Into The Fire {Open}

Azelma sat, tucked up in one corner of the old--and filthy--garret she shared with her father, her mother, and her sister. An equally old, equally tattered, and equally filthy doll--the same one that caused the upset all those years ago between that little girl and she and her sister, though Zel barely remembered that--sat on her lap. Her eyes were closed, and she was dozing, nearly asleep, propped up against the wall. The fingers of her left hand were in her mouth, and every now and then she sucked them, sometimes waking herself up. She blinked, peering around the room, and finding herself alone, Azelma cuddled the doll closer and resumed her nap.

The previous evening, Papa had whipped her, soundly, because she'd knocked into his mug of gin, and spilled it all over the just-finished stack of begging-letters. The paper was old, and thin, the ink cheap and poorly made, and before she could blink, most of the letters were little more than a soggy mess. She told herself she deserved her punishment. Of course she deserved it. Those letters were what kept her family in clothes--threadbare and thin as they were--and food--never mind that it was usually several days old, and sometime rotted or spoilt by the time they got hold of it--and a house--or a room, in any case, with a window, and a chair, and a fireplace, and two beds, and a roof and four walls besides, which was far better than some of the places they'd lived.

Zel told herself all that, but the strap still stung, and she'd cried--though she tried not to, as that only made Papa more cross, and more likely to keep hitting her till she stopped--and Papa had shouted at her, called her stupid, and useless and clumsy, and that hurt even more than the thrashing he gave her. After, Mama had held her, and kissed her, and said not to mind her father, he was only old and cross, like a grumpy old bear. That had made her giggle, but quietly, and into her mother's shoulder, and she'd spent the night curled up next to her mother on one of their little pallets.

The next morning, everybody scattered, but Zel stayed behind. Her back still hurt, and anyway, she hadn't slept well last night--Mama snored though she'd never tell her this--and a whole day to herself, with nobody around to scold or question, was wonderful. Of course, she wouldn't have minded if Eponine stayed behind, too, but her sister had her own comings and goings, and sometimes these didn't include Azelma, That wasn't nice, Zel thought, but, for today in any case, she wasn't up to trailing Ponine through Paris's slums.

She'd spent most of the day in the corner she now sat in, sleeping or talking with Madeleine, the doll. Waking once more, she stretched, pushing herself to her feet. Her stomach grumbled, reminding her that she'd not eaten since yesterday--and that only some stale, hard bread. Tucking Madeleine under her arm, Azelma crossed to the door. She wedged her feet into her boots--they were men's boots, really, and at least two sizes too big for her feet, but, stuffed with rags, they did alright, and sometimes were warm besides. Grabbing her mantle--little more than a coarse blanket--she threw it over her shoulders and went out.

Perhaps somebody could be found who would give her enough money for a bit of bread, or maybe even a whole pastry. She was very good at looking pitiful. Her parents had taught her well. There was bound to be some kind soul on the streets of Paris today, surely. Humming to herself, Azelma walked, hunting for a benefactor.

It wasn't often that she ventured down by the Palias. Truth be told, she avoided it if at all possible. But she was hungry--very hungry--and there were people there who sold good. Maybe she could distract one of them long enough to knick something. Ponine was better at that than she was but it couldn't be that hard. Right? She spotted the msn first. He looked like a gentleman of some sort, though not a lord or anything so grand. Maybe a very rich merchant then. Maybe he would give her some money and she wouldn't have to try to pinch anything. That would be better. Easier. Then she saw the pastry he held and licked her lips. Perhaps he could convince him to give it to her. A pickpocket she was, and a good one, but taking things out of somebody's hand? That was impossible.

She walked up to him, reaching up to tug on bs coat. "Excuse me, Monsieur? Could you spare a coin?" She pointed to the pastry seller. "I'd like to buy one." people were funny about money. Most of them would rather give food or clothes,mor whatever else they thought the person needed. Anything but coins, which might be spent on who knew what. She wasn't the type to buy gin with good money, but she might've bought sweets. For now though, all she wanted was the pastry.