Her dress was taffeta and it trailed on the ground. Her hair was unpinned. It was longer than it ever was in Montfermeil, reaching down to her waist.

Cosette lives here. In a house that matched her beauty. And Valjean … ? Was he still alive? He must have been wounded very badly at the Gorbeau; what if he’d died afterward? I leaned forward and peered through the branches of the elm tree, seeking a man’s silhouette. I scanned the windows of the house—all dark except one where a candle was shining.

I thought of the Louis d’or, placed in her shoe. His face as he’d read the letter in Les Jardins du Luxembourg and the concern on it.

It will be my fault if he’s dead.

I closed my eyes. I could hear the soft pad … pad … of Cosette’s feet as she walked. With all my heart I hoped that Valjean was still alive and I whispered to myself, “Let him be, let him be …”

Then I saw him.

I nearly called out in relief! It was Jean Valjean, standing by the window with the candle. I knew his silhouette, his hair and shape. But he seemed to be standing awkwardly, as if leaning on a stick, like Maman used to do. With his spare hand, he rapped on the glass.

Cosette looked up.

“I’m coming, Papa!” she called, and she hurried back through the garden past the apple tree, dropping the honeysuckle as she went.

Their house. It was where the two people I’d hurt the most in my life lived. If I wanted to make up for my past mistakes, my past choices, this was the time.

I will not let them be robbed. I’d do whatever it took it protect them because I was the new, free, kind Eponine who wasn’t being told to steal anymore. And I knew that Marius’s heart would break if she, Cosette, was hurt at all. I would protect them.

*  *  *

So I no longer slept beneath the bridge with the reflections and the rats. I chose the elm tree, instead. There was a fork in its branches that I’d wedge myself into so that I couldn’t fall out, and I slept among its new, growing leaves. This way, I could guard them. If Azelma and Papa were going to burgle this house they’d do it at night. They’d creep up the dark side of the street with a finger pressed to their lips—Shh …—and I could drop down from the branches and say, Stop!

In my new leafy bedroom, there were moth wings and insects and sometimes a bird would perch, clean its wings. How could this be Paris? Where sewage ran down streets and people fought and the disease called cholera was leaving bodies in the gutters or lying outside hospitals. It was peaceful up here, like a different world.

*  *  *

My elm-tree nights. I half slept, half listened for my sister’s light tread on the ground. But by day I still looked for Marius. I just wanted to see his face again and so I returned, over and over, to the Café Musain. I trailed my fingers along the railings of the Jardins du Luxembourg, looking through them. I peered down every alleyway and went to rallies in the hope that he might be the man chanting, “Vive Lamarque! Bring in a republic!” I hoped for his soapy scent or a glimpse of his woolen coat but I only found strangers jostling and cursing and standing on chairs. I covered my nose because I didn’t want to catch the disease that killed Maman and lots of others.

Sometimes in my elm tree, I thought he might come here. Because if he knew that Cosette lived on the rue Plumet, surely he’d come every day? But he never did. Which means, I soon realized, that he doesn’t know. He’s got no idea that she lives here at all. But I could tell him. When I find him … And I liked this idea because it would make him happy. I could make him smile.

Spring bloomed on. The garden beneath me unfurled its petals and leaves, and as I was looking down at it—at all its flowers like tiny faces—I spotted a strange flower. It was dark red, almost purple. It was like a rose but not a rose. Where had I seen it before?

In a cottage garden. In Austerlitz. The garden of an old man called Mabeuf. He’d had white bristles and a hunched back. I’d forgotten all about him!

He’ll know where Marius is.

*  *  *

I ran there. It was a warm afternoon. I remembered the way—running past the tanneries and on to an earthy lane. I only paused to drink from a fountain and wash my face in it.

The cottage was the same and its garden was still overgrown, full of beetles and vines and bright flowers. Mabeuf was there. He was dozing on a bench in the late-afternoon sun. His mouth was open and I could hear him snoring.

Part of me wanted to shake him awake and say, Where is Marius? But he was old and looked very peaceful. I wanted to let him sleep.

I trod down the garden path, through the greenery. The sun was dipping slowly. Soon, the first chill of evening would creep into the garden and the flowers would creak shut. A watering can sat by the house, filled up. Perhaps he had been too tired to tend to his garden, too sore in his bones?

I make people’s lives better these days. So as Monsieur Mabeuf slept, I watered every plant he had. Who knew what was happening elsewhere in the world, at that moment? Fires and sickness and loss? In the middle of Paris, people would be shaking their fists at the word king and saying, “Fight, fight!” But I was just watering an old man’s garden, tending to his daisies and his strawberry plants. I hummed happily. There’s such a peace in small, kind things. I imagined the earth drinking and saying, Thank you, Eponine.

After a while, he woke. He yawned and stretched, and through half-closed eyes he spied me.

“What … ? Who are you?”

“Monsieur,” I said. “Excuse me for intruding but I’m looking for Marius? I know you’re friends so maybe you can help me?”

“Marius?”

“The young gentleman? It’s very important.”

The man shifted. “Yes. He comes here often. But mostly Marius spends his days in a field near Les Invalides—a meadow. He goes there to think, for he has plenty on his mind.” Mabeuf blinked around him. “My flowers. You watered them?”

With that, I was gone. I thanked him and hurried away so that all I left behind me was damp soil and sucking plants. I wondered later if Mabeuf might think he had imagined me—a little thing in rags who’d hummed and watered his garden before slipping away (she was like a sprite, or a ghost of some kind!) into the gathering dusk.