I looked for Marius but there were other people I was scared of finding. Claquesous was dead—but what of Gueulemer and Babet? I was scared of meeting Montparnasse because I’d hated that kiss against the gravestone and his hands on my bodice, and also because I’d made him so angry. What might he do, if he found me? He’d killed people, after all. So I stayed far away from the rue de la Charcuterie. If I saw a man with oiled hair or a flower in his buttonhole, I’d run.

As for Papa and Azelma, I was in two minds. Sometimes I wished Azelma could be sleeping under the bridge too. But I was also scared of meeting them. I knew they’d mock me. Thieving never suited you, she’d said sourly, and, There are grand houses on the rue Plumet. One’s got a brass knocker on its door … Would they try to make me steal with them? I didn’t want the new light in me to be put out by their darkness.

*  *  *

The idea came to me as I walked back from the Café Musain. I’d made vows in my prison cell—to Marius and Cosette. But hadn’t I vowed to help other people too, back in the church in Montfermeil? All those years ago? I thought of the peaches. How good it felt to be kind—and I hadn’t been kind for so long.

That house on the rue Plumet … I stopped walking. Wouldn’t the kindest thing be to warn the people in it? To find the house and protect it? Yes, I thought, but I didn’t know where the rue Plumet was. I cracked my knuckles anxiously. Paris had boulevards and alleyways and staircases and corners and rivers and parks and buildings so large that streets ran straight through them. It had whole towns within its city walls: Montmartre with its hill, the area called Montparnasse (had he been named after it? I’d never cared to ask) where the cemetery creaked with too many bones. It had more streets than I could ever count, or name. I’d never find the rue Plumet by chance.

Who could I ask? I didn’t have any family now.

I tried a priest as he hurried to his prayers. “Excusez-moi, mon Père? Do you know the rue Plumet?” But he shook his head and moved on.

I passed a crowd of people who’d all gathered to praise Lamarque. They cheered and I pulled on a sleeve: “Monsieur? I am looking for a street named rue Plumet?” But he didn’t know either.

In the end I sat down at a crossroads. From here, I could see where the Bastille prison had stood before I was born. There were lots of urchins here. They skittered between market stalls and hollered to each other and leapt over open sewers as if they had wings. I watched them for a while. Then I sighed and rubbed my eyes.

I heard, “Don’t be sad, lady! At least you’ve still got a head on your shoulders! Many aren’t so lucky … !” It was a child’s voice—bright and bold.

I looked up.

I couldn’t believe it. “Gavroche!” I cried. “Is it really you?”

Without waiting for an answer I pulled him against me and kissed into his hair and I said his name over and over. My little brother—who I’d found milk for and sung lullabies to! Who’d called me Pony and gurgled and sang!

“I thought I’d never see you again! Oh, Gavroche! Let me see you …” Like me, he was impossibly thin. He had scabbed knees and elbows, and his clothes were rags. His freckles were brighter against his pale skin.

He stared in disbelief. “Pony? Is it really you?”

“Yes! Yes! It’s me! Oh, Gavroche … I’ve thought of you so often. You know that I never wanted to leave you on that riverbank, don’t you? I tried to leap off the boat, to—”

He shrugged. “It’s all right. Worse things happen.”

“It isn’t all right! It isn’t at all! I don’t know why our parents did it …”

“Because they didn’t love me. She only wanted girls, didn’t she? But that’s life … No point being miserable!”

I couldn’t believe I was looking at him. “How old are you now?”

“I’ll be eight and a half next week.” He seemed cheerful despite the squalor and the years that had passed between us. He glanced about. “Where are the others?”

“I’m on my own.”

“They’re dead?”

“Maman is. We went to prison and she died in there. She caught the disease that turns your insides to water so that it runs out of you.”

“Lots of people are dying that way. It’s called cholera”—he said the word very solemnly, like he was teaching me—“and it’s getting worse. They reckon it’ll kill you if you don’t starve first! What about Papa and Azelma?”

“I don’t know. Azelma said she was going to help Papa escape from prison and I didn’t want to help.”

“They were always close.”

“They were.” I smiled at him. Little Gavroche. He was eight and a half but in some ways he was like a tiny old man. “How do you live? Are you all alone?”

He grinned to show his crooked teeth. “Alone? Don’t be silly! I’m not alone, Pony! Look!” And he threw his arm wide to show all the other boys who were running under carriages and sitting on walls and laughing. “See them? We’re the urchins! We live together and eat together … It’s like a family. Don’t look sad! I’d rather be living with the boys on the streets than living with our parents again.”

I gave a small smile. Neither he nor I were Thenardiers anymore. We were just ourselves. “You don’t steal, do you?”

His smile was impish. “I try not to … I like to run an errand for a sou or two if I can, and there are shoes to shine and horses to brush. But I’ve got to steal sometimes … I try to be nice about it, though! I always thank them as I run away! And I don’t gamble and I don’t swear. I’m quite the gentleman …” And he doffed an imaginary cap.

I felt so full of tenderness that I felt like crying. “Gavroche … there hasn’t been a day that’s passed where I haven’t hoped you’re alive and well. I’m so sorry I wasn’t a better sister to you.”

He swatted my words away as if they were flies that bothered him. “You weren’t a bad sister. We picked blackberries together and you carried me on your back and you read stories to me—I remember that. You did what you could, didn’t you? I’ve seen worse in this city, that’s for sure, and so what’s there to complain about?” He wiped his nose with his sleeve. “Anyway, I’m a rich fellow these days. There’s pickings to be had at all these gatherings …”

“Gatherings?”

“Political.” He pronounced it like plittick-al. “All these rallies against the king or in favor of Lamarque or whoever … I don’t care! But people pressed together means lots of pockets to pick … In my gentlemanly way.”

I wanted to scoop him up and keep him safe, to whisper, Come with me; live with me. I will take care of you. But I knew he didn’t want that. He was happy as he was.

“Well, I must be off. Nice to see you, Pony.” The imaginary cap was lifted again.

“Can I do anything?” I called out. “To help you? Find you food, perhaps?”

He laughed. “Food? We’re roasting a whole pig over there! Stole it from the butcher’s two streets away! Fancy a bit of pork in your belly?”

I laughed and shook my head. One meal for me would be one less meal for Gavroche or another urchin—and I wanted them to eat.

“Suit yourself!”

“One thing,” I said, “before you go. Rue Plumet.”

“Rue Plumet?”

“I’m looking for it …”

He didn’t hesitate. “Boulevard des Invalides. Know it? Walk east along it and when you see a brick wall with ivy growing on it, turn left and that’s the street you want. It goes uphill. Nice houses up there.” He looked impressed. “Don’t get caught …”

I smiled. The little brother giving out advice.

With that, he was gone. He raced among the passing cartwheels and crowds and I felt so happy that I’d seen him. He’s alive! He doesn’t hate me! With a heart full of love for his little freckled face, I made my way toward boulevard des Invalides just as he’d told me to.