lark_in_flight | (no subject)

Cosette steps through the door at Milliways. She's in her garden, just as she was. She is awake.

So she feels, at least. But she felt awake at Milliways, too, save that her surroundings were clearly that of a dream. And if her dream has ended, then it was a very peculiar one, very long, and yet contained in the space of a moment's dreaming abstraction. For here is her father just coming to the door now, buttoning up his coat and saying with an indulgent air, "Yes, my child, I am here."

She resolves to wait. If she slips from this dream of reality into another, she will know when she wakes. If she truly is awake, she'll know that too.

Besides, ahead of her is time with Marius.

Cosette lets herself be distracted by the walk with her father, the sights of Paris in winter around her, the sociability of a little conversation with Marius's flattering peacock of a grandfather, the joy of sitting with Marius in quiet conversation and in loving silence. She's used to keeping her own thoughts deep inside her, anyway.

When they leave the Gillenormand household -- reluctantly for Cosette, without discernable opinion from her politely smiling father -- she has decided that she's really awake. None of this felt like a dream at all; nothing was strange, nothing changed in the way of dreams.

Walking homewards on her father's arm, she's very thoughtful.

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He is clearly amused also, but not telling any untruths.

'It is all quite true, my dear. You will see, should you have reason for temper with her at any time. She can be very stubborn; things are withheld for a person's own good, at times; at others, provided despite nothing being asked for, if it is in what she considers their best interests. I do not know how any of this came to be, but that is how it is.'

"Then we shall be allies," Cosette declares firmly. "How peculiar! Well, I shall try to make a friend of this Bar. If she will make friends at all."

She has no idea. But if the creature -- whatever she is, however it is, whatever this peculiar magical piece of womanly furniture might be -- is prone to insisting on the best interests of stubborn people, then Cosette will make certain to get along with her, and to contribute to such fond insistence as it's directed towards her father.

It does occur to him what he may have just let himself in for. Saying no to Cosette is impossible; how much more will he be fussed over if she manages to get the Bar to work for her also?

(His alarm is entirely fond. He would not change Cosette's care of him if the multiverse were offered to him on a platter.)

He is prevented from having to voice any of this by their fortuitous arrival home. He draws the key from his pocket, and holds the gate open so that Cosette may pass into her garden.

'I am sure she will become friends with you.'

Who would not?

'In the meantime, will you retire, or shall I ask Toussaint to make you some tea?'

"You gave me tea earlier, in Milliways," she reminds him fondly. "If it wasn't a dream, no wonder I'm not at all thirsty. No, I'll retire."

"Oh! But you asked me, papa -- there, you said I should ask you for an envelope from your bureau."

His business, no doubt. She won't ask; he'd only smile at her, and say nothing.

'Ah, yes.'

He had forgotten. Rather a lot happened not long after that conversation.

'A moment. I will fetch it.'

He retreats to his small rooms set behind the house, and finds an envelope to put some money into. After a moment's thought, he adds a little more than originally planned; Cosette must be provided for there, he knows what he owed, he knows the money he is giving anonymously to certain patrons. And though he is no longer Bound, there is no telling whether he will be again. Should he ever return.

It does not take long. He returns to Cosette's house, and hands the envelope to her.

'If you ask the bar to keep it for me, she will pass it on the next time she sees me. Thank you.'

It does not occur to him, even for a moment, to explain what is held therein.

Cosette accepts the envelope, and pockets it with only the slightest of curious glances.

If she ought to know, her father would tell her, no doubt.

'Well, then. I will leave you to rest until supper, my dear.'

He smiles and squeezes her arm, both light and brief. And then leaves her to her house, her garden, and her thoughts of another man.