.

Walking with him through the Jardin du Luxembourg, there was nothing that seemed to distinguish him from his apparent peers, but here, at the breakfast table, Cosette realized that her father was not living a life that he was born to.

Which led to the interesting question – was she?

The secrets were weighing on her like a heavy blanket.

"I wish", she breached the subject carefully, "you would talk to me."

He flinched and lifted his eyes from his food, a frown plastered on his face. But to his credit, he did not dismiss her words right away.

"What do you want, child?" he asked, not unkindly.

She sighed and gave up the prospect of food.

"Answers, Papa", she responded sadly. "You know that."

"Cosette." He sighed. "It is fruitless to poke around in things long gone and dead. What is past is past. I will not allow you to make yourself unhappy with all of these questions."

"I am not a child any more, Papa", Cosette answered. "Almost a woman, now. I am entitled to my own answers, my own decisions. And I want to know… so many things."

He shook his head.

"You do not, child", he answered, and she wondered if he was chosing the address on purpose, or if it was just betraying his mindset, his image of her that had not kept up with her growth. "Believe me. You do not."

"Why are you deciding this for me?" Cosette began again, now more agitated, almost angry. She was on the verge of jumping up from her chair, while he was clearly still sitting, vibrating with tension, his eyes, that lay on her, almost carrying a pleading expression.

He is afraid, Cosette realized looking at him. The revelation was stunning and appeasing all the same.

"What do you fear…", she followed up on her revelation, more tenderly. And his voice was thick when he answered.

"To see you hurt."

That carried the weight of a half-truth. It was no lie, but Cosette felt that there was more, a different worry lying behind the eyes of her father. But she could not see or understand. Was he afraid for himself? And what was it that scared her brave, invincible father out of his wits?

But then, again, maybe he was as much invincible as she was a child. Maybe they were both going through the painful process of seeing each other what they were.

"But you can't prevent that", she gave back, shaking her curls in exasperation. She was torn between love for the complicated, secretive man before her and true anger at not having been taken seriously. "And it's hurting me not to know anything."

"Cosette, you don't know what you are asking." Now his eyes were well and truly tormented, and he clenched his hands on the table, kneading fingers, his shoulders shifting and twitching uneasily. "Some day, we may speak about this, when this is over and you are older. But not today, love, not today."

Cosette shook her head.

"What is it that is supposed to be over? I don't understand, Papa." She tried to reach over to his hands, but then thought better of it. For now, she needed to be strong.

"That is why you have to trust me." Fauchelevent brought down both hands onto the table in a firm gesture, looking at his daughter with a stronger gaze now, as if having reached a conclusion. His voice was stronger, but somehow, this only convinced her to stand firmer.

"Why, Papa", she asked, softly. "Given that you don't trust me."

The moment she said it she realized it was true, and it filled her with unspeakable sadness. Growing up, Cosette realized all of a sudden, was much more painful than she had thought.

And quite obviously, he could see her revelation on her face, and he raised his hands in appeasing gesture. But Cosette was not in the mood for it any more.

"Never mind", she said, softly, sadly. "I'll go to my room to play with my dolls."

He called her back, when she left, but she pretended not to hear.

There was too much that she needed to think about.

He respected her privacy, at least.

After the door of her room had fallen into its lock, Cosette almost expected her father to barge in or at least knock and try to reason with her, but probably Fauchelevent sensed that a line had been crossed that would not so easily be recovered. And she was left on her own with her thoughts.

The last days had not only changed her manner of living, but her manner of thinking as well. The dreams, called forth out of nothingness, had forced her to face facts that she had evaded for a long, possibly too long time.

And this had begun to change her as well.

She knew that she was behaving erratically, had alienated both her father and Marius in the wake of callous words that seemed very much not like her at all. But maybe this was just part of the process of growing up, or of being placed in a situation of danger and uncertainty.

Cosette set down at her dresser and began to assess her situation.

She was on her own. The three people that she had been in contact with during recent times were her father – whom she had just verbally slapped in the face – Touissant – who would certainly stick with her employer – and Marius – with whom she had quarreled yesterday.

She wondered if it was her own fault, if something within her drove others away. But her time in Petit-Picpus stood to show the contrary. She had had friends there, or acquaintances at least. She had received and given friendship, but most of these bonds had been severed when she had left with her father.

Cosette wondered why this was the case.

There was no denying that her father tried to separate her from the world for reasons of his own. His worry at the appearance of the assassin in Rue Plumet and his subsequent reaction showed that he was showing that he feared pursuit of some sort.

Had he been in contact with criminals? Pursued by them? Both? Did he even know who that assassin had been?

The answers to these questions lay behind the forbidding façade of her father and she had not been successful in drawing them out. He saw her as the child lost in the woods and had not realized that she had grown into a woman. His care for her gave him credit, and his worry should make her thankful, but in the end, it did not. There was something within her that was thoroughly fed up with her sheltered existence.

That, among many other things, she would have thought to change with Marius. But Marius, as history had shown, had his own way of seeing her without realizing that she was there.

She had flared up, tired and overtaxed and pained, and had not even been able to see his own distress. Nothing was ever that easy. Instead of supporting each other in their pain, they had deepened wounds and ignored each other's worries. Not something, she decided, that she could give herself credit for, given the fact that she thought she loved him. She was not ready to take all the blame herself, but she certainly had to admit that she had not conducted herself admirably, exactly.

And now, she missed him. Deeply. She was not sure he would understand her, but she was sure that he would at least listen. And she would listen to him.

Cosette got up and leaned against the window, let her gaze wander over the picture of the Rue de l'Homme Armé. The world outside, hostile and dangerous. And yet, something was beckoning her, calling to her to see it with her own eyes, not through those of her father, not through those of Marius. She longed to understand what was real and felt like she knew nothing about it at all.

The thought was born out of nothingness, but once it had surfaced, it was not easy to banish. Why not look for Marius, meet him in his world, for once? Maybe this would make her understand, maybe this would allow to see the things as they were instead of as someone wanted her to see them.

But to run away would hurt her father deeply. And Cosette had no intention of leaving her home behind in truth. There was too much love in these walls, and she was grateful enough for it. A day of freedom, though…

She sat down at her table again and took out a sheet of paper and a pen. It would be cruel to leave without a message, and Cosette did not want to be cruel.

And so she jotted down quick words. An apology. A quick explanation of wanting to see things for herself. The statement that she would be looking for Marius and intended to be back by nightfall.

Another apology. And finally her name. It felt like a transition, and so she did not sign with her loved nickname "Cosette"; but with "Euphrasie Fauchelevent" instead, as if by taking her life into her own hands, she finally earned the right to use it.

Standing in front of her wardrobe, she wondered what she should wear for this adventure. Most of her dresses were rather elaborate, fit for a bourgeois' daughter, but also bright and impractical.

Her gardening dress, then. It had a few grass stains, but it was of simple cut and allowed to move with more agility than the others. And Cosette suspected that grass stains in her quest would be less harmful than laces.

Having changed, she opened her elaborately wound curls and dressed them into a simple bun, removed what jewelery she was wearing and sat at the table looking at a different kind of girl.

She looked not poor, not miserable, but simpler, a working woman maybe, and that was just what she was looking for. Last, she took out some of the money out of her purse to leave it here – money would be useful, for certain, but to carry too much money might also not be advisable – and attached the purse to her belt.

And then she carefully opened the door to her room.

The apartment was quiet – her father was probably brooding in his study, and Touissant was working in the kitchen. As silently as she could, Cosette closed the door to her room behind her and passed the hall to the entry of the small apartment. The door was locked, but the key was in its lock, and so she stepped into the staircase and left the apartment unnoticed.

The concierge was reading something and Cosette just passed him, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. He gave her a greeting that she returned, but she was not sure if he had recognized in her the newest tenant of the building or was just reacting on impulse.

No matter. She had to put space between herself and her father if this operation was to be successful. Speed was the most important aspects. She passed the Rue de l'Homme Armé and was around two corners before she allowed herself a moment's consideration. Her escape had been successful, but what was the next step?

Cosette raked her memory for what little she knew about Marius' life. He had talked about his dreams, about his friends…

She hesitated.

They met in a Café in Saint Michel, she remembered. Something starting with an M… a fairly short name, one single word.

That should not be impossible to find, Cosette concluded and stepped into the Paris streets again.

Somehow, despite all the darkness, it felt like an adventure.