Silent as the Grave.fic by estelracaart by ellevante​(warning for canon violence,blood,canon major c

Silent as the Grave.fic by estelracaart by ellevante​(warning for canon violence,blood,canon major character death) “And now for the moment of truth.” Prouvaire keeps his voice solemn, the thrill of expectation thrumming through him as he pries loose the last nail holding the crate shut. “After all this drama, who wants to bet we’ll get a heap of sand and a handful of fake coins or some such?” Bossuet is sprawled out on the ground next to the box, his eyelids half-shut as he watches Jehan pry loose the nails. “Even if that’s true, it’ll still be interesting.” Joly raises one hand in surrender as Jehan turns his glare on the aspiring doctor. “Not that it is true, mind you. I’m sure there will be some fantastic occult goods in the crate.” Bahorel and Grantaire, the other members of the unveiling party, wisely choose to remain silent. Bahorel is grinning widely, and there is eagerness in the way he leans forward; Grantaire just shakes his head, a small smile on his face. “Right. As I was saying.” Prouvaire grasps the edges of the crate lid and pries upward. It takes more force than he expected, even with the nails already pulled. Whoever prepared the crate for transport did an admirable job. Eventually the top comes loose, though, and Jehan holds his breath as he peers down… At a very fine collection of straw and unfamiliar dried plants, packed carefully into the crate, filling it to the brim. “Or plants.” Bossuet sits up a bit straighter, peering down into the box. “We could end up with a collection of desiccated plants from Africa.” Jehan throws a handful of the dried plants at Bossuet’s smirk. They make poor missiles, fluttering down around his friend’s head. Joly grabs two pieces of dry yellow grass and shoves one behind each of Bossuet’s ears. Carefully pulling straw out of the box handful by handful, Jehan begins uncovering the actual contents. A lacquered box is revealed first, a beautiful piece of workmanship, the ankh displayed prominently on the lid. Jehan hands the box to Joly before continuing his digging. A handful of small statues, heavier than they appear at first glance, emerge next—some human, some animal, some human bodies topped by the head of a bird, a dog, a lion. These he passes out to whoever holds out a hand, listening with a contented smile as his friends exclaim over the artifacts and he continues digging. A dagger emerges next, a stone blade with a lion-headed crouching human figure as the handle. Before Jehan has a chance to study it too closely Bahorel is reaching out to touch the blade. Jehan hands it over without fuss. He’s only halfway through the box, and there will be plenty of time for them all to examine each piece. An intricately carved scarab beetle with what appears to be a skull motif worked into the center disappears into Grantaire’s eager hands. An urn with glyphs in red and black, a cap in the shape of a jackal’s head, and an affixed tag in English that reads ‘heart’ is snatched by Joly. A ring with the same lion-headed cat-woman carved atop it as the dagger drops into Bossuet’s hand, and he tries it on his own finger, smiling as he elbows Joly and asks if Joly thinks Musichetta would appreciate it. A collection of texts—some scrolls falling apart, some beautifully painted pieces of art filled with glyphs that are incomprehensible—goes into a pile for Combeferre. Jehan wonders idly how long his friend will spend deciphering them—and if it will be as disappointing as Champollion’s deciphering of the Rosetta Stone. Not that Jehan begrudges Champollion his success—certainly not to the extent that some of his fellow Romantics do. While he can understand where his fellows feel let down—the glyphs of Egypt were supposed to contain arcane knowledge, hidden and lost wisdom, channels to talk with gods and demons and creatures beyond all human comprehension—it isn’t Champollion’s fault that the Egyptians instead recorded family lines and royal history. Though Prouvaire is glad, for the moment, that all he can see are beautiful symbols full of infinite potential. Yes, better to see them like this, art and magic and the unreadable tales of an unknown people, than to know that they are a genealogy and record of kings. Always royalty, no matter where they go, the great killer of romantic notions of enlightenment and esoteric potential. Shaking the thought free, Prouvaire reminds himself that not all writings of Egypt are about royalty. There are tales of gods and monsters, instructions on how to navigate the afterlife that have been found, and if those exist, what else might there be? Better to focus on that rather than delving into the melancholic disappointment that had been the uncovering of Egypt’s true message to future generations. The thrill of the unveiling rekindled, Jehan pulls the last piece from the box, cradling it to him for careful study. It is a box, a much smaller plain wooden box with a simple latch. Flicking the latch open, he reveals the last artifact. The mummy is small, perhaps two hand-spans long, the linen that binds it woven tightly together in an intricate pattern of white-and-black that is striking. The head retains the shape of the original body—or so it seems, at least, pointed ears and the rounded feline face. Jehan runs his fingers gently over the cool, dry wrapping, tracing the eye sockets, the cheeks where whiskers once sprouted, the muzzle, rubbing it under the chin. Someone—the black is so deep that Jehan is uncertain if it was the original preserver of the mummy or one of the middle-men through which he purchased the crate—has drawn in features. They have given the tiny cat too-human a face, though, eyebrows rather than whiskers, the round human pupils rather than the slitted cat’s eyes, though they are faithful in the recreation of the muzzle and the feline’s perpetual smile. The combination of cat and human features sends a little shiver down his back as he studies them, raises the hairs on his arms. “What a terrible creation.” Joly stares at the mummy in undisguised horror. “You’re not going to keep that, are you?” “Joly, you keep pieces of dead bodies in our house. You’ve no right to question others’ tastes in interior decorating.” Bossuet reaches out to touch the lower half of the mummy, then draws his hand quickly away, rubbing his fingers together. “Those bodies were used for medical study, and I always kept them in particular locations so they wouldn’t bother you or Musichetta.” A pout crosses Joly’s face, though horror rises again as he continues to study the cat. “And once I was done with them, I saw they were properly disposed of. I didn’t wrap them in sheets and draw a grin on them for eternity.” “He’s a cat. They always smile, it’s how their faces are made. A bit of cruelty from their maker, and perhaps that’s why they enjoy toying with the rest of creation so much.” Jehan cradles the tiny, surprisingly light body closer to his chest. “And yes, I do think I intend to keep him. What else could we do? Bury him? Throw him in the catacombs?” “He might be at home in catacombs, if he’s from one of those pyramid-tombs.” Bahorel also reaches out to touch the creature, looking less disturbed than Bossuet but still uneasy. Joly looks between the crate and the cat, a new worry replacing the horror on his face. “You don’t suppose he’s from a cursed tomb, do you? There weren’t any curses on any of these artifacts, right, Jehan?” “I don’t know.” Jehan allows a smile to creep across his face. “There’s no one fluent in the Egyptian glyphs left living—even Champollion is still learning. Perhaps all of us are now cursed to die terrible, horrible deaths, all the moisture drained from our bodies—” Grantaire snorts. “I wish someone could drain the moisture, all the rain the last few days has left me feeling sodden no matter my clothes.” Jehan ignores him. “—and there will be stories told of us, and perhaps one day, when someone least expects it, our impossibly mummified bodies will rise again—” “But without moisture it seems the body would have a very difficult time getting muscles to work.” All evidence of discomfort fades from Joly’s face as he rubs at his nose, excitement rising in his tone as he considers the problem. “I mean, Galvani’s experiments worked best on muscle that was still in a relatively fresh state, not dehydrated—I shall have to discuss with Combeferre if there are possible connections between this and the weakness that is seen in patients who are lacking in water due to fever or blood loss, perhaps there is potential there for experimentation and improvement of current techniques…” Jehan sighs, giving up on continuing the hypothetical since his audience is clearly not interested in it at the moment. Grantaire strokes one finger gently along the cat’s head. “It’s softer than I expected. Feels… breakable. And if you’d like, I can draw a sketch of you as a horrible mummified monster from the bowels of the underworld.” “If you wish.” Jehan returns his friend’s smile before looking down at the cat mummy again. He does want to keep it, and it does seem fragile. He will have to find somewhere to put it. Retreating for a moment from the crate and the items that his friends are once more perusing and commenting on, Jehan hastily clears a stack of poetry books, a skull with the cranium missing but the jawbone wired into place, and a vase filled with drooping flowers from his nightstand. He will have to find more flowers. The space cleared, he carefully arranges the mummy, standing it upright, its eyes facing the door of the bedroom, on alert for trouble. “Is that what you were, little one?” Jehan once more gently strokes between the cat’s ears, finding a strange comfort in the gesture, though he is careful not to damage the linen. “Were you a child of Bastet, a guardian? Ah, but if you were a guardian, what became of your guardroom? Were you a servant of Ozymandias, and ‘round the decay of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare the lone and level sands stretched far away’? Perhaps you could finally tell us the truth of the ‘powerful but unrecorded race, once dwelt in that annihilated place’. Though Egypt was not annihilated, and the records are there, they are just unreadable or disappointing now.” The cat mummy simply stares at him with its inked-on eyes. Perhaps it hasn’t liked his suggestions. “Or maybe you weren’t a guardian. Maybe you were a warrior, Sekhmet’s cub, not given a chance to grow in a cruel world? There are many like that now, unfortunately.” Still the cat continues merely to stare at him. “Ah, well.” Jehan grabs the wilting flowers, leaving everything else on the floor. He’ll find places for the rest later. “Whatever you were, little one, you will be treated well here, this I promise.” Rejoining the rest of his friends, Prouvaire joins in the eager considerations of his comrades, delighting in the shivering sense of eyes following him from the nightstand. *** A small platter of milk. A human skull, the spirit long departed. A handful of flowers, their fresh, clean scent mingling with her own dry scent of ancient age. An image of her Lady Bastet. A carven image of a fox-headed, fox-tailed god that she doesn’t know. A chattering young man, the giver of the offerings, praying in words that only slowly become comprehensible, his spirit shining bright with hope and belief. It has been a long time since any have called on her, a long time since she has had a purpose. Stretching slowly, languidly, enjoying the movement of each muscle-that-is-no-longer, she ventures out to explore her new home. *** Jehan dreams. He knows it must be a dream, because cats can’t talk. Though it could be a hallucination. He will allow for that, because he did a fair amount of drinking with his friends when they were done dividing their treasures, and he and Bahorel may have shared a bit of something stronger. Dream, hallucination, he doesn’t care. Kneeling on the bed, he studies the creature before him. It looks almost exactly like the cats and kittens that he has fed and played with throughout his life. Its body is a dark buff color, with a black stripe down the center of its back and dark stripes providing markings on its face, sides, and tail. Stretching out one hand, he offers it for the cat to sniff. The cat does so, face bent down, tail curled regally around its paws. It yawns, displaying tiny fangs, and then studies him with green, green eyes. You worship me? “I might.” Jehan turns his head, his gaze sliding over the nightstand and its burdens. “I tend to keep an open mind. Though I didn’t think cats could talk.” Old. The cat stretches, butt in the air, tail arched, front claws digging into the bedding. Very old. Talk for purpose. “For purpose…” Jehan’s fingers itch to bury themselves in the cat’s fur. “What purpose?” Guard. Guard for the Lady. The cat butts its head—her head, if the voice is anything to go by—against Jehan’s hand, and he scratches under her chin. But then dark. Nothing. Now… “Now me.” Jehan scratches his way from the cat’s chin to her ears to her neck, working his way down her back as a purr begins to echo. “What can you guard?” Tell me. Might guard. The cat turns in a tight circle before collapsing on its back, belly to the sky, green slitted eyes piercing through Jehan’s. Boring in dark. Bad. What did one tell a tiny cat-guardian to guard? What did one tell a hallucination to protect? Certainly nothing too big, since the mummy had not been able to stop what happened to its former home. “Protect my friends. I have no problem giving you milk and keeping your shrine, and if I could ask for anything, that’s what I’d want. Protect my friends from harm if you can.” Friends? The cat pulls his hand down and gently nibbles at his smallest finger. “Friends.” Jehan smiles, thinking of his friends. “I’ll tell you about them, and you decide what you want to do.” He talks of his friends. He talks of his country, his world, his place in it, what he wishes for the future, how frightened and excited he is that the fervor for revolution is growing once more as it becomes apparent to more that the 1830 changes will not be enough. He talks and the cat doesn’t mind, so long as his hand continues to stroke it. He talks until he sleeps, an exhaustion of body and a lightness of soul, and his cat-hallucination sleeps with him, purring curled against his chest. There are no bite marks on his hand when he wakes, no fur in his bed, but he offers a small amount of fresh milk in the tiny saucer he had placed in front of the cat mummy anyway, and smiles as he strokes it between the ears. *** He keeps the shrine. He prays, though his prayers are strange, his gods many and varied. He sings, even when there is no music, his words lilting in beautiful rhythm. He gives her milk, and scratches between her ears, and is warmth to curl against as cold such as she has never known descends on her new home. He asks only that she guard his friends, and though she knows it is a hopeless task, she follows them anyway, learning more of each as time passes. *** Grantaire is the first to mention the ghost to Jehan. “I’m only telling you this because out of all of us you’re the least likely to call me crazy or say I was just drunk. Which I was, but only a little bit.” Grantaire edges closer to Jehan, his voice dropping in volume so that Jehan has to lean closer to hear. “And I have proof, you know. Though it’s proof I could have faked, so I know that Combeferre wouldn’t believe me, and Courfeyrac would say I was just having a lucid dream, and if I tell Joly and Bossuet it might end up in one of their plays…” Jehan nods, agreeing with Grantaire’s assessment, expression eager as he waits for Grantaire’s rambling to spiral around to the actual story that he wants to hear. “So… well… yes…” Grantaire rubs at the back of his neck, expression reddening as he takes a gulp from his wine glass. “So I was painting, as I said. It was late—perhaps one, two in the morning? Not the ideal time to be painting, but sometimes I’ll get interesting color combinations or shadow work, and any way I was just glad to have the urge to paint something. And… well I suppose I should admit this isn’t the first time I’ve thought there might be something a bit… odd around the house recently. It’s not every day, mind you, but sometimes I feel like I’m being watched, or like something has grabbed at the laces on my clothing and is pulling on them, or… very rarely… will find myself petting a very soft creature only to look down and, of course, have no creature there. I’ve been dismissing the events—foolery, drunkenness, wistfulness for the idleness and simplicity of childhood with pets who believed you controlled the world.” Jehan can see Grantaire’s expression darkening, and as much delight as he occasionally has in delving into the depths of despair with the man, right now he wants to hear the rest of the story. “But last night was different?” “Last night…” Grantaire lets out a half-chuckling sigh. “I was drawing the Amis—it’s for Courfeyrac, if it turns out right. And I was talking to myself, as I’m wont to do when it’s late. And after a bit I noticed that every time I asked a rhetorical question, I got an answer. Just quiet at first, a little bit of a prrr or sometimes a mra, but as time wore on the answers became louder, until I swear it sounded as though a cat were meowing at me in these very demanding tones that clearly indicated agreement or dissent!” “Fascinating.” Jehan finds himself smiling, thinking of the tiny mummified cat on his nightstand. He hasn’t had dreams of speaking with her again, though he does dream sometimes of petting her, fur silky beneath his hand, whiskers firm and prickly. “Did you ask anything important? Did it tell you anything of value about the mysteries of existence?” “And I know for certain that it wasn’t a cat outside or a stray that crawled inside the building, not unless it was lodged in the walls somehow because I checked… though mundane explanations seem not to interest you. Right.” Blinking, Grantaire stares up at Jehan with a puzzled expression. “I did mention it seemed to be a cat ghost, right? It didn’t say anything other than cat-noises.” “Ah. Pity.” Jehan takes a drink from his own glass. “But it did something else, something that made you certain it was real?” “Yes.” Staring down into his almost-empty glass, Grantaire shakes his head. “I was just starting to add color to clothing. I was working on your image, actually. And I was debating between blue and green when a very precise paw print appeared on your chest in bright blue paint. Just the one print, no others, nothing leading to or from. And after that… nothing. No cat noises. Strange, eh?” “Fascinating.” Jehan smoothes his cyan waistcoat, a smile spreading slowly along his face. “Anything since then?” “No.” Grantaire drains his glass in one smooth motion. “But I’ll tell you if there is, believe me. Maybe it’ll make a good topic for one of your poems—the cat who decided to stay and drive artists mad.” “I think this particular cat may have already appeared in my work.” Jehan pulls out a small notebook where he keeps random lines and snippets of work, but before he can find the pages he wants Enjolras stalks into the room, a harsh set to his eyes that means there will be work to take up shortly. “I’ll show you later. Keep me apprised of any new developments as soon as they happen.” “Of course.” Grantaire nods his assent, gathering his empty glass and fading to the back of the group, clearly recognizing from Enjolras’ expression that interruption will not be welcome in the near future. Jehan doesn’t get a chance to talk with Grantaire about the ghost again until the following day, and when he does Grantaire shrugs off the whole experience as most likely a dream. Jehan doesn’t push the matter, certain that further evidence will come his way given time. *** “Do you believe that animals have souls?” The question comes from Feuilly, and it takes Jehan by surprise, jarring him up out of concentration on a particularly troublesome couplet attempt in his latest work. “Pardon?” Feuilly blushes, a dark red undertone to his skin, but meets Jehan’s eyes evenly. “Do you believe that animals have souls?” “I do.” Setting aside his pen, Jehan turns his full attention to his friend. “I most certainly do. Why should man be blessed with a soul when all other creatures are not? The dog, at least, is capable of more loyalty and devotion than many men. Who would we be to deny him a soul?” “That’s… somewhat like I’ve always believed, though I know it’s heresy.” A faint smile tugs at the edges of Feuilly’s lips, and his eyes drop to where his fingers are clasped together in front of him. “Not that heresy means much to you, I know.” “Not in the Church’s definition, no.” Jehan finds himself smiling in turn, thinking of the horror with which most men of the clergy would view his outlook. “But I do enjoy considerations of the spiritual.” “I’ve noticed.” There is nothing hidden or half-hearted about Feuilly’s grin now, and he straightens a bit in his seat. “It’s why I decided to ask you first. Combeferre would approach it as an opportunity for experimentation. Joly and Bossuet would find it comical. Grantaire would talk in circles, as is his wont. Enjolras… is given to a different kind of spirituality.” Jehan has to suppress a laugh at the loving, half-awed way with which Feuilly considers Enjolras’ spirituality. There is something pure and beautiful in the way Enjolras adores Feuilly and Feuilly adores Enjolras, a meeting of kindred minds and spirits graced with very different experiences by the world, and on second thought there is actually nothing entertaining about it. Perhaps he will have to find verse to put to the emotions he sees from both men. Not now, though. Now he is to be Feuilly’s gateway to gaining information, a vessel by which the highly intelligent man will find the resources he needs to answer his questions. “Could I ask what the ‘it’ in question is? I suspect something prompted this foray into the realms of the spirit.” “You’ll think I’m being foolish.” “You’ve seen me being foolish. It isn’t a terrible way to be.” Jehan’s fingers toy with his pen, dancing it from finger to finger. “Though I find it difficult to imagine you being foolish at all, I must say. At least, not without provocation from others in our group.” Feuilly grins again, relaxing a bit more. “I was going to say that you’ve seen me being foolish, but I suppose that caveat covers it. All right, then. I’ll give you the whole silly tale. Over the last few weeks, there’s seemed to be a cat coming and going from my apartment. I didn’t mind—it never showed itself to me, but it never destroyed anything, never left any unwanted presents, and cats can be a good way to keep vermin at bay.” “How did you know a cat was about, if you never saw it?” “Something would brush against my legs in the night—not often, just a handful of times, but I’ve lived with cats before, so I know the feeling.” There is a pleasant story before that, Jehan can tell from the softening of Feuilly’s face, but he doesn’t press for it now. Later, when he’s allowed Feuilly to share this story. “There’s also been noises, on occasion—you know the questioning mrow cats will make? I’ve heard that a few times. I never could find where the creature was hiding or where it might be coming and going from, though I looked. After last night… well, I don’t think this cat needs a hole by which to come and go, and I doubt I’ll have to worry about it freezing as the winter worsens.” Jehan makes an encouraging sound deep in his throat. “I’ve had nightmares on occasion, ever since the fighting a year and a half ago.” Feuilly half-turns from Jehan as he makes the confession, though Jehan knows that almost all of them have had dreams of battle and death on occasion. It’s a part of the price they pay for their beliefs and the potential cost of bringing their principles to a live birth in the world. “They don’t happen often anymore, but when they do… anyway, I was dreaming. Things were just starting to… go poorly for us. I was shouting—for you, I think, though the dream itself is hazy now. I think I was actually shouting, too, because my throat hurt when I woke.” Jehan is sitting straight in his chair, his fingers tight around the pen, already knowing the answer to the question he will ask. “What woke you, Feuilly?” “The cat.” Feuilly again meets Jehan’s eyes evenly, a hint of awe in his voice, touching his expression. “It batted my cheek until I woke, stared into my eyes with its round green ones, gave one very self-satisfied mao, and vanished. I could feel it sitting on my chest when I woke, but as soon as I moved to touch it, to pet it, it was gone. Into thin air, as though it didn’t exist, though I saw it as clearly as I see you.” A prickling sensation runs up and down Jehan’s arms, the hairs standing on end. “You searched the room?” “Nothing. Not even any cat hair on the bed.” Feuilly spreads his hands open. “But I trust my eyes. I know what I saw.” “I believe you.” “And that’s why I wanted to ask you about animals and souls, because it seems to me that to have a ghost you would have to have a soul, yes?” Feuilly frowns. “The priest who used to preach at the orphanage told us that animals have no soul, that they simply return to the earth when they die, but that never seemed quite… right to me.” “It never did to me, either. One of my favorite bits of the Bible as a child—For the wolf also shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the kid; and the calf and the lion and the fatling together; and a little child shall lead them—would make very little sense if there are no animals in the Kingdom of God, no souls for Him to save from the depredations of sin and deterioration that make up the mortal world of the Church.” Jehan watches Feuilly give a slow nod of agreement before charging on. “Plus look at all the saints who have ministered to animals—would any decent God allow Francis to spend so much time teaching to birds and wolves only to tell him his beast friends have no place in Heaven, no soul that may be saved?” “Given the Church’s response to many things, it could be argued whether their God is decent.” Feuilly mutters the comment more to himself than to Jehan. Religion has too often been a point of contention amongst revolutionaries, and Jehan knows Feuilly has been almost constantly re-evaluating his own beliefs over the last few years. “I agree, though, and find it comforting that there are passages to support our position. Thank you.” “There are, of course, also non-Christian ways of considering animals and their souls.” A bit of a wicked smile slides onto Jehan’s mouth as he waits for Feuilly’s reaction. Raising his eyes to the ceiling for a moment, Feuilly shakes his head. “Out with it, then.” “Oh, but where to start. Well, let’s start with reincarnation. It’s a belief in India, in both the Buddhist and Hindu traditions. Buddhists believe that every living being has lived multiple times, that there is a consciousness that shapes and is shaped by the world over each life as it attempts to reach a state of nirvana. So a cat could become a man or a man become a cat. The Hindus have a very similar belief, though they agree more with the Christians that there is a soul, a distinct unit of the individual, that moves life to life, the circumstances of that life dependent on the karma accumulated through previous lives. It’s certainly a fascinating concept…” He and Feuilly spend the majority of that night in philosophical debate, Jehan providing most of the textual references and promising to bring Feuilly books on the morrow, Feuilly providing very sound arguments for and against various portions of the beliefs. (Truly, how had Jehan managed to miss the blame clearly directed at the individual inherent in the concept of karma controlling ones’ birth and position in society? And the parallels that could be drawn with the divine right of rule!) They don’t speak of the ghost-cat again, but Jehan makes sure to leave an extra bit of milk at the cobbled-together shrine the mummy shares with Inari and images of Wodin’s crows, a gift in gratitude for the solace given a good friend. *** “Are you a spirit?” Jehan runs his hands through the cat’s beautiful fur, relishing the softness and the warmth as the chill of winter presses in on his bedroom. “Are you a ghost or a god or something else entirely?” I am me. The cat arches against his hands, urging him to scratch more strongly at the base of her tail. Me, only me. If she is a god, she is a taciturn and surprisingly laconic god. If she is the ghost of a cat, as seems more likely, she is a surprisingly verbose cat. Or perhaps she is simply better than most cats at making herself understood, aeons that he can barely imaging living through having passed before her eyes. He is dreaming again, lost in a world halfway between wake and sleep, as he always is when he can see his mysterious guest. She doesn’t come often—or at least doesn’t come often as more than a brush against his shins, a faint trill somewhere in the night—and he treasures all of her visits. “What did your original people think you were?” Rubbing under her chin earns a rumbling purr that vibrates through his fingers and up to his wrist. “What did they think they were?” Guardian. Rubbing her head against his finger, twisting around until she flops onto her side, she gazes up at him with slitted green eyes. I am me. Guardian. You are you. Alive. All very true, at least as far as he knows. Also not very helpful, and he frowns as he continues to pet her. Guardian. She presses forward, clambering up his chest, forcing him to either lie down so she can perch on him or suffer claws in his skin. Good? “Very good.” Jehan continues to stroke her fur, smiling and closing his eyes as she butts up against his chin. “Thank you.” Good priest. A tongue, warm and wet, laps gently at his chin. Good priest, good friends, good guardian. I like it. “I do, too.” He can’t seem to open his eyes again, sleep calling him inexorably down, but that doesn’t stop him from stroking her. “Change is coming, and if we have our way it will be change for the better, but there are many beautiful things in my life right now. So beautiful…” She doesn’t say anything more, and he drifts into unconsciousness with her purr still rumbling in his ears. *** “But I swear, it’s the first time I’ve ever been saved by the family pet!” Courfeyrac’s cheerful voice, clearly mid-story, catches Jehan’s attention, and he wends his way between tables to the one that Courfeyrac, Joly, and Bossuet are currently occupying. “I sense a tale in the making.” Jehan settles himself, books on the table in front of him, and smiles at his friends. “Courfeyrac’s latest dalliance almost ended in a duel.” Bossuet brandishes one finger on each hand as though it were a sword. “He was nearly caught in flagrante delicto with a fellow aristocrat’s wife.” “I do protest being placed in the same category as de Chardin!” Courfeyrac places a hand to his heart, turning wide, innocent eyes on Bossuet. “And it is not my fault if he is unable to provide the stimulation that his wife desires—stimulation I think he would find rather easier to come by if he would consider her a person instead of the matrimonial equivalent of a nice coat rack.” “From other accounts you’ve given of her, it seems that she was the equivalent of a coat rack, sold to an older man to tie the family fortunes together and hopefully provide both families with more stability.” Joly spreads his hands apologetically. “Not saying it’s right to consider her as such, but when that’s how her own family treats her…” Courfeyrac’s glare only intensifies. “It still makes him a bore and a lout, concerned with his own fortunes, unable to even consider his wife as a fellow human being.” “And you come in as the star-crossed lover, saving her from her fate?” Jehan raises one eyebrow. “That is both alike and unlike you.” “She is a friend, a gorgeous woman, and a fellow believer in our vision of the future—she could be quite useful in the future as a source of information and a way of disseminating our views amongst those most resistant to them. But you all are distracting me from my story!” Courfeyrac leans forward, eyes dancing. “Do you truly want to make me defend the merits of my choice in partners, or would you rather hear about excitement and adventure?” Bossuet finishes his glass and waves for a refill. “I’m sure stepping on the cat’s tail in the dark was quite the adventure, worthy of an epic poem. Prouvaire, get started, the rest of us will fill in as the muse strikes us!” “I think I’d prefer to hear what actually occurred.” When it seems that Courfeyrac might decide to pout rather than continue his story, Jehan pats his shoulder. “And we all know that there is more to your relationships than just a romp between sheets—you are a man of honor and compassion, respectful of those most likely to be ignored even by voices agitating for change.” “Well, that’s a bit more praise than I deserve, and certainly more buttering than is needed to let the rest of the story slip out. I think there are many here who share our love and admiration for the fairer sex in a more than corporeal sense.” “Musichetta is one of the most intelligent people I know.” A hint of chagrin enters Joly’s voice, and he bows his head. “If I implied otherwise, or insulted your lady friend, I apologize.” “I know it was just a bit of sporting.” Courfeyrac shrugs off any last vestiges of annoyance with a bright smile. “But it truly was amazing. She and I were right there, as Bossuet so charmingly put it in flagrante delicto, when the most hideous screeching noise came from the staircase! I think de Chardin must have been expecting something… similar to what was occurring, because the man had been silent up until that point, but oh, when that cat began yowling did he scream! To be fair it sounded more like he was on the stair with an angry tiger than with our usual feline friends—I didn’t know that cats could make such loud sounds! While he was cursing in the hall, clearly collecting himself after his encounter with the beast, Renee shoved me and my clothes into a servant’s stair.” “Naked?” Bossuet’s interjection is amused. “Of course, all my clothes in hand, me in the pitch dark, trying to fumble my way forward without making a sound.” Courfeyrac shudders, his face the picture of misery. “I swear, that corridor was home to a thousand spiders! And the places that I acquired splinters… but I consoled myself with the idea that if I just kept creeping forward, I would find my way to a safe area from which to vacate the premises. And I did end up downstairs, at least… but downstairs still in the dark, at a crossways with three choices of direction and no idea which to choose. What do you suppose happened then?” “You put your clothes on to avoid more splinters?” “You waited for your lady love to send directions, somehow?” “You were discovered, and the feline’s good deed gone to waste?” “You gave up and spent the night in the dark, sleeping standing up?” “You—” “The little cat came to my rescue again!” Courfeyrac interrupts Joly and Bossuet’s back and forth. “I think it was more that I was in the beast’s way as it used the servant stairs to escape the bedroom and what must have been an unhappy owner, but it brushed by my ankles in the dark—ah, the self control it took not to scream at that! I decided that the cat likely knew a good way to escape, or at least had a better idea than I did, and when I followed it I was able to find my way out without notice. It was a bit strange, though.” “What was?” Joly smiles as he asks the clearly desired question. “Well, I know the cat wasn’t very far ahead of me—I could hear it making little sounds most of the way, mrrrs or a bit of purring. But when I finally emerged, I didn’t see the beast at all. Just gone. Vanished.” Bossuet smiles. “It was dark where you emerged?” “Oh, most definitely, though not so dark as in that infernal corridor.” Courfeyrac shrugs. “I know it was likely a dark-colored cat who just blended into the darkness, but it was curious at the time.” “Most likely. Though the eye is capable of amazing feats, it can also be fooled by the oddest circumstances.” Joly leans forward. “Plus there is gathering evidence that the eye, though exactly the same in appearance, has microscopic apparatus that can be deficient in certain individuals. It seems there are others who share Dalton’s inability to differentiate between colors that are, to the rest of us, quite obvious.” Bossuet grins. “So perhaps when certain people say they cannot see the reason in our arguments they are not being intentionally obtuse, they are merely microscopically flawed?” Jehan joins in the banter that follows, though Courfeyrac’s story remains at the forefront of his thoughts. When he gets home that night he places a small amount of meat in front of the shrine that houses his cat. The meat stays there, seemingly unchanged, for the next twenty-four hours, until he offers it to a half-starved dog. He dreams that night that a cat is purring against his side, biting gently at his hand, and wishes that he could still see the cat when he wakes in the morning. *** “Someone searched my rooms last night.” Combeferre whispers the words quietly, his lips barely changing shape from the bright smile with which he had greeted Jehan, Bahorel and Feuilly as he settled at their table. “Did they take anything?” Bahorel also continues to smile, though his hand tightens on his glass. “Do we need to get you out of the city for a bit?” Feuilly’s smile has disappeared, his expression settling into one of grim determination. “No.” Combeferre shakes his head, allowing his own smile to fall. “There was nothing terribly incriminating, thankfully—Courfeyrac has our latest manifestos, and Enjolras moved the ammunition to a safer location two days ago, and my own weapons were kept successfully hidden, I think.” “But we all need to be aware.” Bahorel claps a hand to Combeferre’s shoulder. “I’ll look into avenues for disappearing, in case the need arises, but hopefully you’re right.” “I’m sure I am. As I said, there was nothing incredibly incriminating to be found. If there was, I doubt I’d be speaking with you now. Honestly the part that bothers me most is that they weren’t gentle with some of my collections.” Combeferre’s hands clench into fists, a snarl pulling at the corner of his mouth for a moment before being carefully suppressed. “They broke a wing off my striped albatross.” Bahorel blinks. “You have an albatross in your room? As in the giant sea bird? Please tell me you mounted it with the wings extended, going across the length of the ceiling.” “No.” A hint of amusement pushes some of the darkness from Combeferre’s eyes. “I mean, if I were to acquire an avian albatross I would most likely pose it with wings outstretched if possible—their wings are one of the more fascinating aspects of them, biologically. But this albatross was of the butterfly variety. It was part of my India collection, and it’s going to be quite annoying to acquire another. They also tore apart several of my articulated skeletons. Did they believe I was hiding incriminating documents in the finger bones?” “We could.” Joly scratches idly at his nose. “If we were to hollow out the long bones of that human skeleton of yours, there would be room to hide things in it.” “No.” Combeferre narrows his eyes. “We are not damaging my collection. And even if the long bones would be a decent hiding place, what did they think I was going to hide within the dog skeleton? Or the rat? They completely disarticulated the rat by throwing it against a wall, and though I’ve searched I haven’t been able to find all the little bones. I doubt I ever will.” “Barbarians.” Jehan places his hand over Combeferre’s. “I suppose it should come as no surprise that those who don’t honor the struggles of the living would have no respect for the dead, but truly, what harm did they think it could do?” “They might have just been surprised. Not that I’m condoning the destruction of your skeleton, I’m sure it was a lovely skeleton.” Feuilly gives a small sigh as Combeferre’s glare fades away. “But I know that if I were searching someone’s rooms and unexpectedly picked up the skeleton of a dead rat—which I suppose it must be dead if it’s a skeleton… anyway, I would find it rather… disconcerting. And probably not assume it was something that was meant to be there.” Bahorel’s laugh rings out. “Oh, I can imagine that! ‘Let’s see, we have clothes, books, so many books, dear heaven this man is going to drown in books and paper, it’s going to be a flood, and are there supposed to be live insects in that box, I think I won’t check it, and that skeleton in the corner is watching me, the human one not the dog one or maybe they both are and what’s this flat smooth—God preserve me!’ I imagine it was quite the sight to see.” The left side of Combeferre’s mouth twitches upward slightly. “I suppose, when imagined that way, it could have been entertaining to see. I would be more entertained if I could find all the pieces and try to put it back together again.” “Then let’s go find them.” Jehan stands, pulling on Combeferre’s arm. “You’re all willing to help, yes?” Combeferre stumbles to his feet, following the tension Jehan puts on his hand, but his tone is uncertain. “It may not be the safest thing for all of you to do—if they’re searching my rooms someone is suspicious—” “And if they’re suspicious of you, they’ll already be suspicious of us.” Bahorel links his arm with Combeferre’s free one. “Especially me. I am an extremely suspicious man, after all. Besides, what harm is there in reassembling skeletons? Seems very scholarly and normal, not at all dangerous or degenerate.” Feuilly shakes his head, though he follows behind them eagerly enough. “You students have a very odd sense of normalcy.” They spend the next four hours helping Combeferre right his room, gathering papers and books into stacks, finding the small rodent bones and placing them in a neat pile on his desk. Combeferre instructs them, his voice rising sharply on occasion when he takes umbrage at how Bahorel is posing the human skeleton or at Jehan arranging some of the butterfly display cases inside the dog skeleton. Feuilly, perhaps wiser than them, manages to avoid being the target of these outbursts, instead helping arrange the tiny bones properly for Combeferre to glue. When finally everything has been reordered to Combeferre’s specifications, the night has grown late, all the light provided by lanterns that Combeferre has set up. He studies the tiny skeleton before him, shadows thrown by the bones striping his hands in darkness and light, and sighs. “Not too bad, I suppose. Now she’s only missing two ribs, the tail vertebrae, and the mandible. Ah, I suppose I’ll just have to create another if I want a complete set again.” Feuilly straightens abruptly, his face paling, and points toward the bed. Jehan doesn’t turn fast enough to see the cat. He knows it is a cat, though—knows it is his cat, though that is madness—because he recognizes the self-satisfied mrr-prr. “A cat.” Feuilly is the first to approach the bed. “I swear there was a cat—a cat just like I’ve seen in dreams—but where…” Bahorel takes Jehan’s hand in his, his skin warm against Jehan’s trembling grip. “Likely just a stray, gone into the shadows somewhere.” Combeferre stands, setting the skeleton down very carefully as he does. “I doubt it’ll hurt anyone—it hasn’t done anything so far, and with how small…” Combeferre trails off as Feuilly turns back to him, face still pale, palm held out. Settled in Feuilly’s palm are three tiny bones and a set of vertebra on a hair-thin wire—the missing pieces of the skeleton. Jehan can feel himself grinning, a mixture of pride—his cat, his ghost-visitor, his dream has done this—and fear—for it never bode well, interacting with the dead, having one foot in both worlds, it never ended with the living pulling back the dead but always with the dead claiming the living—vying within him. “A spectral vision clear, thrills every hair with fear.” “The dead were wrathful found, ‘gainst those that slew.” Bahorel skips the majority of the verse, though he keeps the words in their proper cadence as he whispers them. “Though cats tend to be the slayer of rodents, I suppose.” “Again, it could very easily just be a cat, they are swift and clever creatures who are good at disappearing at night…” Combeferre carefully takes the bones from Feuilly. “Or perhaps it’s not. I think, my friends, that we’ve all done enough work today. If you don’t mind giving me a moment to place these in their proper location so they won’t be lost, I’d like to treat you to dinner.” They spend the evening discussing ghosts and ghost stories, trading beliefs and conjectures. Jehan finds, to his surprise and delight, that none of his friends are against the idea of ghosts existing—though Combeferre has an annoying penchant for wishing to prove their existence and the rules by which they work, completely destroying the mystique and majesty of the spiritual. “We don’t need to prove anything about ghosts.” Jehan changes the water in the little saucer for a dash of milk as soon as he arrives home. He rearranges the flowers, not removing any of them but shifting where the wilting ones are. He will have to find a way to forge flowers from paper or something else that won’t die, if he wants to continue to have them at the shrine. “We just have to let you exist, and accept what you are. To thank you when you do kind things, and fight you if you do bad things. Just like you do with people and things of the physical world. There is a difference between mortal and spirit, yes, but if we can see it’s wrong, any being worthy of respect should also know it’s wrong. Not that you’ve done anything wrong. You’ve been amazing, and I thank you. And I should probably go to sleep, before I fall asleep right here on my feet. Thank you, little one, and rest well.” He strokes her gently between the ears, above her painted, beautiful eyes, and stumbles his way to bed, a thousand questions and answers and questions for the answers sliding in colored verse through his mind. *** He is one of the best priests she has ever had. He doesn’t pray appropriately, but he prays avidly, daily, and he leaves offerings with such zeal and regularity that she almost remembers times long past. Almost, but not quite, because she doesn’t want to remember. She wants to be here. She wants to be with him. She wants to watch his friends, strange creatures that they are, and purr against him in the night, and learn what it is that he is trying so determinedly to do. All priests have purpose, after all, and his is all-consuming, that she recognizes, even if she can’t understand it. *** “Just stop by, if you can. Help a bit, or just… anything.” Bossuet’s voice trails off, and there is a dark dejection in his eyes, a dimming of the light there that cuts through Jehan. Bossuet, who has faced trial after trial with a smile, is frightened by something. “Joly isn’t—” “Not sick, God be thanked, though he was worried about it for the first week or two—every little tremor he had, every ache and pain from sleepless nights, he thought he had caught it and was going to give it to Musichetta and I.” Bossuet runs both hands through his hair. “But it’s… this epidemic is taking a toll on him. On Combeferre, too, I’m sure on everyone trying to work miracles while Death stalks the streets, but… I don’t know what else to do for Joly, other than bring him distractions and helping hands.” Jehan nods, understanding dawning. Placing a hand on Bossuet’s shoulder, he squeezes gently. “I’ll be glad to stop by and do what I can.” It is a promise easy in the giving, hard in the keeping. The sick pile into the hospital in droves, their symptoms varied, their prognosis always grave. The cold that still lingers from winter does no one any favors, and the smells of vomit and feces and death permeate the hospital despite the best efforts of all those involved. For long minutes Jehan finds himself merely standing as out of the way as he can, watching the chaos and madness, bits of verse too morbid to write flitting through his head. “Help or go.” Joly’s words are short, but his eyes are kind, still, despite a dark haunting shadow that clings to him as it clings to all working in the hospital. “I appreciate you coming and bringing food, but I don’t want you standing idle inhaling the horrible miasma here unless you need to.” Pulling himself together, straightening, Jehan makes the only choice he can. “I will help. Just tell me what to do.” He cleans beds, he moves people, he brings water and distributes as evenly as he can the broth that is supposed to help keep their patients wet and perhaps push back the tendrils of cholera wrapped in their essence. He recites verse as he works, taking requests when the men and women and children he assists are coherent and literate enough to give them, choosing those most hopeful for the future when the ones he works with aren’t able to make requests. It is exhausting work. It is disheartening work, and he finds himself appalled once again at how quickly it becomes a matter of course to call one of the medically trained to confirm death. There must be some better way to do this. There must be some way to prevent this. There must be something, anything— “Come with me.” Joly’s hand on his shoulder draws him away, back from the madness and out onto a street that seems somehow too calm and too cool and too dark to belong to the same world as the hospital. “Come, Jehan, let me take you home.” Jehan nods, feeling the motion too jerky and mechanical, and places his own arm around Joly’s shoulders, holding his friend tight, providing and getting support in equal measures. Jehan doesn’t ask why Joly follows him home, why Joly follows him up the stairs, why Joly stands silent in the center of Jehan’s living room, staring in seeming confusion at the chairs. Instead he pours them both a glass of wine. “Thank you.” Joly takes the proffered glass, staring down at it without seeming to actually see it. “Was that… about usual?” Joly’s head rises slowly, and he blinks a few times before giving a tired nod. “Since this started, yes. I hate epidemics. Not that this is news, I’m certain, but we always feel so… helpless. Like there are never enough hands, and even when there are like the work we do is never quite enough. And today wasn’t even the worst. Today…” Jehan nudges Joly’s glass with his own, coaxing the man’s head up again. “Today?” “Today… you’ll think me mad.” Joly meets Jehan’s eyes, a half-smile on his face, but over the next few seconds the smile fades. “Or… given that it’s you…” Judging that silence is the best way to coax whatever Joly wishes to say from him, Jehan stays still and quiet. “I lost two children today. We did. The hospital did. The old and the young are usually the quickest to die, the hardest to save. The worst to watch, too. I don’t know which is worse… when the parents are there, pleading with words and eyes and hands for you to do more, to work miracles, or when the children are alone. Frightened. Confused. Abandoned.” Joly takes a deep drink, grimacing as he does, either at the taste or at the memories Jehan can’t tell. “These two were like that, alone, but they became friends despite their sickness. Strange, how some can do that… continue to reach out, right until the end.” “I’m sorry, Joly.” Fetching the bottle, Jehan refills both of their glasses. “I can only imagine—” “They asked me for string and a bit of fabric this morning… right after you came. I couldn’t imagine what for. Then they said that there was a cat that they wanted to play with. A little striped cat, they said, crawling around them, purring, looking for something to play with. It must have been a fever dream, some kind of shared delirium, but it made them smile.” Joly drains his glass again, a slight tremble to his hand. “I gave them the toy, and they played with their invisible cat, pointing right at an empty patch of air, and they smiled. They laughed. They were happy. And somehow that makes it better, that they were happy, even though they were dead four hours later.” Joly goes completely still, his eyes filling slowly with tears. “They died, but they smiled, and God, Jehan, what does it say about me that this makes it better?” Jehan is prepared for the tears. He is already crying himself, tears trailing silently down his face as he watches his friend grapple with the horrors he has dedicated himself to fighting. He allows Joly’s wine glass to fall to the floor, not caring that it breaks, spilling red wine like the too-thin blood of a sacrifice across the hardwood. Wrapping his arms around his sobbing friend, he simply pulls him away from the broken bits of glass, making sure neither of them will be hurt, and holds him tight. “It makes you human, Joly.” He whispers through his own sobs. “It makes you something beautiful, someone who has seen wonder and love shining even in the darkest time. Would it be better if all you did was cry? Would it be better if all you did was see the darkness, the loss, the hopelessness, and allowed that to consume you, slowly, one day at a time?” His words only seem to make Joly cry harder, the man’s knees going out from under him, and Jehan allows them to sink slowly to the floor. What else can he say? What else can he do? Nothing. There are no words of comfort that Bossuet and Musichetta won’t have spoken, no platitudes about the good that he has done that Joly won’t have heard from others in his own profession. What Jehan can do, right now, is hold his friend, and give him a place to cry, and cry his own tears onto Joly’s shoulders, because the world that is so beautiful can also be so, so cruel and awful. After a time both their tears are spent, and Joly straightens. “I’m sorry, Jehan. I didn’t mean—” “To trust me?” Jehan raises one eyebrow. “To be honest with me?” “Well, no.” Joly blushes. “I didn’t mean that, of course. I just…” “You needed to cry.” Jehan brushes Joly’s hair back into a semblance of order. “You needed to let go of all that you’ve seen over the last few weeks. I needed to cry, as well, and I only saw it for a day.” “Yes, but you’re also… you. You’re not afraid to cry or laugh or whatever else you feel like doing.” Joly scrubs at his face with one hand. “You’re not a doctor. You didn’t join the profession knowing that this is what you would be facing.” “Even doctors are human, my friend. And just because you have to be calm in front of your patients doesn’t mean you need to be calm in front of your friends.” “I know.” Joly sighs deeply. “Bossuet, Musichetta, they both keep insisting on that, but I don’t want to be a burden on them. A burden on the rest of you.” “This is not a burden. This is a privilege.” Jehan stands, holding out a hand to help Joly to his feet. “And even if you insist on considering it a burden to us, think of this: the more shoulders to carry a weight, the less placed on each. The less you have to carry alone.” “If you’re certain it isn’t a burden.” Taking the proffered hand, Joly allows himself to be pulled to his feet. “And you don’t think… I’m not terrible…” “It is not terrible to take comfort in the joy that others feel.” Pulling Joly into another embrace, Jehan speaks firmly. “You call it a fever dream; perhaps it was something else. The cat gave comfort to those children. Perhaps it was also meant to give comfort to you—what horrors does Death hold if He comes with a cat chasing string at his side?” “Many. Death can hold many, many horrors.” Joly sighs, closing his eyes. “But you’re right. Thank you, for everything today.” “No need for thanks.” Jehan squeezes Joly’s hand. “Just promise me you will come to me again if you ever need me.” “I promise.” Joly smiles. “Come out with me for dinner? We can pick up Bossuet, Musichetta, maybe Bahorel or Grantaire and have a good evening still, if you’d like.” “I would like that very much.” The evening passes too swiftly, Joly calling it a night earlier than he normally would have, but it is a pleasant evening in good company. When they part for the evening, Bossuet takes him aside, whispering quietly in his ear, “Thank you. I don’t know what you did, but thank you.” “I didn’t do anything much. Nothing you haven’t done, I’m sure. Sometimes it just takes a different face and voice on the same message to help it get through.” Jehan gives a small smile. “And perhaps a small cat frolicking between worlds.” Bossuet gives him a puzzled frown before shaking his head. “I should know better by now than to expect simple answers from you.” “I can give straightforward answers to simple questions. If you ask a complicated question, though, expect a complicated answer.” Bossuet grins. “And what about a simple question? If I ask you to get rid of the rat that’s been giving Musichetta so much trouble lately, will I get a maddening response?” “Depends.” Jehan returns the grin. “Do ghost cats hunt living rats?” He gets his answer two weeks later, when Joly comes into the Musain wincing, saying he had a very long night after Musichetta found a dead rat on her pillow. Apparently ghost cats, just like living cats, liked to leave their presents in an obvious locale. Jehan makes certain to mention that he doesn’t need any rodent gifts when he makes his offerings that evening, though he suspects telling a cat what you want is unlikely to get the desired effect. Still, it never hurts to ask. *** “Stand still.” “Sorry.” Bahorel finally stops fidgeting, his muscles locking down tightly as he offers Jehan a half-sheepish smile. “Still coming down off the fight.” “Clearly.” Jehan’s tone is acid, though his hands are steady where they go about their work, wrapping bandages around the shallow wounds covering Bahorel’s forearms. “I still don’t understand how you managed to get into a brawl you weren’t prepared to win. You’re usually better prepared than this.” “Accident. I wasn’t expecting a brawl, just a good night’s worth of drinking, but tensions are starting to run a little high.” Bahorel flexes both hands, testing the tightness of the bandage and wincing a bit. “How was I to know that calling the snot-nosed brat a Royalist would lead into a tavern-wide fight?” “And I suppose you just called him a Royalist?” Jehan finds himself fighting a bit of a smile as he checks the bandages, confident that they’ll do their job for the night. “There were no other, more colorful terms flung about?” “Oh, you’re the one to go to if colorful terms are needed!” Bahorel’s grin is wide and bright, undeterred by the injuries he sustained. “But I may have done my level best to explain to him why his views were wrong.” “Of course. You were just trying to help expand his horizons, yes?” Taking a step back, Jehan gestures for Bahorel to have a seat while he fetches glasses and a bottle of wine. “I’m glad that you understand.” Bahorel waits for Jehan to finish pouring the glasses and then raises his in a toast. “To the education of the populace, by discourse or duel, whichever proves more pragmatic at the time.” “Next time try to be armed when approaching a duel.” “It is not my fault that he had a sword-cane! A properly disguised one, too.” Bahorel scratches idly at the top of his right bandage. “I’m certain you did everything in your power to prevent the altercation.” “Well, I wouldn’t go quite that far.” Bahorel’s grin fades a bit, to a more gentle smile. “I am sorry for interrupting your evening. None of the scratches seemed terribly bad, though, and unlike Combeferre or Joly, I suspected you would still be awake and willing to assist.” “It’s no trouble. I was doing a bit of writing, but it wasn’t going well, anyway.” Staring down at the dark red liquid in his glass, liquid turned black by the dim light thrown by the candles carefully situated around the room, Jehan thinks back on what Bahorel had said. “You think things will be coming to a head soon?” “I do.” Bahorel nods, the smile disappearing completely. “Tensions are rising, both sides digging their feet in and refusing to budge. For some, there is precious little room left to budge. Between the winter and the cholera epidemics, quite a few are getting desperate. In others, the desire for fre -- source link

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