I come to fight. Or at least, to listen.

chapter 11

Chapter 11

~Fauchelevent's~

Evelyn woke to a someone knocking on her door. Everything about the bed was soft, and it made Evelyn never want to leave.

She sauntered over to the door in a night gown, which Joly gave her, saying it was his sisters old one.

Her leg felt and shoulder felt stiff, but she wouldn't let a little discomfort get in the way of custom-made dresses.

Evelyn let in and thanked the same middle-aged servant, who handed her a platter of fresh fruit and a warm croissant. She heard a feminine voice float up the stairs, "No, Joly, I want to meet her!" Dainty footsteps pattered against the stairs and up to her doorframe.

In the door stood an upper middle-class woman. Dressed in a light pink day dress embroidered with little rosettes, she wore a smile equal to the bubbly reputation that came with her name: Musichetta.

Her chestnut hair was piled on top of her head in a loose bun, curls framing her face. She smelled like roses and made Evelyn feel rather drab. Evelyn instinctively jutted her chin up.

Musichetta insisted on helping Evelyn get ready. At first she resisted (no amount of smiling would move her!), but she quickly realized she couldn't get dressed with her shoulder.

Musichetta helped Evelyn into a lavender day dress, complete with lacy collar and cuff detail (again, Joly's sister's). Evelyn munched on her food while Musichetta did her hair in a similar fashion to her own.

Evelyn couldn't help but smile a bit at her reflection. Her skin was fair under all the grime, a light spray of freckles decorated her nose and cheeks, and her hair lustrous. But she also felt like she was missing something.

Musichetta reminded Evelyn of a refined Eponine. She wished her friend were there with her, finally experiencing the luxuries with her. She blinked her tears back. It has only three days, how much I miss her already. Evelyn comforted herself the notion that her friend would be happier with God than in the slums.

The carriage ride into Paris was bearable. Musichetta chatted with Joly, then focused her attention on Evelyn: "Where are you from?" "Hobbies?" "Favorite color?"

"The slums of Saint Michel." "Reading." Evelyn thought on the last one. "Periwinkle."

Musichetta cringed a bit at "slums", but otherwise approved of her company.

When they arrived in Paris, Joly helped Musichetta out the carriage. Evelyn watched as they walked hand in hand into Fauchelevant's Tailor's Shop. She felt a bit of longing and crossed her arms.

The store's windows held dress forms clothed in intricately designed gowns. The shop was dripping with all kinds of fabrics. Bolts and bolts were nestled against one another in shelving along the walls. Evelyn ran her fingers against the ones at waist-level. A counter sat near the front, a be-spectacled old woman writing on papers occupying it. She looked up as a tinkle of the bell alerted her to the group's presence.

"Ah, Monsieur Joly and Mademoiselle Evelyn?" a look of mild confusion appeared when she didn't see a last name for Evelyn.

She led Evelyn behind the silk screen in the back of the shop, leaving Joly and Musichetta to sit in the wingback chairs at the front.

Madame Fauchelevant started unbuttoning Evelyn's dress at the back, exposing her bandages. The old woman muttered something under her breath commenting on how odd these customers were, first the lack of a proper name, and now bandages? Evelyn tried hard not to turn around and glare at the woman.