Eponine raised an eyebrow. "There is no one here who could account for my skills, unless it was for my ability to stop bullets with my hand." She laughs at the thought, the sound morbid to her own ears, her eyes turned down to look at the scar on the palm of her hand.
"A delivery service," she repeats, looking at the ice suspiciously. When he sets the glass down, she does not pick it up. "I did much of that when I was in Paris, in a manner of speaking. I do like to dance, I have found, but I am not trained. And- a circus? No, I have no sort of skill that could be used there. Nor is there one here, as far as I know." Still, she laughs.
The new glass is filled, and she gingerly reaches a hand out, touching the strange cube. It's cold to the touch, and she gasps. "That is ice!" She's from 1832, they didn't have ice commercially avaliable for the poor.
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"A delivery service," she repeats, looking at the ice suspiciously. When he sets the glass down, she does not pick it up. "I did much of that when I was in Paris, in a manner of speaking. I do like to dance, I have found, but I am not trained. And- a circus? No, I have no sort of skill that could be used there. Nor is there one here, as far as I know." Still, she laughs.
The new glass is filled, and she gingerly reaches a hand out, touching the strange cube. It's cold to the touch, and she gasps. "That is ice!" She's from 1832, they didn't have ice commercially avaliable for the poor.