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    Summary

    There's a child on the other side of the door, smudged with dirt and looking not sorry at all for the disturbance. "Begging your pardon," he says, and doesn't sound like he means it one bit. "But the carriage is waiting for you."

    "Carriage?" Grantaire laughs, but stops quickly, as it only makes his head hurt worse. "You have the wrong door."

    "I don't," the child says, sticking out his chin and giving Grantaire a look like he'll drag him out by his shirt tails if it comes to it. "You're Grantaire, and I'm here to escort you, and you should really stop blinking at me and get your boots on. It doesn't do to keep these folks waiting."

    Grantaire squints at him for a long moment, but the child stays as he is, heaving a great sigh and rolling his eyes toward the ceiling. "I'm not hungover. I'm still drunk," Grantaire says, with the weight of proclamation.

    The child heaves a sigh and leans in, through the doorway, and grabs Grantaire by the sleeve of his shirt. "Congratulations," he says, dry as dust, and pulls Grantaire down the hallway to the stairs, and outside to the street. Where there is, in fact, a carriage, and a bay stallion pawing at the cobbles and tossing his head as he waits for them.

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