#yuenchien

2.

The solon hovers just this edge of disreputable, and yetGrantaire counts herself somewhere along the same line, at least when it comesto her reputation. What little she accounts her reputation, at any rate.

She sips at her wine and lays down a domino tile with anauthoritative clack. Her opponent, a comrade from her brief stint at theacademy of the arts, surveys the table with a scowl, though it’s an utter tossup as to which of them has the better chance of winning. A score of theircompatriots jostle around them, and Grantaire flashes a wink when she sees twoof the women exchanging money on a bet.

“You’ve become political these days,” another fellow says,leaning across his friend to grin at Grantaire. “Or taken up political companyat any rate, with quite a firebrand.”

“Political? Nonsense, poetical,” Grantaire retorts,slouching back in her chair. “Have you political inquiries? I shall do my bestto delude you of them.”

He snorts, uncomely, but no one shoots him dire glances for it. There’s a prickle of attention around thegroup, beyond the low buzz of alcohol and potential for debate. Perhaps not apolitical question, at that.

“Is Mistress Enjolras indeed as severe as they say?” heasks, cocking a brow, but the listening intensifies. Gossip, then.

Grantaire, for all her needling and declaiming, is wellaware of what people say aboutEnjolras. They see her with philosophical treatises in hand, and the tight curveof her spine as she listens with stony intensity, and the boldness of her clearvoice. Those things are there. The quiet curve of a quiet mouth is there too,the sprawl of whitework across Enjolras’ lap and her eyes intent upon her neatstitches as she listens fondly to Courfeyrac and Combeferre debating over theparlor table, that is there too.

“Severe is hardly implacable,” Grantaire drawls. “She’s asangelic as she seems, with everythingthat implies.”

She inspects her tiles and the conversation billows aroundher like pipesmoke. Grantaire’s fingers are light on ceramic as she lays hernext play down.

3.

Enjolras does not startle, though she is certainly taken bysurprise. Her sweeping gaze takes in the scene and, quietly, corrects itself.Only, it is strange, not to recognize Grantaire on first glance.

Whatever scheme is going on is unrelated to politicalactivities, certainly. But then, Enjolras knows her friends are very fertileground for incredible goings-on. For all she knows, this involves a bet, or Bossuet’sill-fortune in some manner, or perhaps simply a lark to do with Grantaire’sother friends. It is, however, definitely a scheme.

Musichetta looks fine without pretension, her dress alteredbeyond any Enjolras recognizes and her curls piled atop her head and woventhrough with gems or color glass. Her eyes sparkle when she catches a glimpseof Enjolras, not waving or nodding, but there’s a playful tilt to her mouththat suggests she’s looking forward to explaining this all – later. Musichetta,though lovely, is not surprising.

Enjolras has never seen Grantaire dressed so dully, in closeskirts in muted colors, her exuberant mane of hair coaxed down into a plain,mousy coil pinned at the back of her head. She looks like a lady’s maid, not awealthy banker’s second daughter. Following Musichetta’s gaze, Grantaireglances over and slants Enjolras a trickster’s wink, there and gone faster thana summer breeze. They vanish around a corner, and Enjolras’ face has not givena thing away.

And yet it sticks with her. Grantaire is loud, voicecarrying enough that she must have dabbled in theater in her younger years. Herclothing, too, is always bright, colors that ease the sallowness or pallor ofher face. Even when she lurks, Grantaire is never quiet, never unobtrusive, notin the way that Enjolras lets herself lull and listen.

It has never before occurred to Enjolras that Grantairemight be loud because without it, she might be overlooked.

4.

A young man sidles up to Enjolras’ elbow, taking her aback.

“Good evening,” he greets, decorous.

“Good evening,” she replies, brief but not impolite. The eveningwears on, and Enjolras is mostly still at this gathering until Combeferre isready to brave the roads. Combeferre, gilded with copper and amber like theedges of her golden books, is caught up in conversation with a visitingscholar, and likely will be a while.

The young man hesitates, almost, and then offers aconciliatory smile.

“My condolences on the death of your husband,” he says. Itis not an insult, and there is room for a correction, but it’s also gentlypresented, as though he is not quiteoffering new possibilities but would be very willing and happy to engage herattentions.

Enjolras blinks, confused, and then remembers that tonight,she has worn a blue so dark it brushes the hand of black, the midnight colorwarming her skin and complementing her hair. He’s taken it for a mourningdress.

Which is a fair assumption to make, she supposes, but hereye catches Courfeyrac’s Abbess Pontmercy across the parlor, talking to CosetteFauchelevent. Marie is wearing one of Courfeyrac’s old dresses, a serviceable darkforest green velvet a few seasons out of date, because her black was worn to frayingand she is still in mourning for her father, grief wreathing her solemn face.Enjolras wears no sorrow.

“I had no husband to lose,” Enjolras says, and watches himlook at her again, take in the conservative cut of her gown, and retreat withan effusive apology. Enjolras sighs and looks away.

Grantaire, who had seemed to be nearly lulled to sleep at anearby table for the warmth and murmur of party conversation, catches her eye.She must have overheard, and Enjolras almost feels discomfited, but Grantaire’sgaze is sweet and understanding, and it makes Enjolras feels very gently, verythoroughly known.

5.

Summer brings visitors and flowers, the city blooming withnew trade and talk and rich color, while the social season extends across thelong and lazy evenings. The sky is violet-blue over Courfeyrac’s head, and theflowers peering at the festivities from the trellises are delicate paper whitesand mountainous purples, and she sits, watching with delight as Grantaireoffers a hand out to Enjolras. Enjolras, face still but eyes warm, accepts, andthey settle on the dance floor with a martial grace.

A member of a government delegation sits thoughtful atCourfeyrac’s side, and while she’s liked him well enough, she wishes she’dstuck to friends for the night.

“Is this to draw attention to the shortcomings of mydelegation’s more conservative members?” he asks, watching Enjolras’ hand cupthe line of Grantaire’s jaw during a turn. He sounds almost amused, perhapsapproving – he’s known to be progressive, among his fellows. “Or are theysimply good friends?”

Courfeyrac cannot fathom someone looking at Enjolras andGrantaire, feet in seamless synchronity as they pick their way through thegroups and couples around them, contentment and joy in their mouths and eyes, andsuspect a political show or platonic friendship.

“Neither,” Courfeyrac replies, and doesn’t care if hebelieves her.

+1.

This is how they know it is not a lie.