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I started with small things. I stole a loaf of bread from the miller, and then, feeling bad about it, I picked a fistful of blackberries and left them on his doorstep. I knew he liked blackberries because everybody did.

After that, it was flowers. I still felt ashamed of snatching the Widow Amandine’s necklace so I went to her husband’s grave and left some honeysuckle on it. I hoped it might make her smile a little.

I swept the church path of leaves. I stacked its hymn books, one by one. After I’d secretly stolen a metal fitting from a bridle, I took a handful of mushrooms to the blacksmith.

“What’s this?” he asked, suspicious.

“Mushrooms.”

“I see that. But why are you giving them to me?”

“There’s lots of them near the woods. I just thought you might like some.”

He smiled. His heart was a trusting kind. “Merci. Bless you, Eponine,” and I remember that because it was the first blessing I’d ever had.

*  *  *

I got more daring in my stealing. I skimmed cream from the top of milk churns and pulled a fur hat off a lady in Chelles. I snatched the horse blanket that covered the old gray nag because I knew it would keep us cozy when winter came.

“A fine little thief, when you put your mind to it.” Maman gave me her sideways smile.

But I could be a fine giver too. I did all the good deeds I could, without being seen. I lifted all the dead bugs and old leaves out of the nag’s water trough, cleaned the butcher’s windows with soap, spit, and my sleeve. I took down Monsieur and Madame Lefevre’s washing from its line and folded it and left it by their door. One starry evening, as I passed the old cottage where Monsieur Venard lived—the man whose sons died at Waterloo—I heard his door squeaking back and forth. I mended it with grease from our kitchen walls. He cried, “It’s a miracle! Listen! Silent! After all these years …”

I helped Old Auguste too. His hands were so gnarled and bent with age that he couldn’t pick the peaches from his tree that year. “Excusez-moi?” I said to him. “Do you need help picking the peaches?”

He nodded, raised his hands. “Look at these … such useless hands! What good are they?”

“Leave it to me, Old Auguste.”

All afternoon, I picked his fruit. I stuffed my pockets and bodice and skirts with them and carried them down to him. “You’ve got loads of them—look! You could sell them—ten centimes a peach? People would pay because they’re so juicy.”

As we sucked our peaches, side by side, he said, “But you are a Thenardier, ma chérie. They say that your family thieve and cheat … why are you being nice to me?”

I sniffed, looked down. “I want to be honest. I’ve got a good heart inside me, Auguste, I’m sure of it.”

He leaned closer, smiled. “Like the peaches? Sometimes the speckled ones are the best of all …”

Maman was uneasy when I got home that night. “Your skirts are torn and sticky and you’ve got juice on your chin. What’ve you been up to?” But I didn’t tell her. She’d be cross or she wouldn’t understand, so I didn’t tell anyone.

If Cosette had still been there, I might have told her, but she wasn’t. She’s far away now, I thought. With the yellow-coated man.

I realized then that I missed her.

*  *  *

Those were some of my happiest days, but they didn’t last. Papa changed everything—and not through gambling or theft but through something much, much darker.