She was being followed, by a slip of a girl dressed in clothes as black as the night itself. The scruffy bob hat on Eponine's head did little to keep out the cool air of London, and she huddled herself over in her cracked leather jacket against the wind.

She was following this woman because… because why not? There was nothing better to do. In that respect, it was worse than Paris. There at least there was Montparnasse, or Claquesous or any number of men they sent her towards. Here, she was a spare part and she knew it.

So she followed, not sure enough of herself to call out to the woman, not quite knowing why she was doing it. But she followed.