September 3, 1831

Éponine Thénardier shivered and cursed. It was freezing for September, especially with this downpour of rain. A bolt of lightning shot across the sky, and she screamed, ducking under a bridge for shelter. She tried to whistle the little tune she remembered Cosette singing years ago. After a minute, she gave up the attempt, and leaned back against one of the baskets that had been left there. And then the basket started wailing. Éponine turned around and pulled up the basket's cover. A tightly swaddled baby lay inside, its tiny face covered by a little cloth mask. "Oh, you poor thing," she whispered, reaching for the mask. The baby whimpered, as if to tell her not to.

"Baise!" A familiar man's voice blurted. Éponine stuck her head out from under the bridge to see Enjolras, that leader boy from the Cafe Musain, trying to swat the falling drops away from his blond hair.

"Hey! Enjolras! In here!" she yelled. The revolutionary turned to her in confusion. "If you want out of the rain, come on!" After a moment, he clambered in to face her, pulling off his coat as he did so.

"I've seen you before." It wasn't a question.

"Um, yes... I'm Éponine. Éponine Thénardier. I'm... friends... with Marius Pontmercy."

"Oh, yes. The little street girl." She grimaced. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you, Mam'selle."

"It's fine."

"Where'd the baby come from?" he asked, his tone making it clear that he was trying to be polite, but the implication still made her blush.

"It's not... I mean, I... well... I, um, I found it."

"Oh, I see." His gold eyebrows knit together for a moment. "Take the baby out of the basket."

"Why?"

"Just do it."

"Um, alright?" She gently lifted up the bundle into her arms. Enjolras took the basket and, after a moment, pulled out a folded letter. The baby squirmed as if it knew what was in the letter.

"It's a he. According to this, his name is Erik, and we're better off throwing him in a river."

"Throwing him in a river? What for?" Éponine yelped in alarm. "He's just a baby!"

"Take off his mask," Enjolras said grimly. "The letter says that if you don't understand why he's better off dead, you obviously haven't seen his face."

"I don't think it's a good idea."

"Éponine, I am not saying we will kill him. I simply want to understand the motives of whoever abandoned him. Do it, please."

"Um… alright." Éponine gingerly pulled away the white kid covering. It was good material, which meant the baby's family was rich. So why abandon him... "OH!"

She had never seen anything like the baby's face. A pair of swollen, twisted red lips against bone-white skin, the skin by his nose crumpled and pinched, a mottled scar running along his right cheek. Parts of his skull looked almost burned away, and she could see…

"Is that his brain?" Enjolras asked, leaning closer in what looked to be fascination.

"I think it is…" Éponine answered in shock. "The poor thing…. Cast out just because he's different looking…"

"You're taking a rather interesting view on all this."

"I just… I see pieces of myself in him…"

"How so?"

"Never mind."

"No, tell me. So long as we're waiting out this storm, we might as well talk."

"You talk. I don't want to."

"Very well." And talk he did. He told her about Marianne, his baby sister, and the reason he was fighting for the Republic so fiercely. He talked about the dreams he saw, the visions of the blond woman dressed in the tricolor, and how he was sure it was the spirit of France, urging him on. "She is unlike anything I've ever seen."

"And is that why you're still a virgin?" Éponine joked. He swatted at her head in exasperation. "What? It's what Grantaire says!"

"Grantaire also calls me Orestes from time to time, but I highly doubt I will be murdering my mother and her lover as revenge for my father anytime soon. Nor will I be marrying him off to my sister. In short, do not believe everything Grantaire says to you. Half the time, he doesn't know his own hand from his bottle."

"Is that any surprise? They're always close to each other," she pointed out, and he laughed. It was a warm, sunny sound that made it impossible not to smile. "You should laugh more often."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You look nice when you laugh. People might not be so scared of you if you acted like you do right now."

"Being pleasant can wait until after I have secured that which is far more important."

"What is that?"

"Freedom, Éponine. All the pleasantries in the world means nothing if basic human rights are denied to us."

"I'm never going to be free," she said sulkily. "I'm too poor, my father'll most likely sell me off. You can't stop something like that from happening, Enjolras."

"I'm not entirely blind to the plight of the poor, Éponine," he said coolly. The two of them stayed silent for a minute before little Erik started crying. "What do we do?" Éponine ripped off a piece of her shift and stuck it out into the rain until it was soaked.

"Put it in his mouth," she ordered, shoving it into his hands.

"What?"

"Just do it."

"I feel like an idiot," grumbled he, giving up on resisting and obeying her. As Erik sucked at the rag, Éponine giggled. "I knew it! I look like a fool!"

"No! No, you two look very sweet together…" she trailed off, blushing a little. "Almost like a family." Enjolras noticed the longing in her voice.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing."

"You're lying to me."

She sighed and pulled off her cap, trying to smooth out her tangled, wet brown mess. "I haven't felt like I've had a proper family since I was a little girl. I'm jealous, really. I just… can't help but care for him." The wheels in Enjolras's head started turning. If she was to break free of her parents the way he believed she wanted to, she'd need money. And even if he took little Erik in as his ward, there would be no one to look after him, unless… "Enjolras, why are you looking at me like that?"

"I am looking at you in this way, because I have an idea."

"What kind of idea?"

"Éponine…. How would you like being a governess?"

"Haven't governess got to have educations?"

"Only for older children. When Erik gets older…. Hopefully, I will be able to help him, then."

"I still don't understand what you're saying."

"What I am saying, is that while I am busy at the Café Musain with Les Amis, you would be watching over Erik. And I would be willing to both pay you and give you lessons in exchange for this." He watched her face carefully for her reaction. First, her eyes lit up eagerly and she started to smile. Then, her face fell and she bit her lip.

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"My father," she answered, picking at her filthy nails. "He wouldn't want me spending all my time not helping him. And I don't want to risk a beating."

"And you can't escape?" That was stupid of him. Of course she couldn't. There were only three ways any woman could ever break free of their father. One was to join a convent, something he had a feeling Éponine would not enjoy in the least. Second was to resort to a life as a courtesan, if she hadn't already, another course she probably didn't fancy. The third was to marry someone and be subject to them instead. And somehow, he didn't think she'd do well in that. "Never mind." Éponine glared at him and muttered something under her breath, then changed the subject.

"The rain stopped."

"Will you at least consider my offer?" he asked, pressing ten francs into her palm. Her eyes grew wide in amazement.

"All this?"

"Consider it an incentive if you decide to take me up on it. It's a gift, otherwise."

"I don't want your charity."

"It's not charity."

"Then what is it?"

He smiled a little wryly. "I suppose you could call it bribery. I'll take him home for tonight. And I'll be waiting for your answer after tomorrow's meeting. You know when that is, I presume?" Her bright red cheeks gave her away beneath the dirt. "I'll take that as a yes. Until then, Éponine." Without another word, he collected Erik in his arms and headed back in the direction of his flat.