"Mm." It's absent, and vague; he's focused on the spreadsheet, and on his own thoughts. He reaches out to run a careful finger along the side of the tablet to scroll down. (Enjolras has gained a few skills with tablets, but he still uses them like an easily confused old person: a few memorized tricks in the repertoire, with limited grasp of the underlying system's logic.)

"Try to leave ourselves messages, Joly said."

Another touch to the screen: down it scrolls, through the long and detailed chart of France's history and future. Dozens of permutations of the same few decades, dozens of permutations of triumph and misery.

"We -- those versions of ourselves -- one could come and go, and bring things. Not like poor Bossuet before."