by Scarlett Sharpe

The walls sat silent as the sinking sun cast shadows over the wood and stones of the hollow estate. Éponine stood in front of the iron fence that enclosed the chateau from the rest of the world, staring up at the door, following the lines of the stonework as she had done when she entered it long ago; back when the sun shone warm and bright upon her skin, and mirth and ease seeped into her like golden light, she and the others had not known what was to come. And as she stood staring, she clasped the cold iron bars, a chill sweeping over her from her palms to her spine. She sighed through her nose, her fingers rubbing the bars, her insides twisting, throat tightening as she swallowed, and she felt her limbs start to quiver. The trees in the court yard that had once been vibrant green now looked dull and rusted, and the branches, suddenly too heavy, drooped towards the earth, pointing their way towards the dreary house.

The once elegant and stately chateau now stood unkempt and rotted, its gardens overgrown and unattended, wild with weeds, grass, and leaves, vines stretching their long, lovely limbs up, up, gripping the house whose windows were no longer clear but stained yellow by dust and age. Neglected, but ever stubborn, the house stood clinging to the remains of what had been of the years before the travesty.

Éponine’s eyes lingered at a second story window, a shudder escaping her lips as she spied the orange glow of candlelight and faces behind the glass that she knew no longer existed. The faces seemed to be smiling though it was difficult to see from where she stood, and of those faces, she thought she recognized one as the gleaming grin of Jehan Prouvaire.

Her heart skipped a beat, eyes widening and chest heaving, and he turned his head to look out the window, his smile shining through. He nodded, and she believed it was for her. She felt a shriek clamoring, scratching up her throat as her lips parted, but her tongue swelled in her mouth, her mind too frazzled to let out the call. But as she found her voice, someone stumbled—or rather, she had stumbled back, colliding with a gray-haired woman walking alongside a gentleman. Éponine hadn’t realized she had stepped back from the fence until after bumping into the older woman, and she turned to apologize as the woman and her escort stared at her with immediate dislike. But Éponine hadn’t time to care, tears pricking at her eyes, her heart hammering as she looked back at the window while the pair went on their way. But Jehan’s face no longer appeared in the window, each and every window dark and vacant as when she had arrived. 

A gentle spring breeze came from behind, tossing Éponine’s hair in front of her face, rustling through the trees, and taking the brown, dried leaves that slept upon the ground towards the chateau. She stepped to the fence again, gripping the bars, her eyes darting from empty window to empty window. Fear slithered along the veins beneath her skin as she began to move, her hand gliding across the bars as she headed for the gate whose rusted lock had been pried open. The gate swung with ease and gently creaked a relieved welcome, and Éponine stepped into the courtyard, rushing beneath the swaying trees. As she entered the shadow of the chateau, the ground swelled, and she could not see the line of the rooftop against an orange and red sky.

She walked up the stone steps and greedily reached for the large mahogany door, clutching at the handle, pulling to gain entry. The door groaned at the force, and Éponine paused at the threshold, peering in, waiting, hoping, her heart slowing its rapid beat as she tentatively stepped inside. She was surprised to suddenly feel cold as she entered, and she frowned and shuddered as she hugged herself. Looking about, she hadn’t forgotten the expanse of the foyer, the ceiling so high that her voice echoed, the staircase so grand that she had felt it necessary to stare and admire the very steps and interacting details of the railing and banister. Her index finger twitched, and Éponine remembered the music that had sung out from the ballroom, the warmth and comfort that came when she entered the house. In that time, they had gathered friends and relatives, people Éponine had no relation to or knowledge of, in honor of her—a party, it was—to welcome her. She had been—at the time, after all, the woman who had won their son’s affections.

But that was then, when the sun was warm and music lovely, when spring was beautiful and the world bloomed for her. And now the chateau smelled of damp must, and cobwebs coated the walls and ceilings; all that was precious and adored by the family had been auctioned and the rest robbed, the house’s very insides stripped away. 

As she approached the banister, she felt the blood drain from her face, reaching out to touch the sharp, splintered wood. This wasn’t it, the main section of the house where it took place, no. But it had happened. She glanced to the east side of the room, following an imaginary line that started from the pierced and shattered wood of the banister. She approached the wall, and after taking a moment to glance around, she unhappily found the small circle she searched for. That festering wound that made her stomach drop—it was no bigger than her thumb—that wretched bullet hole. 

She sucked in a breath, her bottom lip quivering, and she wrapped her arms around herself, fighting the memory. She looked about again, searching yet frightened to find what she sought. Her mouth dry, she struggled to swallow as she closed her eyes, her throat constricted, sucking in a breath while her insides turned to winter storms. Her heartbeat quickened again, but this time with grief, and she bit her lip, feeling foolish for believing what her heart wanted to believe.

Opening her eyes again, she glanced at the entrance, and composing herself, she sniffed, hugging herself tighter as she headed for the door. She placed her hand on the handle but stiffened and paused. It was faint, a noise—no, a note, so soft that she was scarcely sure she heard it. She strained her ears. The note prolonged its sound, the tone swelling, and a second note accompanied it. And then a chord, quiet, just as the others. She dropped her hand. Music was playing. Éponine turned, the cold no longer pricking at her skin, or had she become used to it? 

The music—the notes echoed in her mind, a call of the familiar and lovely, one that she could not remember—came from the eastern hall, but it was faint enough that Éponine could not pinpoint its location, a ghost singing in her ear. That is, it seemed to be all around her, soft and lingering, dripping and seeping from the very steps, ceiling, and walls of the chateau. Every fiber of her screamed a warning, to leave it be, let the past die, for long has it been sleeping in the earth, but curiosity and hope—or was it hope in the guise of madness that picked up her feet to lead her to the source of the music? Her footsteps made no sound as she ambled towards the parlor room. Inside, the room was dark as the sun was now setting, the window and shredded sheer curtains providing little aid to the fading light, and the dust and cobwebs lived heavy and thick just as they did in the foyer. What paintings that remained on the wall lifelessly hung, and mahogany table stands and chairs were toppled and broken. Holes just like the one in the foyer danced like black stars in the stone walls. A sofa silently sat in the middle of the room, its fine ivory pattern grayed with age and prolonged exposure to dust, but what made Éponine’s lips part was not the tattered fabric or the feathers scattered about. Nor was it the holes and the gashes that had been torn into it. It was the burgundy stain on the cushions that turned her skin to ice.

She thought then she could smell gun powder in the air, faint and light, mixing with the heavy stench of copper, burning leather, and fresh decay. The smell festered in the back of her throat and her stomach heaved. She clutched the arm of the sofa and turned away from the dark spot, clenching her jaw and shutting her eyes as she gasped and gagged. Swallowing, struggling to control her breathing, Éponine forced herself to open her eyes. She was cold again, though her face was flushed and sticky with sweat. And she realized that she was no longer hearing the music. She breathed deeply and listened, her eyes glancing about the room as if to find the sounds like snow in the air. But she heard nothing but her breathing, and her heart sank. It’s not real, she reminded herself. The bullet holes in the walls were real. The blood on the sofa was real. She knew it, so why stay?

Instinct begged her to leave, but as she stood there, she remembered a fondness and a comfort and a love that the house had once blessed her with. She wanted that again despite her grief, despite the reality of the situation. Loneliness ate into her as poisonous as arsenic. Memories now were all she had. Was she wrong then to seek comfort in the empty halls that held memories of love and joy? No matter the cost of her grief, she would be contented to suffer it for a moment of relief.

As she stepped out of the drawing room, she heard the faint sound again, music that flowed from the hall like the beckoning of the moon and tide. She listened for the direction it came from and then promptly followed it down the corridor. The music grew louder as she passed the dining room, and she picked up her step, her heartbeat hammering in her chest as she headed towards the great doors of the chateau’s library. What was waiting for her behind the door? She knew the answer. But perhaps, perhaps this time, it would be different.

She burst through the library door, the hinges creaking from the sudden swift movement, and Éponine’s heart throbbed in her ears. So loud was her heart that she no longer could hear the music, nothing but the sound of her own heavy breathing. And as she stood, her hand on the doorknob, staring into the library, she felt as if she had turned to glass. A single step would shatter her. But still she looked about, staring at the grand bookshelves that once were an elegant marvel. Now they were blacked by smoke and ash, the damage rendering most of the shelves useless and what books remained had fallen through to the floor. The books themselves, the few that managed to survive the fire, were ruined by blood or shredded apart. 

Hesitantly, Éponine forced herself to step inside, searching for the comfort she sought despite the pain. Tears pooled and she swallowed as she stepped over torn and yellowed papers spotted with burgundy. Tables and chairs were overturned and burned. Shards of glass were scattered about and a light breeze blew through the room. Maps and battle plans that once covered most of the library were now ashes beneath her feet. The room still smelled of smoke and death.

 Éponine rubbed her fingers, her mind recalling the grime that had coated her hands in her desperate need to clean the horrid mess. But she could not rid the house of so much blood, no matter how hard she tried. Slowly she walked over to the spot where she had found him. The chair had been knocked over, the candles and papers littered about. And there it sat, aged but untouched in the rug, the large pool of dried blood that once belonged to Enjolras.

She could not recall how many people had gathered here. The Amis resided—having no other safe place to discuss since the Musain was compromised—their plans for revolution to call for change from the tyranny of the king. So often they met in Enjolras’s estate and somehow the government took notice. And like a flea on a dog, they acted. But there had been no plans on this night. It was a family gathering to celebrate the coming of Enjolras and Éponine’s wedding day. Enjolras had insisted that Éponine stay with Marius and Cosette while the estate was being prepared for the celebration. And when the time came to finally make her appearance, with Marius and Cosette as her escorts, she arrived to find the chateau aflame, the eastern side of the house burned. Bodies littered the floor, bullet holes and blood had been strewn across the walls, and Éponine remembered the sickly feeling within her. But she had not believed they were all gone. Even as she entered the library, choking on the thick gray smoke, feeling the fire fill her lungs, she could not believe Enjolras was dead. Not even when she dragged his half-burned body out of the library, the stench of burnt flesh and hair invading her nostrils. And not when his blood soaked her hands as she held his cold body.

Éponine couldn’t recall how the fire burned out. Had it rained that night, perhaps? All she was certain of was that the library was spared, though the ceiling had given way, letting in the moonlight that now washed over her. As she stared down at that bloodied spot on the rug, she found herself frowning. She had struggled so to clean that spot. Many townswomen came to the chateau, perhaps to glance at the wealth and riches of Enjolras and his family, maybe even to procure some of it for themselves. But they also came as neighbors, as mothers, sisters, cousins, loved ones, and Éponine stood alongside them to help them clean the mess. And whatever could not be cleaned was simply left. The estate was never sold; the government would not allow it. The house was to stay as a reminder, a symbol to those who considered resistance. And so it remained, left behind and lonely, and Éponine felt it too.

Éponine went to her knees then, her eyes fixed on the spot, unable to weep, to think, to feel. She stared motionlessly at it, silently waiting even as her limbs went numb from the cold. Her wrist burned and there was a wetness on her skin, she noticed, but did not care to look. And she did not care to notice the embers that had sprung up in the fireplace at her back. The embers licked and lapped, grew and feasted on the wood until flames grew. And the light grew brighter as the flames grew higher, and candles lit the room, a brilliant light that overwhelmed her senses until she turned to glance at the fire. How warm it was, she noticed, and she no longer felt cold. Slowly, she stood. The hole where the ceiling had caved in was gone. The bookshelves were no longer destroyed, but entirely intact. The library was cleaned of all its refuse. No more toppled tables and broken chairs, no more scattered papers and damaged books. Her lips parted, heart hummed, and she looked down. The blood had vanished, and she could hear music again.

The song sang clear in her ears—it was familiar, but her memory was failing her—and she found the courage to move again. She moved as if she hadn’t taken a step, and suddenly she was no longer inside the library but walking down the hall towards the parlor room. A welcoming light shown from its entrance, and voices rose and laughter rang out. Nearing the doorway, the air now smelled of sweet perfumes and lilies. Éponine placed a hand on the wall, clasping the frame of the open entryway, careful to keep her body safe behind the wall as she leaned forward over so slightly to peer inside.

The room was illuminated by many candles and a fire in the deep jade fireplace that was so tall that if she were standing beside it, its mantel would reach her chin. The furniture all stood in place, everything undamaged as it was before, neat, clean, and unbesmirched. Men and women had gathered around the fire, none of whom she knew. The men were dressed in fine-tailored suits and overcoats, their hair combed and well kept. The women had adorned themselves in gowns Éponine could only dream of, jewels and riches that dazzled against the flames. The women’s hair was pulled up and out of their faces, held back with pins and clips just as lovely as their jewelry, and each face beautifully painted to accentuate and highlight their features. 

Éponine’s stomach sank and she bit her lip, the sickly feeling of her own inferiority infringing upon her mind. She was dressed in her well-worn and overused crimson velvet dress that failed to flatter her frail form, and her black hair was matted and knotted like the nests of the rats she lived with. Her skin wasn’t fair and clear as the maidens in the room, and she was too keenly aware of her own exhaustion that showed in the form of purple rings under her eyes. And the bourgeoisie smiled and laughed and talked together, sipping their wine without a care as Éponine watched like a parched girl spying cool water across the street.

As she watched, an older woman who could be no more than five and forty turned to face her. Her hair was yellow, a touch darker than flaxen and curled into loose ringlets. Her smile was charming and deep blue eyes inviting, but Éponine stood unmoving, her mind struggling to recognize the face, to find words to express her thoughts. She silently cursed her useless tongue as the woman approached her, her salmon-colored gown shimmering like dazzling gold in the light as she walked. Éponine stared down at her, feeling small as those piercing ocean eyes gleamed up at her.

“My dear,” the voice seemed to echo in her ears. “You aren’t dressed.”

Éponine’s brow furrowed, confusion spread across her face, but still she could say nothing.

The woman smiled. “Come, my dear.” She linked her arm with Éponine’s and led her away from the parlor room.

She’s warm, Éponine noted, and smelled of fine perfume. She eyed the woman, hoping to find something in her features that would spark her memory or at the very least reveal a clue to her identity. But as they walked back to the foyer, her memory afforded her nothing and a tinge of frustration burned in her. They stood at the base of the stairs, and Éponine glanced at the railing that was no longer damaged.

“Go on up to your room,” said the woman.

Éponine looked back at her as a small line formed between her brows. She muttered, “My room?”

The woman smiled again, patient and kind, and Éponine felt her insides warm. How long had it been since a living soul looked at her in such a sincere way? It was comforting and lightened Éponine’s heart. Still she stared, searching the woman’s features again, searching for a name within her shimmering eyes and delicate smile, both of which were keenly familiar. The elder stirred Éponine’s mind, and she felt as if she knew her from years gone by, or perhaps from a distant dream she only vaguely recalled. But she could not remember no matter how much she wanted, not even a name.

“You haven’t forgotten,” the elder remarked. “It hasn’t been so long. To your room, my sweet. Prepare yourself, and we shall see you presently.”

The woman then relinquished her hold on Éponine’s arm and sent her up the stairs. Without looking back, Éponine complied, slowly running her fingers along the smooth wood of the banister as she went. Her feet remembered the way, though her mind was slow to react, and she found herself walking down the eastern hall, passing door after door, familiarity guiding her to her room as the music from downstairs became faint.

Inside, the room was decorated in soft tones that lightened it even in the dark and candlelight. The window, adorned with thick curtains of intricate designs, was large and narrow, giving way to visual access to the courtyard and garden. She used to enjoy the view, she remembered. Deep mahogany wood accented the ivory fabric of the sofa at the foot of the bed, which matched the bed frame and the wardrobe at the opposite side of the room. A vanity rested against the wall, reflecting the length of the bed in mirror. The bed itself seemed larger than she recalled, the dark pillars of the frame rising up to the ceiling, and the headrest was carved into the form of the family crest above the ivory pillows.

Her footsteps were soft as feathered wings, afraid to disturb the enchantment of the room as she slowly made her way to the bed that she had once slept in. On it laid a gown of fine silk and taffeta, the faintest color of cream reflecting in the candlelight. Surprise left her quiet but her heart beat anxiously, wildly, and she dared not touch it, fear overwhelming the elation she felt, for what greater terror would there be to awaken from such an otherworldly dream.

“Mademoiselle,” came a soft, gentle voice.

Éponine turned, and a woman stood at the back of the room, the orange glow of light flickering against her as she stepped from the shadows. She was thin, her clothing of lower quality than of the people below, which managed to accentuate her bony figure. Her eyes were that of a doe’s, wide, shimmering, dark, and oddly eager, the curl of her lips lightly crinkling the corners of her eyes. Éponine stared at her, bothered by her blithe expression, or rather, it was the familiarity of the expression, a look she had been given before by this selfsame maiden that stirred her mind. As the woman stepped closer—she could be no older than her—Éponine recognized the sway of her walk, the way her brown hair caught red in the light, the way her eyes attentively watched her.

“I am to dress you,” she said.

Éponine blinked, her brow arching. “Dress me?”

The woman smiled patiently. “Yes. Surely you remember. The lady of the house named me your handmaiden on the first day of your arrival.”

Éponine stared at the handmaiden, the sense of familiarity nagging at her just like the elder woman, and that same bite of agitation. It crawled beneath her skin, the need to know to quench the questions. But she could not bring herself to ask, as if incapable of the very action. As if, somehow, she believed that if she spoke, if she dared to ask, the enchantment would break. And she would awaken, as empty and alone as the house.

So Éponine decided then to settle with her questions, with her fragile memory, to let it all be. For what did it matter anyway? She’d allow herself these moments of reprieve, away from her shattered reality where her loved ones were dead, that which no longer mattered. 

She looked at her handmaiden and then nodded, letting her do as she wished. She dressed Éponine in the gown that had been set out for her on the bed and brushed her hair, untangling the ebony nest to smoothed raven’s feathers. Éponine sat silently, patiently, the monotonous work of becoming presentable not enough to stop her mind from drifting. Azure blue eyes flashed in her mind, intense and passionate, beautiful and inviting, the kind that made her heart thump wildly with excitement, happiness. The blue that made a smile reach her own dark eyes and was capable of pulling from them the bitterest of tears. A charming smile and genial laugh accompanied those eyes, but the face was difficult to decipher, a blur, hazy as if searching through the fog that never dispersed. Éponine’s heart began to race as she sat, her mind frantic to unveil the face from memory, clawing through the fog, chasing the laugh, the smile, the eyes. So close she could nearly touch it, take the face in her hands, stroke the golden curls of his hair, find the piercing azure eyes, but still she chased with all the eagerness, the excitement, her heart in her throat, so close and—

There was a knock on the door and Éponine gasped, her heart in her throat as she nearly jumped out of her skin. Blood rushing, she breathed and looked about, realizing then that she was alone. Where had her handmaiden gone? As she glanced around, she caught sight of herself in the vanity mirror where she was sitting and paused. Her hair was elegantly braided and pinned up into a bun at the base of her head, and thin curled strands of hair dangled in front of her ears. Her skin was no longer sickly pale, her cheeks pink and lips faintly tinted red. The dark circles under her eyes were gone, and her russet eyes momentarily struck her; they were like golden honey in the orange candlelight and for the first time in her life she believed she did not look plain. Perhaps, under the right circumstances, she could be called lovely. She almost smiled.

There came another knock, and Éponine’s glanced at the door.

“Just a minute,” she said, standing to her feet and stepping away from the vanity.

In the mirror she rearranged the skirt of her dress, and she realized just how well the gown fitted her. The sleeves wrapped over her arms at her armpits, and the trim cut low across her breast, but not immodestly. It hugged her at her ribs and lightly billowed like a bell at her hips to touch the stone floor. She trailed her fingers over the fabric, marveling at the design and sensation, and glanced back to admire the graceful train that patiently waited behind her. She shifted and bit her lip, suddenly missing her scarlet dress.

The door opened and Éponine looked up to see the woman with yellow hair gleaming at her. “You look beautiful, my dear.”

Éponine glanced down at herself again, feeling unsure. “It is lovely, truly. But…”

“The gamine feels unworthy,” the woman said.

Éponine looked up at her, her cheeks flushing warm with indignation, but the unwavering smile on the lady’s face gave Éponine pause. The sting of that grating word, that reminder of her poverty made her flinch, but as the older woman approached her, she could feel herself cool, her anger transforming into sadness. She was right, after all. 

The elder’s smile persisted, even as she took Éponine by her hand, rubbing it with her thumb. “My sweet girl, you are worthy.” Her tone was light, a whisper. “You always have been.”

Éponine nodded, unable to reply, an emptiness eating away at her heart and into her bones as grief took hold of the hollow space inside of her. 

The woman released Éponine’s hand and cupped her cheek instead. “What is it, my dear?” she asked, stroking Éponine’s cheek before dropping her hand.

Éponine could not meet her eyes, unsure of her sudden feelings, only aware of a loneliness that had seeped into her heart. She wanted for something, someone, but she feared to give it a name.

The lady sighed. “Worry not, my dear. All the anxieties you feel will vanish.”

“Will they?”

She grinned. “Yes, but you must let it.”

Éponine nodded, hesitant to believe, and did not hide the doubts from her expression. The lady did not press or question Éponine, which she was grateful for. 

Instead, her smile persisted as she reached down to the ruffles of her bustle. “He wanted to give you this himself, but…” From it her elder pulled out the finest jewels Éponine had yet to behold, a necklace of white gold and diamonds. 

Éponine’s lips parted in a silent gasp and glanced between it and the woman, her voice caught in her throat and mouth heavy as if with sand.

“I insisted that I would be the one to present it to you.” The woman did not give Éponine to chance to deny the gift, wrapping it about her neck. “It did, after all, belong to me.”

The heirloom was tight about the middle of her neck, its rows of dangling diamonds reaching down to her chest in elegant designs that accentuated the length and loveliness of her neckline. The lady stepped away, allowing Éponine to feel its weight on her as she fidgeted with one of the diamonds. The woman smiled at her, a look that was, as Éponine believed it to be, motherly—a look she missed.

“He knows how stubborn you are with finer things,” her elder said as she approached the bedroom door. “He will be pleased to see it on you.”

Éponine sniffed and dropped her hand, curling it into a fist. How feeble her voice sounded as she uttered, “Thank you.”

The lady pleasantly smiled. “Join us when you are ready. You will feel better when you do.” And she twisted the doorknob, leaving Éponine to her empty room.

She turned, rubbing her hands together as she walked back and sat, staring at her reflection in the vanity mirror. She touched the necklace and eyed her gown as she felt all emotion drain from within, her mind repeating over and over what the woman had said. She closed her eyes and sighed, feeling loneliness in the marrow of her bones as she dropped her hand. She wanted for a voice to rasp out her name, the same charming sound that made her feel secure, safe, loved. But she’d nearly forgotten the face that accompanied it, and she’d realized how scared it made her.

The music echoed from the hall, slithered its way into her room, and surrounded her in a light veil of gentle notes. She listened, holding her breath as she recognized the notes of the song for the first time that night. Turning her head toward the door, her hand reaching for the necklace again, her memory calling back strong arms, golden hair, and azure eyes that had once brought her happiness to outlast the moon and stars. 

Éponine decided then, and stood, dropping her hand to her side as she lifted her chin. She left her room, feeling lighter than she had all evening, listening to the music as it grew louder with each encroaching step while she made her way down the hall. And as she reached the grand staircase, she could see the guests standing at the base of the stairs, patiently waiting for her arrival. Murmuring hushed to silence as she came into view and stood above them all, every face gleaming up at her though she felt herself unable to smile, searching for those familiar eyes. She walked down the stairs, feeling the train of her gown follow behind her. As her eyes scanned the crowd, she was surprised to see faces she recognized amongst the strangers, faces she recognized but could not remember their names, one of them including the elder woman she had been speaking with. She was grateful too, to see those she knew, and names she knew, those whom she had called friends. 

Grantaire smiled as his eyes caught hers, and he raised a glass to her. She felt her heart awaken with the lightest beat, her expression lifting with hope. With him stood Joly, Feuilly, and two others whose names she could not recall, each man looking up at her with pride. As she reached the bottom of the stairs, the crowd split and allowed space for Éponine to walk, and she glanced over the faces of the people around her, feeling her heart swell, but her expression remained fixed. She approached Grantaire and the others, and they smiled at her, the crowd slowly dispersing to leave her presence and return to their own entertainments.

“Fair Mademoiselle Éponine,” said Joly.

“You kept us waiting.” Grantaire grinned and sipped his drink. “Ah, but it was worth the wait.”

Éponine felt her grim expression crack, a small turn of her lip as her eyes welled with tears, shimmering glass. She embraced them one by one, even the ones whose names she’d forgotten, her heartbeat pounding with overwhelming relief to be surrounded by familiar faces she dearly treasured.

“My friends,” she whispered as she pulled away from Feuilly, glancing between them. “I haven’t been keeping you too long, have I?”

Grantaire smirked. “I’m a most patient man, but even mine was wearing thin.”

Feuilly shot him a fierce glare before smacking him in the back of his curly head. The drunkard laughed in response, as nothing could dampen his mood, Éponine remembered, no matter how many drinks he spilled by the end of the night, and she could not help but chuckle along with him.

“Excuse me, excuse me,” a young voice called through the crowd. A boy shoved his way through the wall of people. “Pardon moi!” And he pushed between Grantaire and Joly.

Éponine’s light smile dropped as she stared down at the mop of brown hair and eyes dark like earth. The boy smiled up at her, the dimples in his cheeks causing her to quiver a grin. He embraced her, his head at her abdomen, and she clutched at his chemise, shuddering.

“Gavroche.” She went to her knees and hugged him tighter, feeling his warmth as she ran her fingers through the locks of his hair.

Her kid brother was the one the pulled away from her. “We missed you,” he said.

Éponine sucked in a breath and swallowed as she did her best to compose herself. “I’ve missed you all so much,” she said, glancing up the Amis.

Gavroche crooked a gentle smile before taking her by the hand and helping her to her feet. Éponine smiled and followed where he led her, the Amis quietly trailing behind her. Looking ahead, she saw where he intended to lead her, to three other men, the rest of the Amis who had been attentively watching her. And her smile grew as she looked upon each face, and she relinquished Gavroche’s hand, hardly feeling her feet beneath her as she rushed to embrace Jehan Prouvaire. 

He held her tight and kissed her cheek before letting her go. “You make the night sky jealous in want of such beauty,” said the poet.

Éponine smiled, charmed by his words, but before she could speak, Courfeyrac gave out an obnoxious groan. “No need to humor him, Éponine.” He hugged her too, though no longer than necessary. 

He pulled away and smiled at her, a look on his face as if they had never been parted, and she found comfort in it. “As valiant as his efforts are,” Courfeyrac went on, “it’s not his family jewels about your neck.”

The Amis laughed at Jehan’s expense, whose cheeks turned red, red enough to make Grantaire look sober. Even Éponine could not help but stifle a chuckle as she turned to embrace Combeferre.

Jehan struggled for words, glancing down humbly at his feet. “I meant nothing by it other than to express—er, well to say, that is—”

But Éponine no longer heard him as he stumbled over his words; a few of the Amis behind her snickered at the poet, the rest of them taking to their own conversations. 

Combeferre leaned in to whisper in her ear, “He’s waiting for you in the ballroom.”

Éponine blinked, her heart skipping a beat. “He?”

Combeferre nodded as he stepped away from her, and she could now see the large entrance to the ballroom. She couldn’t hear the chatter of the Amis behind her, only the music that invited her to the western side of the house, the song she knew taking her feet toward the ballroom. She did not know if the men followed her or not; she didn’t care. From east to west she walked, or perhaps she ran, and found herself overwhelmed by the music as she pushed herself through the couples and crowds that had gathered around the dancing hall to watch partners dance. 

Across the floor, between the swirls and dancing springtime colors of green, pink, blue, and yellow, Éponine could see the man she had so long sought, his eyes fixed on her even as he spoke with the lady with golden hair. The older woman must have snuck away to inform Enjolras when Éponine had made her entrance, she surmised. But it mattered not.

Éponine felt herself warm as she stared at him, her heart racing up her throat and into her ears, her eyes welling in wet respite—overwhelming happiness, such that she forgot her grief. 

Enjolras smiled at her, and the lady glanced Éponine’s way, nodding as she too smiled.

Éponine could contain herself no longer, her feet swift beneath her as she made her way across the dancing floor; the dancers no longer danced, the music no longer played, and she did not realize just how many eyes were watching as she embraced Enjolras. The crowd applauded as Éponine shut her eyes and buried her face in his shoulder, shuddering into his arms as he crushed her to him. She clutched the fabric of his black overcoat, savoring his warmth, his scent, afraid to let him go lest he leave her side forever.

“Éppie,” he whispered low in her ear.

“You’re here, you’re here,” she quivered.

He kissed the side of her head, and she could feel his smile press into her hair. “I’ve always been here.”

She lifted her head from his shoulder to stare into the blue of his eyes, and tears brimmed in hers as she felt her emotions overtake her. “You were gone, everyone was gone for so, so long.” 

He said nothing, looking down on her with the gentlest expression, and softly stroked her cheek with the tips of his fingers before cupping her face. She sighed into his touch as she gazed up at him, all her anxieties fleeing from his touch, through her body, and vanishing out through her limbs. He leaned down and placed a kiss upon her lips, soft and caressing, so tender and passionate that it stole the very breath from her lungs. She had forgotten his kisses, forgotten the relief within his embrace. 

He pulled away and smiled at her, and in that look he gave her, she knew she never wanted leave. “You approve of the gift then?” he asked.

The cool jewels about her throat suddenly felt warm. “I do,” she said sincerely.

He could not wait and kissed her again, eager, needy, a taste of sweetness that was just as tender. It was one of longing, and Éponine felt it, a whisper in his lips that said, I missed you more than you know. The look in his eyes when he pulled away from her confirmed those unsaid words.

At the far side of the room, the musicians started again, violins, cellos, violas, humming notes that swayed to the accompaniment of the piano. Enjolras did not ask, and she did not need him to as she went to gather the train of her gown, sliding the loop over her wrist. No more words were shared between them as they gazed at each other. He took her hand in his and wrapped a hand about the small of her back while Éponine placed her hand at his shoulder. A moment of pause, and Enjolras led the dance, the floor vacant as the guest had left it to watch the master of the house dance with his lady of honor. They swayed and spun to the gentle swirl of the music, never missing a step, their eyes never leaving each other. And as they went and their guests watched, Enjolras squeezed her hand a moment before letting her go to spin. Her feet carried her as if she had danced all her life, twirling as she stepped away from him and then returned. He reached out for her and took her back into his arm, holding her close and kissing the tip of her nose. She laughed with glee, and they continued their movements of grace.

No one joined them, the dance floor empty except for them, and Éponine did not wonder and did not care as her gaze remained fixed on him. She smiled as they went, and he squeezed her hand again. He released her, and she spun, the fabric of her dress gliding with her. Before she could spin back, another pair of hands took her in and pressed her to him. Jehan had taken her in his arms and he smiled despite her confusion.

“Allow me a moment of chivalry,” he said, grinning.

She glanced at Enjolras, who simply nodded and smiled back at her. And so, looking back at Jehan, she smiled too and allowed him his dance. The music did not stop and the crowd remained patiently unmoving as the two danced in happy silence. There was a comfort there in his arms, the gentleness of his hold; she enjoyed his company. But then his body tensed, and she prepared herself again for another spin. He released her, and she twirled, gliding over the stones and into Courfeyrac’s arms.

She danced and danced; from one Ami to the next, they all took her in their arms. Lastly, she danced with dear Gavroche, and he surprised her with his finer footsteps. He matched the rhythm of the music, though he did require her assistance, and it was his need and his companionship that left a smile on Éponine’s face. And when they were through, standing together as the music continued to echo through the room, Gavroche gleamed up at his sister. He held her hand and led her a couple steps forward as Enjolras approached them. Gavroche looked up at Enjolras, and Éponine’s hand was guided and placed in Enjolras’s. Her kid brother left them then, retreating to the crowd as the pair gazed at each other. Bliss was in both expressions, and he pressed her to him again, holding her, feeling her in his arms, and she felt him, her heart rushing with elation to hold and be held by him.

And they continued to dance, the music unyielding. On and on they went, even as the wind wafted through the house, though no one cared to notice. Éponine did not know how long the music lasted, how long they held each other in an endless waltz. Her feet never tired and her gaze never faltered, and she never wished to stop, not even as day turned to night and back to day. They spun together on the damp, old stones, and Éponine forgot all of the sorrow she had ever endured, all of the pain that had ever tainted her heart.  Through the chateau they danced, their bodies lighter than dust as they swayed within the hollow walls. And when autumn leaves blew in and scattered across the floor, they made no sound as they danced over them. And when the leaves turned to fluttering snow that swept through the halls, still the music never ceased. From winter to summer, Éponine’s eyes never tore from his and her smile never fell. And she never wanted to leave. 

And she never left.

---

Image Credit: Les Miserables