Archive of Our Own

Decembers are always the worst.

Well, ‘always’ isn’t really the right word, Cosette supposes. She used to love December: as the world grew darker, the times she and Father could go out into the world lengthened and sparkled. The house was full of cheery music and spicy scents, and the outside was brisk enough to make their home feel cozy by day. Cosette could even usually persuade Father into coming into the main part of the house and enjoying his books before the crackling gas fireplace (and central heating) with her, rather than in his windowless basement room.

Then Auntie Zéphine (well, Respected and Renowned Family Attorney Joséphine to everyone but Cosette and Auntie Zéphine’s wino friends) had arrived, and everything had fallen apart.

She’d stayed with Auntie Zéphine the first two years following Everything Falling Apart, and since officially inheriting the brownstone this past spring, Cosette has very successfully managed to avoid returning: the summer had been a scheduling masterpiece between her job at a sleepaway camp and well-coordinated trips to friends’ homes, and through the fall she’d managed by living on-campus. By winter break, however, Auntie Zéphine had made it clear that to stay with her again would be trespassing on her good graces, and Cosette had had no choice but to finally face her empty former home.

It’s clear that the cleaner has been doing their job: monthly visits have left the place devoid of dust and pests, and Cosette optimistically places out a piece of cheese in the kitchen in hopes of attracting even a mouse to keep her company.

No such luck.

It’s been four days since Cosette’s return when she hears a creaking in the night. A glance at her smartphone tells her that it’s nearly two in the morning. The noise feels comforting and familiar — her father returning from a walk, or Ms. Toussaint fumbling her way to the bathroom — before Cosette remembers that she has no one else to fill the house with noise.

Cosette drapes a blanket over her shoulders and tiptoes to her door.

It’s been years since she’s done this, but the easy muscle memory is still there. Her father may have slept in the basement, but Ms. Toussaint was restless enough that Cosette still had to be careful, and avoiding the creaky floor boards and skipping the second-to-last step comes as naturally to Cosette as brushing her teeth. She creeps around the corner and into the kitchen to find —

“Oh, it’s you.”

The other girl clearly isn’t as comforted by her discovery as Cosette. Despite the hour, the clouds are low and hazy gray-orange in the great room’s garden windows, casting a strange dim light into the windows and over the disheveled girl. “I can explain.”

Cosette doesn’t know what explanation will be sufficient for this, but she’s ready to hear it.

“Well,” says the girl, voice husky and much gruffer than Cosette had expected, “it’s cold out — there’s snow at my usual place, damned plowers — and this house usually doesn’t have anyone in it. It’s a big house though, and I figured you wouldn’t mind sharing the rest while you sleep.”

“So here you are.”

“Here I am.”

The air is still between them, and Cosette stares at the girl. She remembers her somehow, some way — something about Marius’s visits, back before Auntie Zéphine arrived and Marius disappeared. Somewhere else, too … the church? Yes, the church, and the soup kitchen. The girl often wore Cosette’s cast-offs from when she’d assumed her new wardrobe, and once Cosette had even seen her wearing one of the newer winter coats she’d gotten and thought she’d lost. She’d never told Father about her discovery. Why should she? Everyone deserves kindness sometimes.

As Cosette watches her, she thinks that the girl may be especially in need of kindness now: her cheeks are gaunt, her clothes are ragged and damp (possibly the same ones from almost three years ago, even), and her hair is matted beyond belief. Now that the initial surprise has worn off, there is a distinct odor, and Cosette wonders how long the water in the house had been shut off for before her arrival. Too long, she suspects.

“Well, there’s soup in the fridge, you can heat some in the microwave. And the shower has hot water, if you like. I’ll set out a spare towel for you before I head up.” She considers telling her visitor to lock up before she leaves, but part of Cosette hopes she’ll still be there in the morning, so she leaves that part out. “Good night.”

The girl seems surprised, almost too surprised to answer. Cosette doesn’t wait for a response before leaving for the pantry, but before she heads back upstairs, she thinks she hears an embarrassed, “Thanks” followed by the creaks and squeaks that signal someone hurrying to the bathroom.

Cosette smiles and picks her way back to her bedroom.

—

The girl is gone the next day, but that’s fine, because Cosette prefers to sleep in. She also has enough things to do that by the time she finishes them, the wan daylight is gone and the clouds stretch indigo out above her.

It’s only 7PM when she arrives home, which means it is well past the socially acceptable time for her to take a hot shower and change into pajamas. On returning downstairs, Cosette notes with pleasure that her visitor has left the towel she’d been offered the night before folded neatly on the drying rack.

Tonight, Cosette is up embroidering with one of her favorite youtube channels when she hears the noises downstairs. She hasn’t embroidered since Ms. Toussaint was there to encourage her to do it, but it’s soothing and familiar and only hurts a little compared to everything else, something of the quality of pressing on a bruise to test its mettle.

The smell is still there, but the girl looks a little less ashen tonight. “Hello, I was wondering if you’d be back.”

Cosette nods. “Would you like a shower?”

The girl’s eyes narrow. “You tryna say something?”

Cosette quickly backtracks. “I only mean, I don’t know if you showered somewhere else today.”

At this explanation, the girl eases off. “Oh. Nah, I’ve barely sweat. One of the nice things about winter, I guess.”

Ah. “Well, there’s soup in the fridge again, unless you want me to fix you up something fresh.”

The girl’s expression turns suspicious. “Fresh?”

Cosette nods.

“As in, just for me?”

“Well of course.”

“Would you eat it too?”

Cosette mentally takes a step back before carefully asking, “Would you like me to eat it too?”

The girl seems to consider the question. “Yeah, that’d be all right. Whatch’got?”

Cosette pauses. She has a meal plan during the school year, and soup aside, she’s been mostly eating out with friends over break. “I’m not sure,” she admits. “Let me check.”

She does, finding some canned goods, spices, her usual cooking roots, and oranges. “Have you ever had curry?”

“I don’t even know what that is.”

Cosette revises the question. “Can you eat spicy food?”

“I can eat anything,” responds the girl confidently.

“Great,” answers Cosette, already rummaging for the rice cooker, “then we’re having curry.”

The girl thinks curry is all right but could use some lime juice. Cosette makes a note to pick some up during the day.

—

Cosette doesn’t know if it’s all right, but she does know she can eyeball a person’s measurement from twenty-five yards away. “I got you some clothes, if you want,” she tells the girl the third night. “I don’t know if they’re your style, but they’re warm and clean.” If nothing else, Cosette thinks that the girl can probably wear them while she waits for her own clothes to be washed.

The girl looks at her warily before peering at the bags on the wraparound counter. Cosette knows better than to move closer. “Did you buy these new?”

Cosette isn’t sure what answer the girl is looking for, so she tells the truth. “Yes.”

“New clothes!” the girl exalts. She holds a sweater up to herself. “Oh, these are fucking swell.”

Another person might say ‘Thank you,’ but the girl is so excited over the two simple outfits that Cosette doesn’t even think about it. “You can keep the spares here, if you’d like.”

The girl’s eyes flick back over to Cosette, as though she’d forgotten Cosette had been there at all. “Yeah, I think that’d be all right.”

Taking a deep breath, Cosette continues. “Do you know how to use a washing machine?”

“Of course,” says the girl indignantly, trading the sweater for a pink dress Cosette had impulsively added to the purchase. “I wasn’t always like this, you know.”

Cautiously, Cosette asks, “Would you like me to show you how ours works? It might be different from the ones you’ve used before.”

“Yeah, probably,” says the girl without missing a beat, twirling with the dress held up to her shoulders. “You rich people love your fancy appliances, after all.”

Cosette leads the girl into the basement, studiously avoiding the space where her father’s bed once was to focus on showing the girl where the laundry soap is kept and the different settings and modes. Cosette has already excused herself to give the girl her privacy and begin preparing their late-night dinner when she stops halfway up the stairs, aiming for casual and half-forgotten, and asks, “By the way, what can I call you?”

Staring at the shelves of soaps, softeners, and dryer sheets, the girl absentmindedly answers, “Éponine.”

“You can call me ‘Cosette.’”

So quietly that Cosette isn’t sure she’s heard right, Éponine murmurs, “I know.”

—

Éponine continues coming every night, and Cosette spends more of her time sleeping during the day. Éponine still hasn’t used Cosette’s name, but that’s fine, because she’s finally begun talking with her.

“What do you do?” she asks one night, leaning over the counter as Cosette drops a handful of julienned bell peppers into the wok.

“I’m a student.”

“Where?”

“SUNY.”

“So why aren’t you here most of the year?”

“I live on-campus.”

“But you have a place here.”

“Yes.”

“So why do you live on-campus?”

“Because I want to meet new people.”

“Ah.” Éponine dips another finger into the sour cream. “Higher heat.”

The gas is dutifully increased.

“I think if I had a place like this,” continues Éponine, “I’d never leave. Nope, I’d be set for life.”

Cosette shrugs. “You might be lonely.”

“Is that why you let me stay?” asks Éponine abruptly. “You’re lonely?”

A wooden spatula is scraped across the bottom of the wok, and Cosette decides that the bell peppers are nearly finished.

“There used to be others here, too. The old man and the old lady. What happened to them?”

Cosette stares carefully at the plastic cutting board as she persuades the chicken into the pan. “They died.”

“Oh.” There’s a moment of stark silence before Éponine speaks again. “Well, that’s too bad.”

Sometimes, Cosette wishes Éponine talked less.

—

“Why are you okay with me?”

The question makes Cosette start. Éponine is wearing a sweater-dress-leggings combo today and seems to be trying to do some experiment with her mangled hair. It isn’t working very well, and Cosette suspects Éponine knows this. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I’m dressed better now and don’t smell so bad, so people don’t act so uncomfortable around me,” Éponine explains. “Hell, I might even be respectable enough for a job now. But you were fine even when I was crashing your house. People normally call the cops for that.”

Cosette shrugs, continuing to roll out the tortillas. “Well, when I lived here before, there were lots of sounds like that, and it never caused any harm. Maybe there was a mouse, or a dog, or a ghost.” She glances slyly up at Éponine. “Are you a ghost?”

Éponine shrugs. “May as well be, to the city. What do you think? Am I a ghost?”

Even now that Éponine has put on a little weight from eating more regularly, she’s remained smaller than Cosette expected she would. Still, Cosette’s eyes cling to Éponine as she twirls, and she measures her words as she says them. “I couldn’t say. If you are, I’d be happy if you continued your haunting a while longer.”

Cosette can practically see the proposition being turned over in Éponine's mind. “Yes, I think I will — but only as long as you leave me offerings.”

“Food and towels?” Cosette guesses.

“I could do with more than two outfits, too,” and now that Cosette thinks about it, besides the coat, Éponine’s old clothes haven’t been in rotation since that night Cosette had taught her how to use the washing machine. “And no exorcists.”

Cosette pretends to consider the request. “I do believe that that can be arranged.”

—

This time, Cosette has purchased something flashier. She suspects that, unlike Cosette’s SUNY peers who use thrift stores and cottagecore as their own fashion statements, Éponine would be living large if she only had the opportunity.

Based on Éponine’s reaction, Cosette can only assume that her suspicions were correct.

“Yesssssssss.” Éponine gives another whirl in the bathroom’s floor length mirror, examining herself in the dress’s ridiculous tulle and impractical cut. “This is what I was made to be wearing.”

Cosette has to agree: Éponine’s shape is fuller now, her cheeks rosier, and her neckline … ample. Her eyes are lively, her smile is confident, and Cosette forces herself to nod.

Éponine turns to face her. “What do you think of your ghost now?”

“I think —” Cosette looks her up and down, trying to seem respectful rather than lecherous. “I think my ghost truly seems at home.”

Éponine beams before turning back to the mirror.

“Here, let me do that.”

Cosette usually makes the food, and it’s usually some pale imitation of what Éponine requests, but tonight, Éponine is in a ball gown, and it’s 4AM, and she has found an apron somewhere and is tasting the beans before shaking her head.

“Never enough lime juice,” she chastises. “And not enough of the good-smelling one, which one is the one I like?”

Cosette obediently shoves the handful of spice bottles at Éponine, smiling as Éponine tuts at each container she smells before her expression alights at the cumin. Her hair still looks a little ridiculous, matted in clumps that she has clearly not been able to get all of the soap out of, but they’re pulled back tonight in a way that highlights the play of the kitchen’s fluorescent lights against her cheekbones, and Cosette can’t call her anything but gorgeous.

“See?” says Éponine cockily with a flash of teeth when they sit down for … well, dinner, Cosette supposes. “I can do lots of things.”

Cosette smiles and nods. She knows.

She knows.

—

It’s sheer luck that, at four-thirty in the morning the next day, Cosette even thinks to call the police station.

“Those fuckers!” Éponine cries as she is escorted out of the station. “Those fuckers!” she repeats.

Cosette, dumbfounded, can do nothing but murmur soft assurances to her until they get off the M15 and arrive at her home. Impatient with how long Cosette takes to undo the front door, Éponine scrambles up the drainpipe that goes up the front of the house and disappears over the roof, tulle and all, before a minute later appearing at the front door and irritably gesturing for Cosette to get in.

Well, Cosette should probably get that looked into.

The coat Cosette had bought Éponine is lying strewn in the great room, and it takes a minute before Cosette finds Éponine curled up on the floor of the shower, eyes fixed intently on the greasy glass sliding door.

Cosette climbs in beside her. She hesitates for a moment before leaning her head over Éponine’s still-boney shoulder. It’s the first time they’ve ever touched, and until now, despite all evidence to the contrary, Cosette hadn’t been entirely convinced that Éponine wasn’t a specter. The skin is chill but softer than she’d expected.

“My hair,” Éponine mutters. “They said no one with hair like mine would be wearing clothes like these unless they were selling something.”

Fire burns in Cosette’s blood. Though her father had never said as much, even before Auntie Zéphine, she’d never felt that cops were anyone she could trust. Since going to school, it had become even more evident that people who looked like her could not count on police for protection; Éponine’s mistreatment at their hands only confirms her long-held suspicions. “There is nothing wrong with your hair,” Cosette tells her forcefully.

“It’s tangled,” Éponine complains. “It’s matted, it’s greasy and smelly and awful. I’ve been thinking I should just chop it off, but I —” She stops herself short.

Cosette waits for her to continue, and when Éponine doesn’t, she tenuously asks, “Would you like to cut it off?”

Éponine doesn’t answer right away, but when she does, it comes as a muffled, “No.”

“Then here.” Cosette pushes herself upright, opening the shower door and rooting around under the sink until everything has been moved and the item she’s seeking extricated. “I’ll help,” she says, holding up the tub Ms. Toussaint used to use when it was cold and Cosette didn’t want to freeze on wash days. “I have some detangling cream in my bathroom, I’m sure your hair now isn’t as bad as my hair on its best wash day.”

Éponine’s eyes, red-rimmed and gleaming with tears, brighten at Cosette’s words. “Really?”

Cosette nods confidently. “Really.”

Éponine’s hair is absolutely worse than Cosette’s on her best wash day. That’s okay, though, because Éponine has stopped crying, and Cosette has massaged her scalp and is carefully working the detangler through the mattes and undoing years of damage. She finds things in Éponine’s hair that she politely discards without mention, and by the time they finish, Éponine hair is silky and smooth and smells like all four of the products Cosette has put into it to work out the snarls. Even through the most difficult clumps and knots, Éponine doesn’t so much as whimper, and Cosette makes a point to be even more gentle to make up for it.

With her hair untangled, a trim to get rid of the damaged ends, and the early rays of sunlight shining over her, Éponine looks nothing less than stunning.

“They’ll never be able to say you don’t deserve to wear that now,” Cosette tells her, voice weak but proud.

“What has 12 ever known?” says Éponine before chuckling awkwardly. “Anyway, I’d better get changed. Wouldn’t wanna be getting any dumb illusions of grandeur in my head.”

Something about the comment makes Cosette indignant, like when her father would say he didn’t deserve to be in the finished parts of the house. “Perhaps I should stop wearing the clothes I like so I can fit in better, too.”

At this, Éponine appears horrified. “Why would you do that? You look amazing.” There’s something very frank and unabashed about how she says it that makes Cosette’s heart wilt.

Nevertheless, she persists. “I mean, I wouldn’t want anyone thinking I don’t deserve to wear them.” She gives Éponine a meaningful look. “Some people say I’m too fat to dress goth. Some say my skin is too dark.”

Éponine sucks her teeth. “Well, they’re dumb.”

“Cops are dumb, too,” Cosette tells her.

“Well yeah, duh.”

Cosette takes a step closer, making a point to meet Éponine’s eyes. “So dumb, they’d pull aside a girl who clearly belongs in beautiful clothing, because they can’t stand the idea that someone they don’t like might deserve to wear them.”

Éponine is unfailingly brash at all times, but in the light of the early morning sun, Cosette thinks she sees Éponine’s cheeks redden. “Yeah, well, their attention isn’t the attention I want anyway, so I’ll have to try something else.”

With that, she spins on her heel, disappearing into the basement and leaving Cosette speechless and confused in the bathroom door.

—

Éponine is wearing a dark gray sweater that Cosette secretly loves when she appears that night. “What’s this?” she asks, already picking through the tissue paper of the small gift bag on the counter.

“A phone,” Cosette tells her. She doesn’t look up from the ground pork and garlic, afraid of scaring Éponine away a second time. “In case you get into a bind again. I’ve already saved my number; I’m sure you have plenty of other people to add, though.”

In fact, she isn’t sure of this at all: Éponine almost never talks about her life outside of the brownstone, and Cosette very politely never asks.

“I don’t,” Éponine volunteers. “Whatcha makin’?”

“Old lady tofu.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Cosette sees Éponine nod. “Smells good.”

“Thank you.”

A pause. “S’not our usual fair.”

Cosette suppresses a sigh. “Nope.”

Another pause.

“I guess I was just … missing home today.” The dòu chǐ sizzles as she drops it into the hot oil.

Éponine’s tone is puzzled. “But … you are home. This is your home. You live here.”

Cosette shakes her head. “My father was my home,” she insists. “I don’t know. I’ve been trying to do this all by myself, and I think I’m doing okay, but sometimes …” She shrugs, exasperated. “Sometimes I feel every inch of eighteen. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m a kid living alone in New York City.” Closing her eyes, Cosette releases a shaky exhale before forcing herself to laugh. “I don’t know how Kevin McCallister managed.”

“Who?”

Cosette smiles as she shifts the protein around the wok. “It’s a movie. We can watch it sometime, if you want.”

“Sometime like tonight?”

Raising an eyebrow, Cosette looks over at her visitor. “Yeah, if you want.”

“I want.”

“Then we’ll watch it.”

“Great!”

“Great,” Cosette repeats, feeling her chest open up again.

Éponine smiles before hopping off of her barstool. “I guess I’d better start my shower now.” Éponine disappears into the foyer and toward the bathroom before reappearing. “What was that stuff you put in my hair again? The stuff that made it nice?”

Fighting the urge to laugh, Cosette answers, “The orange bottle, the one with the dark green pump.”

Éponine nods. “Cool, thanks.”

It turns out that Éponine has seen Home Alone and its sequel before, it’s just been a long time.

“My dad never liked tripping over anyone he couldn’t make a buck off of, so it was my mom who looked after us, mostly. She didn’t wanna hire any help at the inn, though, so me and ‘Zelma — that’s my sister’s name, Azelma — got to watch a lot of TV.” Éponine pauses as the orchestra plays a sweeping rendition of ‘Oh Come All Ye Faithful.’ “We ain’t had a TV in a long time,” she quietly adds.

Cosette nods carefully. “Well, feel free to watch whenever you want. Your sister can come too, if you want.”

Éponine’s head shakes. “Nah, she and my dad disappeared a long time ago. My mom never got out of prison the last time, she might have died there. I think I had a brother, but …” She frowns, rubbing her eyes like trying to remember might be giving her a headache. “I don’t know. It’s all so fuzzy. Everything’s fuzzy when you’re cold and hungry, or hot and hungry, or hurting and hungry, and what I remember makes no sense. He must have been some kid from around who called our parents his. I don’t know why, he didn’t seem to like them. We had two other kids for a while, too, just babies. I think we must have been watching them for someone, we did that sometimes. Back when we had the inn, even, we —” The sentence cuts off abruptly.

Cosette waits patiently for Éponine to continue, listening to Kevin and the pigeon lady talk for a while before prompting, “What happened at the inn?”

Éponine gives Cosette a strange look before shaking her head quickly. “I don’t know. It was all strange then. I haven’t thought about it in a long time.” There’s another pause before Éponine finally says, quietly, “Let’s just watch the movie, yeah?”

—

“What’s this?” asks Éponine when she exits the shower. She’s wearing a red sweater today, and it makes the subtle red tint of her dark hair stand out all the more for it.

“We,” says Cosette decisively, “are making cookies.”

Éponine’s eyebrows raise. “All right.”

“It’s almost Christmas, it’s practically mandatory,” Cosette explains. “Plus, I can’t keep up with all of our leftovers by myself: you need to help me today.”

Éponine shrugs, sweeping into the kitchen with her fresh, still-dripping hair. “What kind of cookies?”

“I’m thinking we can start sugar cookies today, then finish them tomorrow after they’re had time to chill; after that, maybe …”

“Besos?” suggests Éponine automatically before blushing a shade of red that her sweater does little to hide.

“Besos?” Cosette repeats, intrigued.

“That’s what we always called them,” says Éponine quickly. “My mom called them besitos. They had walnuts.”

This does nothing to explain why Éponine is acting so strangely, but Cosette shrugs it off. “You made them growing up, then?”

“Yeah.” Éponine chuckles awkwardly. “Back at the inn.”

Cosette hums, pulling out her phone and relying on her rudimentary understanding of Spanish pronunciation to look up a recipe. “Good memories?”

Éponine’s hands dig into the pockets of her skirt, and she shrugs bashfully, looking at the tiles of the floor. “I used to think so.”

“Hm?” It’s a much more introspective conversation than Cosette is used to from Éponine, and she very carefully busies herself taking inventory of their baking materials so as not to startle her friend. “Did something change?”

“No. Yes? I dunno. I’ve always thought of my mom as being nice — I mean, while we had the inn, anyway. She was always giving me and ‘Zelma toys and clothes and sweets, and I’ve always thought of that time as being really good. I’ve been thinking about it again, though, and.” A pause. Cosette thinks she sees Éponine give her an uncomfortable look before continuing. “I think maybe it wasn’t as nice as I remember. I think she wasn’t as nice as I like to remember.”

A tricky situation indeed. “Well, then we have no choice but to make them,” Cosette decides. “Though we may need to make a midnight walnut run.”

This is apparently not a problem as Éponine’s concerned expression melts into a smile.

The sugar cookies feel familiar like her father, but the besos feel familiar in an anxious kind of way. They feel familiar in a way like she’s seen them and smelled them and made them but was never allowed to touch them, never allowed to taste them. When the time comes for them to come out of the oven, Éponine’s face is lit up, but Cosette’s stomach roils, and her fingertips tingle and tremble.

Éponine is carefully, carefully removing them from the oven with oven mitts and turns expectantly toward Cosette, expression bright before falling suddenly. “Hey, are you okay?”

“I — I don’t know." Her head is spinning. "I think I am?”

“Fuck. Fuck. Um.” Éponine looks around the kitchen, frantic. “No, I think I’ve seen this before, uh.” She looks back up at Cosette, and Cosette feels like she’s watching all of this from a far-off distance. “Here, Cosette, here, take my hands. Look at me, look at me.”

There is something in Cosette’s hands, something that may be Éponine’s hand. Something else warm and soft cradles her cheek — Éponine’s other hand, Cosette is suddenly sure. Her gaze is guided down to Éponine’s face, and the hand on her cheek starts gently patting as Cosette’s hands begin to grip against the solid firmness of the one Éponine had offered.

“I — I.” Cosette shakes her head, blinking back into awareness. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know what came over me. I just —” Her eyes fall past Éponine again, onto the besos, and Éponine turns to follow her look before pulling Cosette’s face back to hers.

“Hey, hey, why don’t you sit down, and I’ll take care of these besos, yeah? Maybe that sugar cookie dough is firm enough that we can do it tonight. It’s already been what, two hours?”

Cosette forces herself to take a deep breath and exhale before stepping out of the kitchen and into the living room, pointedly fixing her eyes outside of the house and into what was once her father’s garden. That tight grip of fear, she knows that feeling, but from what?

“D’you mind if I take these off your hands?” comes Éponine’s deep, solid voice from the far side of the room. “They’d make a good snack for during the day. I had a friend, you know, who called me an angel for taking care of his garden. Well, it might have been a goblin. Maybe I can be an angel of Central Park, taking care of those birds. Or a goblin, like that pigeon lady.”

“I’m sure the birds would love them,” says Cosette, smiling weakly at Éponine’s footprints in the fresh-fallen snow.

“Will you help me break into Carnegie Hall?”

“Only if you promise not to gaslight a young girl into thinking you’re her angel of music.”

Behind her, Cosette hears Éponine pause, and it's only too easy to imagine expression she makes. “I was talking about Home Alone, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Phantom of the Opera?" The feeling is returning to Cosette's fingers. "Because you’re a ghost?”

“You mean like the musical on Broadway?" There's another pause, and this one gives the distinct impression of being thoughtful. "If I’m the phantom, you can be the angel.”

Cosette's lips automatically stretch into a smile as she shakes her head, relaxing as her breathing returns to its normal rhythm. “I’ll see about getting us some tickets.”

—

The next night, the sugar cookies go significantly better.

“They don’t all have to be angels,” laughs Cosette, picking up a star to make her point.

“I like angel cookies. If mine can’t be made by an angel, I’ll do the next best thing.”

Cosette doesn’t know if Éponine means it the way that she thinks, but she feels her cheeks burn anyway.

The first batch is in the oven when Éponine clears her throat. “You’re feeling better today, then?”

Cosette nods. “Much better. I don’t know what came over me. Thank you for taking care of — of the besos.”

“Taking care of besos is easy when there’s so many ways of getting rid of ‘em. I ate half of them on the way to the park, and then I gave some to the usual crowds, and then the rest went to the birds.”

“You are very impressive at beso distribution,” praises Cosette.

“I am very impressive,” Éponine agrees.

A minute lapses in silence before Cosette notices that, probably while scratching her face, Éponine had gotten flour on her nose.

“Oh, you have —” Cosette tries to indicate on her own face, but Éponine gives her a puzzled look. “Some flour, on your —”

Éponine’s attempt to remove the smudge, floury as her hands are, only leads to more flour over her tawny, golden skin and an irritated look when Cosette tells her as much

“Here,” laughs Cosette, “let me.” She reaches her apron up, carefully rubbing its bottom edge over the sharp corners and curving planes of Éponine’s face. The flour comes off easily, and as it does, so too do the wrinkles of Éponine’s annoyed expression as she relaxes into Cosette’s touch. Her eyes are shut, and her lips are slightly parted and chapped with cold, and Cosette just knows that she could uncrease that eyebrow with the gentlest brush of her thumb —

But she doesn’t.

“Got it,” she tells Éponine, softly so as not to disturb her.

Éponine’s eyes flutter open, a series of conflicting expressions crossing her face before settling into a wan smile. “Thanks.”

The timer goes off, and Cosette has no difficulty turning her attention to finding her mitts and hurrying to the oven.

—

Ice skating is another thing Éponine hasn’t done since she was a child, so naturally, they have to go tonight.

“The owner knew us from when we first moved out from the Amish community, he lets us — let us" she corrects, "come in whenever we wanted during the on-season.”

“You’re good, then?”

“Oh God no, I’m terrible,” says Cosette brightly. “My friends say roller skating ruined me for ice skating.” She isn’t being modest: Cosette usually relies on a cone to get around without falling, and her version of turns isn’t turning so much as it is careful, careful side steps.

“Well, that’ll make two of us.”

Cosette stops, blinking in surprise as the keys dangle from the lock. “You roller skate?”

“I’m terrible,” Éponine grins, the expression widening when Cosette laughs.

The locks haven’t been changed, and Cosette gets in easily, letting Éponine follow closely behind. Éponine slides over the counter to the skates, easily picking out a pair of size 11s for Cosette and a smaller pair for herself.

The rink smells cold and familiar as Cosette flicks the smaller set of overhead lights on, revealing the wide expanse of ice. She looks back over her shoulder, expecting to see the encouraging smile of her father and instead finds Éponine’s awed figure. Disappointment pierces through her.

She forces herself to push the feeling aside. “Last one to the ice is a rotten egg!” Cosette calls suddenly, sprinting to the stadium seating to put on her skates.

She has played herself: apparently Éponine is incredibly fast at lacing up skates.

“The ice smelled much better before the rotten egg appeared,” Éponine jeers when Cosette finally arrives.

She doesn’t have a comeback, so instead she shrugs, gripping the edge of the rink to walk herself to the opposite side where the gear is stored and plugging her phone into the sound system. She puts her playlist on at random, simultaneously delighted and horrified when ‘Dancing on my Own’ begins blaring. She sends a worried look to Éponine, but if she is familiar with Robyn, she doesn’t show it, already dancing along on the ice.

Éponine’s dancing is a delight to behold, and as Cosette stumbles back out with her cone, she’s even happier to see Éponine glide toward her.

“Liar,” Cosette accuses once the distance is closed. “You said you were as terrible as me.”

Éponine shrugs. “Must be the angel of ice skating.”

“We are going to watch that musical, and you are going to realize that that does not mean what you think it means.”

“I am a phantom, you are an angel: what’s there to understand?” There’s a lot more to understand, but before Éponine’s faulty logic can be contested, she’s continuing: “Let’s go, there is an entire room full of ice to take advantage of! God, is this what rich people do? Spend money walking around refrigerated rooms in the dead of winter? It’s terrible, I love it.”

Cosette has a much harder time arguing with that, so instead she determinedly pushes her cone around the rink.

Éponine starts keeping pace with her but eventually gets impatient, lapping her once, then twice. After the second time, she insists, “Hey, let me help, it’ll be easier,” and offers her hand.

The issue, of course, is that Cosette doubts that even an Olympic-trained athlete could make up for the height and weight difference between Éponine and Cosette should Cosette fall. In fact, the height barely factors in: Cosette is mostly concerned about crushing Éponine. Nevertheless, it is very difficult to refuse Éponine’s outstretched hand, and before Robyn’s anthem has even come to a close, they have both stumbled hard to the ice.

Cosette is dazed for a brief moment, but once she’s seen that neither of them seem to be bleeding or have any broken bones (this confirmed by Éponine scrambling up to her knees to check Cosette with a strangely frantic expression), the only thing to do is laugh.

“How badly did you hit your head?” asks Éponine, which makes Cosette laugh even harder. Soon, Éponine seems to realize that everything is fine and is joining in with Cosette in her manic laughter.

The laughter is interrupted by the dramatic slamming of a door followed by a shout of, “Who’s in there?”

The voice is familiar, and it takes a moment for Cosette to place. “Mr. Porter?” she manages, pushing herself up onto an elbow to look at the entryway to the ice.

“Cosette? Cosette, is that you?” The man blinks incredulously before running into the rink in an incredible show of coordination.

“Mr. Porter!” Cosette cheers, using the cone to push herself up.

“Cosette,” says the man, radiant now that he recognizes her. “Now then, let me get a good look atcha. Tall, strong, and beautiful, just like your old man said. Hormones have been good to you!”

Cosette beams. “They have, haven’t they?”

Mr. Porter, seemingly for the first time, notices Éponine. “Hello, and who are you?”

“Mr. Porter, this is my friend, Éponine. Éponine, Mr. Porter used to be the doorman at one of the old apartments we lived at. After we left the Amish community and my uncle passed, he became like a second uncle to me.”

Éponine, who had looked seconds from bolting not a minute earlier, hurriedly gets to her feet and brushes the ice from herself before extending a hand. “Good to meet you, Sir.”

“Now how did you have the good fortune of meeting our Cosette?” asks Mr. Porter.

Rather than an immediate answer, as Éponine would normally give, Cosette receives an uncertain glance.

“Church,” Cosette answers on her behalf.

“Ah, a good christian girl,” says Mr. Porter with a wink. “I shouldn’t have expected anything less from the Fauchelevents.”

“I keep telling Cosette that she’s an angel, and she doesn’t believe me.”

“Bah! And that’s that Fauchelevent modesty for you,” says Mr. Porter in a tone that borders on disdain. “You want to know how a doorman like me ends up with a rink like this?”

Éponine nods, and Cosette finds herself leaning in in interest.

“A young man, some college student or another, had been following Mr. Fauchelevent and his daughter on their walks through the park. Now, Mr. Fauchelevent was a man of strange tastes, if you don’t mind me saying, and he had a couple of places around the city he liked to stay. He had just moved them back to a different home when this stalker begins asking me questions about them — where they are, where they’ve gone, why. Well, I told him, I says, ‘What are ya, a cop?’ And that scared him right off, it did!

“A couple of days later, Mr. Fauchelevent stops by, just about dusk, and I tell him about the man. He doesn’t say much, just asks what the man looked like, then thanks me for my time and is on his way. The next week, I’m being informed by a lawyer that I am now the proud owner of a skating rink! I only ever mentioned it once to him, that it’d been my dream since I was young, but that was old man Fauchelevent for you: if you were good to him, he was good to you, and if you were mean to him, he was especially good to you, just to make up for the meanness in the world.”

Cosette has never heard this story, but as she’d found out shortly after Auntie Zéphine had arrived, there are lots of things about her father that she’s never known. Mr. Porter’s story rings of truth, and she blushes when she remembers Marius and their misguided fling.

“I have to thank you for your kindness to my family,” Cosette tells Mr. Porter as courteously as she can without being able to stand upright. “I never realized.”

“You never have to thank me for a thing, Miss,” Mr. Porter says earnestly. “You and your friends are welcome around as often as you like. You just remember that there’s plenty of people in this city looking out for you.”

Cosette nods. “I will.”

With a yawn, Mr. Porter looks at his watch. “You can also come during daylight, you know.”

With a sly grin, Cosette responds, “Ah, but where is the Fauchelevent in that?”

“True enough,” he shrugs, brandishing a toothy smile. “Good night then, ladies. Remember to close up when you’re finished.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Porter!” calls Éponine as he walks off. “Your dad seems like he was a cool guy.”

Cosette isn’t sure she’s ever heard her father referred to as ‘cool,’ but she has to agree. “He was gone far too soon.”

They’re quiet for another beat before Éponine speaks up again. “You know me from church, huh?”

“I mean,” she shrugs, “I do.”

Éponine’s eyes widen. “You remember that?”

“You also helped Marius find us after we moved, right?”

It’s Éponine’s turn to shrug. “He asked a favor, and I agreed. I didn’t know what he wanted with your address.” She pauses. “What ended up happening between the two of you, anyway?”

Cosette tries not to let herself feel embarrassed. “He found out I was sixteen, and I found out that that was illegal. It was after one of my mom’s old friends had managed to track me down, and things were so busy after that I really didn’t have much time to be upset over it all anyway. I do wonder sometimes what he’s doing these days.” She glances meaningfully at Éponine, but Éponine is staring blankly up at the hockey scoreboard.

“So … what else do you remember?”

She frowns. “About Marius?”

“About me.”

“Oh. Hmm.” Cosette’s shoulders are starting to hurt, and she lowers herself to crouch over the ice. “I think you invited us to your apartment once. I’m sure we went, but I don’t remember much about it except that we had to take a cab for the blankets and food.”

“And that’s it?” asks Éponine expectantly.

Cosette searches her memories. She refuses to say anything about her missing coat: it feels too much like a grudge to bring up, and she really doesn’t mind. “I think I remember your sister. She was hurt, wasn’t she? I think your father said she had to drop out of school to work.”

“My father was a liar.”

The sharpness surprises Cosette. Closing her eyes, she shakes her head. “That’s all I remember. I’m sorry, there are lots of things that are fuzzy for me, too. I think that’s just a part of growing up: you forget things from when you were younger.”

Éponine hums before looking down at Cosette and offering her hand once more. “C’mon, there’s still plenty of time left before the sun rises for you to figure out how to move upright on skates.”

—

Cosette has secured tickets to Phantom of the Opera. They’re better seats than they should be, given how last-minute they were procured, but she buys Éponine a special dress just to go and dares anyone to doubt that either of them belong there.

They take a cab, because it’s a special night, and no one looks twice at Éponine except to admire her — and she is worthy of their admiration: Cosette has helped lay her edges and pull her hair back into a high wavy ponytail. She’s wearing a full, ruffled, knee-length dress with leggings and heeled boots tall enough to bring her above Cosette’s shoulder. A deep green, sparkly reticule that she keeps swinging around haphazardly when she forgets she's that she's trying to act refined hangs delicately from her wrist, and a long coat trails behind that Éponine had said before leaving, with a twinkle in her eye, made her feel like ‘the prettiest ghost.’

The musical plays out without event. At intermission, Éponine uses the bathroom before spending the rest of the time wandering around the auditorium admiring the space (and, Cosette suspects, showing off her outfit).

When it’s all over, Éponine drags them to a McDonald’s.

“We can go somewhere else,” Cosette tells her. “We can afford somewhere else.”

“Too late,” Éponine dismisses, eyes already scanning the menu.

They place an order of frankly alarming proportions and find a booth.

“So?” prompts Cosette. “Thoughts?”

“They’d better not skimp on the honey mustard packets.”

Cosette tamps down a smile. “On the musical.”

Éponine’s expression brightens. “Oh, the musical! The chandelier! And the costumes, I want a dress like that one Christine wore to the masquerade — are masquerades a real thing? Are they another thing rich people do? I want to go to a masquerade, Cosette. And the — the instruments! It was just like that scene in Home Alone!”

“And what did you think of the story?”

Éponine rolls her eyes. “I don’t get what all of the fuss was over: the Phantom could have given Christine everything. Raoul is just some guy who wanted to steal her away after she made a name for herself. The Phantom wanted her from the beginning and always loved her for who she was.”

At this, Cosette finds herself feeling strangely defensive of Christine's decisions. “The Phantom is abusive and terrible to Christine. He tries to isolate and gaslight her and lies to her.”

“Well yeah, but only because he doesn’t feel like he can be close to her otherwise.”

“And he couldn’t have given her that choice? The choice to know about him and his life and background and to choose if she stayed or left? If he had qualities that would make her want to be with him, surely he could let them speak for themselves.”

“Look," says Éponine, shifting her flippant demeanor to something more solid and serious. "I’ve liked Raouls before whose personality was money and kindness. They only look at you if you’re young and beautiful, and then they move on when the next thing comes along. Love ‘em and leave ‘em boys.”

“He murdered people, Éponine.”

Éponine's eyes roll as she throws her hands up. “At least someone was looking out for Christine! It sure wasn’t Mr. Little Lottie over here.”

Their order number is called, and their discussion is put on hold to bring over the four trays of food to their booth.

The break gives Cosette a moment to step back from their discussion. Why is she so invested in this? She’s never cared about Phantom before — though she supposes that she’s never had someone whose opinion she cared about disagree with her before either.

She’s also never discussed relationships before.

“Okay, so let’s take me,” Cosette says as they slide into the booth. “I’m kind and have money: am I a love ‘em and leave ‘em boy?”

Éponine makes a face. “You’re a girl.”

“My point stands.”

“No,” Éponine insists, “because you don’t just pick up people after they’re already sparkling and clean to show off: you're good to everyone. ‘And especially good to people who are mean to you, to make up for the meanness in the world.’”

It takes a moment for Cosette to place the quote, and she laughs before shaking her head. “That’s my father, I’m not like that.”

Skillfully locating places amongst the fries and burgers and nuggets to rest her elbows, Éponine leans in over their trays of food. “You were especially kind to me.”

Cosette doesn’t even try to put down her elbows, cocking her head as she leans in as well. “You were never mean to me.”

For a moment, such a sure moment, Cosette thinks this is it: they’re going to kiss in a McDonald’s over four trays of food, passersby outdoors making their ways through salty slush while the person at the counter rolls their eyes and walks into the back.

It’s going to be perfect.

Éponine pulls back.

“I’m sorry,” she says, standing. “I can’t do this. Thanks for the, uh.” She gestures at her clothes and outside of the window before grabbing a couple of yellow-wrapped cheeseburgers and jamming them into her purse. “I’ll text you?”

Confused, Cosette stands. “Is there something I can —”

“No, no, you’re good. You’re fine. You’re fine,”. Éponine repeats, gesturing to all of Cosette before grabbing two of the McFlurries. “I just have to go.”

And with that, she’s gone, and Cosette is left with three and a half trays of McDonald's food that she suddenly has no interest in eating.

—

Éponine is in Cosette’s kitchen a week later.

“I was hoping you’d return,” Cosette tells her. “McDonald’s doesn’t reheat well.”

“Cold Big Macs are bomb, but go off I guess,” says Éponine dismissively, as though she didn’t abandon Cosette in a McDonald’s at eleven at night with three and a half trays of food. “I’ll take some off your hands if you want, I won’t be long.”

Cosette blinks in shock, but Éponine merely checks the fridge to confirm that Cosette had clearly already had to get rid of the leftovers from a week ago before continuing.

“You hit the nail on the head when you saw me again: I am a phantom through and through. You want to know the whole story and to let my personality speak for me? That's fine. I’ll leave it up to you to find me if you want, or to go off and find your Raoul."

Éponine paces to the stove, still avoiding eye contact, but before Cosette can think of how to react, she's speaking again. “I knew you before I found your house and the church and all of that. I knew you from the inn.” A deep breath. “I didn’t know it was you until I started thinking about it, but there was this boy, we didn’t even call him his name, that some woman — probably his mom — had us taking care of. We were awful to him. My mom beat him and had him doing chores she wouldn’t pay grown-ups to do, and we only gave him scraps.” Éponine swallows uncomfortably. “We called him Gorrión.”

The name is like a bucket of water over Cosette. El gorrión, they’d called her when she had to clean up a mess. El gorrión, the mom would jeer, holding the beso just out of reach. El gorrión, the little girls would yelp when they found her playing with their dolls.

The bird who never sings, the neighbors would say, shaking their heads when they saw her in the streets.

“Your dad came to get you one year, Christmas eve. He took you away, and that was that. I never saw you again. I mean, I didn’t think I’d seen you again: you’ve changed a lot.

“And you didn’t seem to recognize me, and then you said you didn’t remember, and I thought maybe that could be okay, but then you started talking about how terrible the Phantom was, and.” Éponine shrugs. “Yeah, I guess that’s me.

“Marius is in Morningside Heights, by the way," she says suddenly. She's facing Cosette now, a bright and patently false smile plastered to her face, but she still won't meet Cosette's eye, apparently looking past her at something Cosette can't see without turning. "He’s still at that address he gave you before, still living with the same guy. I don’t have his number, but I can arrange a meet-up if you want. He’s a lawyer now." She gives an insincere waggle of her eyebrows before repeating, “So I can arrange something, if you want. Just gimme a ring.”

At last, Éponine finally meets Cosette's look. It's brief and burns like fire, and Éponine breaks it off almost as quickly as it forms. Stunned, Cosette can do nothing but watch as Éponine hurriedly pushes past to let herself through the great room and out into the snowy garden, closing the door behind her and scaling the wall before disappearing into the night.

Even before the appearance of Auntie Zéphine, Cosette had always suspected that her life — living in an Amish community, moving from house to house with a father who dressed in rags for his ambling solo walks and bought skating rinks for doormen — wasn’t quite the same as other little girls'. Strange as it was, though, she’d always thought she was happy.

El gorrión.

Why didn’t her father tell her?

It’s a thought she keeps coming back to, over and over again: there’s so much he didn’t tell me. Did her father think she was untrustworthy? Did he think she was weak? If he thought she was so weak, why did he leave her in a position where she’s had to be so strong?

Why did he leave her?

She wants to be angry, but more than anything, Cosette wishes she could have him back. Every new life experience has brought with it one hundred questions, and every new story involving him, one thousand more. Had he known her mother? How did they know one another? What brought them together? What was her mother like? Why had Cosette been left with Éponine’s family? How had he convinced them to let her leave? When had she become 'Cosette' to him?

One thing, however, grows more clear to her by the day: whatever choices her father has made, whatever choices Éponine’s parents made, Éponine is not a part of them.

—

For all of the Rockefellers' personal failings, their center is gorgeous.

Cosette scans around for Éponine. Surely the call arranging the meet-up was enough for Éponine to know that she is exonerated.

Nevertheless, when Éponine does finally arrive, she appears to hang back, a large paper bag hanging low to the ground by her side. Cosette has two thermoses of hot cocoa, though, and she can tell the ploy is working from the way Éponine's eyes dart to them. “Is one of those for me?”

“It certainly is,” Cosette tells her, extending one to her. “The Rockefeller Center, huh?”

Sipping the hot cocoa and apparently finding it to her satisfaction, Éponine nods. “Biggest tree in New York City.”

Cosette laughs. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think Home Alone 2 was the only movie you’ve ever seen.”

“You’ve rumbled me,” says Éponine with a cautious gleam in her eye. Her cheeks are a rosy red, and Cosette decides that December suits her. They stand staring at one another and sipping hot cocoa for a while longer before Éponine speaks again. “I’m guessing we can’t just move on from this?”

“I do have some questions,” Cosette admits; Éponine nods apathetically. “The obvious one seems, ‘Why didn’t you tell me sooner?’”

Éponine shrugs. “I mean, like I said, I didn’t really know until I actually started thinking about the inn.”

“No, I mean in the McDonald’s. Why didn’t you tell me, instead of leaving me with three and a half trays of food? I had to ask for bags.”

“Did you want to be told in a McDonalds you’d been abused and misgendered your whole childhood by the girl you were about to kiss and her family?”

“A milkshake might have helped soften the blow,” Cosette points out.

“Touché. It was also just so much easier to avoid you for a week," adds Éponine with a flippant shrug. "I mean, your dad buys skating rinks for people, and the thought of him makes you feel safe and happy even after years without 'im. My dad tried to blackmail and kill your dad and ransom you.”

Cosette starts. “He what?”

“And sold you to your dad.”

“Excuse me?”

“If it makes you feel any better, I’m pretty sure he also sold me and all of my siblings, in varying degrees of the word.”

“It doesn’t.”

“Oh. Whoops.” Éponine doesn’t look very sorry, but Cosette suspects that has more to do with Cosette’s response than the content, which Cosette supposes is forgivable.

“Is your dad at least dead?”

“Nope.”

Cosette’s eyes close as she seethes, “There truly is no justice in the world.”

Éponine’s thermos clinks into Cosette’s. “I'll drink to that.”

Cosette sips her hot cocoa, because there’s little else to be done.

“On that note, though.” Éponine reaches into her coat pocket to retrieve something that ends up being a folded piece of paper, handing it to Cosette. “I've been staying with some old associates of my parents and was going through some of their old stuff, and I found this.”

Cosette frowns, tucking her thermos between her arm and her chest and removing a mitten to open it. “What am I looking at?”

“Your mom’s name was Fantine.”

Cosette jerks up, almost forgetting the letter in her hands to look at Éponine. “What?”

Éponine nods to the letter. “My parents usually burned them after they took out the money, but it looks like they kept this one to legitimize whatever they were doing to the police.”

“Fantine,” Cosette whispers almost to herself as she peers down at the letter with increased interest. “She spoke Spanish.”

“Couldn’t read or write, so she had to enlist the help of a scribe,” Éponine affirms. “She thought my parents would help look out for her — Hispanic kinship or something. They didn’t, of course, but it makes sense. By the end, I remember hearing them saying they thought your mom was having green card issues.”

“She died.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Cosette tells her. “I didn’t know either. Auntie Zé — Joséphine told me. The lawyer. My mom’s friend.”

Éponine snorts. “Some friend she was.”

“I suppose.” Cosette has never really thought about it, but it adds up that Auntie Zéphine might have found Cosette out of a sense of guilt rather than friendship. “And what about you? What have you been up to over the past week that you’ve been avoiding me?”

“I got a job.”

“Why?”

Éponine shrugs again. “Because I can? I told you, I’ve never looked presentable before. I didn’t know how long that would last without money to support it, so I figured I’d call in some favors to keep up appearances and get a job while I still smell nice. The plan is to use the money I make to trick them into thinking I’m respectable all on my own.”

“You are respectable all on your own.”

“I bought my first deodorant bar this week, Cosette.”

Indignant, Cosette sniffs at her cocoa. “Smelly people are still respectable. And anyway, you have to know that, no matter how upset with you I may have been, I never would have forced you out.”

“Careful Fauchelevent,” Éponine warns, “you’re gonna end up running a homeless shelter out of your living room.”

“And would that be so bad? I found out after my father passed that he had started four.”

Éponine blinks at her. “I am going to turn your dad into a joke on the internet, this is absurd. At least tell me he died of like, a venereal disease or smoker’s cough or something.”

“A broken heart, because he thought if I lived with Auntie Zéphine, that meant I didn’t love or need him anymore.”

“I am going to throw up.”

“Is that what the bag you brought is for?” jokes Cosette, nodding to where it now lies between Éponine’s feet.

“Better.” Éponine pushes her hot cocoa into Cosette’s hands. “So the other reason I got a job, the real reason, is so I can like. Actually do stuff for myself too. And you, if you'll let me, which it sounds like you might.”

“I will,” Cosette confirms.

“Great.” Éponine pops back up, a large box in her hands. “I had to make some not-so-above-board agreements to get these before payday, so you’re not allowed to say ‘no.’”

“Éponine,” groans Cosette when she sees the contents, cheeks already burning with embarrassment. “There are other people here.”

“And I’ve been practicing having more supporting power than a cone,” insists Éponine, shaking the shoebox. “C’mon, it’s Christmas eve. And you’ve actually been using your money and time responsibly, so I can’t be the ghost of past, present, or future.”

“I don’t imagine ghosts are very good at supporting anything,” grumbles Cosette, who, despite her complaints, is already moving toward the rink.

“I’m no good without my ice skating angel,” agrees Éponine.

“It’s like you didn’t even watch the musical.”

"I've already seen Home Alone 2, it's not like I'm watching things for plot anymore,” grins Éponine. "What can I say? I'm drawn to extravagance."

“Where did you say you were working again?”

“Grocery store.”

Cosette sighs in happy resignment. “Have you ever been to see the symphony at Carnegie Hall?”

“Not physically.”

“I’ll get us some tickets. However much you were impressed with them in Home Alone, I assure you, their presence live is nothing less than extravagant.”