She breathed in the crisp morning air and felt a rare half-smile creep up the side of her face. Montreuil-sur-Mer at last. Home, if she could really call it that.

Roche took a careful step forward. How long had she been gone? Three weeks, she thought, and crossed her arms over her chest. Not much should have changed in three weeks, but things had an awful tendency to change when she was not there to oversee them. She would nose around the town, discover if anything had gone awry, and fix it if she was particularly inclined to do so. It would be pleasant to rediscover her little place. She would enjoy it after Paris. She was not so very fond of Paris.

But first, Fantine. Roche reached into her pocket absentmindedly and poked at the francs within. Fantine paid very little for her lodging, two sous a day. The grisette had thought it an incredible price at the time; Roche had not felt like telling her how much the lodging really cost. In truth, Fantine's little home was something closer to ten sous a day, money Fantine could not spare.

Roche, however, could. And even still she would never, ever stop owing Fantine.

So the landlady first, and then Fantine. Roche had left 11 francs behind, which would have covered the cost if Fantine had been paying her share. But, as she'd already noted, things always went wrong when Roche was not around to oversee them. She'd give the landlady 25 of the 30 francs she had now. The rest would go for food, until she could find herself another job. Hopefully not in Paris.

Decisions made, she took off at a brisk trot. Montreuil-sur-Mer had gone quiet. It wasn't like the town to be so devoid of life. She grimaced. This is what happens when I am not there, she thought to herself darkly. No more Paris.

She slipped into an alley. When the sun was not shining directly on her, the air turned unpleasantly cold. She pulled her head closer to her shoulders and hurried on. The town had never felt particularly unfriendly before, but the unease in the air was palpable. Something is happening, she thought to herself. I don't like it.

On either side of the little alley, huddled figures wrapped tattered shawls around themselves, or reached out with trembling hands for the odd sou or two. Roche glanced to the side. A woman who couldn't have been much older than Roche herself held a child in her lap. Her bottom lip was red with blood from the teeth that gnawed on the frayed skin. Her hair was frizzy and black, her eyes wild.

Roche knelt. "Good morning, madame," she said, reaching into the pocket of her cloak. It was a thick, woolen thing. The woman's shawl was depressingly meager in comparison.

Her fingers closed around a sou, which she pressed into the woman's hand. "Tell me," she said, as she closed the woman's fingers around the coin. "Has something happened?"

The woman, distracted by the coin, only nodded. Roche waited, and after a few moments the woman looked up. "Oh yes," she said. Her voice was like the rustling of a dry leaf. "Inspector Lafayette has gone."

The expression on Roche's face stilled. Damn it, she thought, but did not voice the thought aloud. "There is a new inspector then, I presume," she said, more to herself than anything. The woman nodded.

"Good day," said Roche distractedly, getting to her feet. A new inspector. Of all the things to happen whilst she was away… Lafayette had been a blessing. He had been a perfectly dreadful inspector and was easily ignored. It wasn't as if Roche was much of a criminal, or a criminal at all. But there was a certain degree of relief in knowing that if she ever did have to resort to unsavory means, she would probably come out of it unscathed.

It's about time something like this happened, anyway, she thought. Lafayette couldn't stay forever. She cast her gaze skyward, towards the roiling clouds overhead. Au revoir, Inspector Lafayette. I fear I am going to miss you.

Fantine's home was near to the docks. Roche would have preferred going there before dark, but the sun was already setting. She sighed to herself. The prostitutes came out in droves once the sun had set, and while she did not have a problem with prostitutes, her unkempt appearance usually had her lumped in with them. She remembered a time when she'd been forced into a wall near the end of the dock by some sex-mad individual with meaty hands. She wondered idly whether his bitte had healed yet.

Probably not.

Twilight had fallen on the docks as she hurried through. Other than a trio of girls leaning against one of the ships, the place was mostly abandoned. Right. The new inspector. She had a feeling he would be harsh. If he was a replacement for Lafayette, he'd have to be.

The feeling of unrest had not gone away when she reached the residence of Madame Favre, the landlady. The woman was in a foul temper and complained incessantly throughout the entire interaction, only pausing for breath to tell Roche that her hair looked ridiculous. Roche's hair probably did look ridiculous, but that was no excuse for rudeness.

Roche herself was thoroughly annoyed by the time she stepped out of the little office. But Fantine's rent is paid for, she thought to herself. That is good. That is something. Her return to Montreuil-sur-Mer had been nowhere near as satisfactory as she'd hoped. At this point, all she wanted was to see Fantine again, to perhaps spend an evening with her friend, and then to lock herself in her own tiny residence and sleep for as long as physically possible.

She tucked a curl behind her ear and hurried down the street to Fantine's door. Reaching out, she curled her hand into a fist and rapped on the wood, three times. She would not knock again. Fantine, while probably not expecting her, would most certainly recognize the somewhat brassy attitude.

Thirty seconds passed. Already Roche felt a weird apprehension growing in the pit of her stomach. She let her arm fall to her side. Fantine had heard her. The rooms were too close together for her not tohave heard.

A minute passed. Roche cocked her head. Her breathing accelerated. Fantine, she thought. What are you doing, Fantine?

It was four more minutes before the door opened.

Roche had never been easy to take by surprise. Oftentimes she knew about things before those centrally involved had any clue as to what was going on. But as Fantine opened the door and looked her in the eye, she realized that something had happened, and she was much too late to set things right.

Fantine's eyes were streaked with tears. Her cheeks were red and smeared with liquid, and her eyelids had puffed into veritable slits. When she took in the sight of Roche standing on the doorway, she attempted a trembling smile that devolved into a fit of shaking.

Dear God, thought Roche. What have I done?

Fantine appeared to be attempting some sort of explanation, but her jaw snapped open and closed uninhibited. She wrapped her arms around herself and swayed from side to side, trapped in some throe of grief that Roche couldn't understand. The girl stood frozen on the doorstep, nostrils flared, posture tense.

"Fantine," she whispered finally. Her voice was chill. "What's happening?"

The grisette shook her head, retreated into the darkness of the hallway. Stripping off her cloak, Roche followed. The door clicked shut behind her, trapping her in the stuffy warmth of Fantine's little abode. For once, Roche wasn't really thinking about it.

Fantine had retreated to the soft chair in the corner, where she collapsed. She had her face in her hands, and appeared to be mumbling to herself. "Oh God, oh God, oh God." With every word, her tremors increased. "Oh, God."

Roche felt herself moving, although she was hardly thinking about her actions. Mechanically, she went to her friend's side, trapped the shaking wrists and pinned them to Fantine's lap. Kneeling at Fantine's feet, she felt more worthless than she'd felt in a long time. She did not like it.

"Fantine," said Roche again. "Fantine, Fantine. What's happening to you?"

It took several minutes for the whole story to fall from Fantine's trembling lips. With every word, Roche felt a strange nausea brewing in the pit of her stomach. A lump clogged her throat, but her eyes were dry. Roche did not cry, did not know how to cry. In some ways it was a blessing. But now, when her lungs gasped for air and every beat of her heart felt like the stab of a shard of glass, she wished she understood the concept a little better.

Fired. Fantine had been fired. This could not have happened at a worse time. Roche felt the strength leaching from her bones, and she thudded against Fantine's skinny legs, wrapped one arm around them. Even this position didn't feel degrading enough. I'm dirt, she thought numbly. All these years of being in her debt, and I can't help her when she needs it the most. I'm trash.

There were several minutes of silence. Fantine's mumbled explanation had turned into sobs, and then into harsh breathing punctuated by the occasional whimper or sputter. Roche remained clinging to Fantine's legs, perfectly reminiscent of one of the barnacle-creatures that clung to the sides of ships. She felt as though the floor beneath her had been whipped away, and Fantine was the only thing keeping her from slipping into darkness.

"I've failed you," she said suddenly, and let go. She brought her knees to her chest and bowed her head. "I should have been there."

Fantine shook her head. "There was nothing you could have done…"

"There is always something," Roche snapped. "If I'd been there," she added, her voice having lowered an octave, "I'd have killed your foreman before allowing him to—to throw you out. Like an animal." Her voice remained mostly impassive, but she meant what she said. She could feel it in her bones, in the blood trickling through her veins.

Fantine shook her head again. Her face was pinched. "Cosette," she whispered. "How will I have enough…? How can I make ends meet?"

Roche jerked to her feet, snatched at the francs in her pocket. "Here," she said, returning to her motionless friend. When Fantine made no move, Roche reached over and tried to place them in her friend's hand. "Take them. Take all of them."

Fantine, for the first time, looked up with an expression in her dark eyes that wasn't full of pain. "Non," she protested. "I can't…"

"You have to," said Roche.

Fantine's eyes were brimming. "What about you?" she whispered. "You need that for food. That's all you have. Isn't it?"

"I'll steal," said Roche, having momentarily forgotten about the new inspector.

"Non," said Fantine. "Besides," she added, an afterthought. "I would send this for Cosette… And you mean it for me. Don't you?"

"Of course I do," said Roche. "What good will you be if you aren't eating? I'm not going to let you starve." There was a dark conviction in her voice.

Fantine looked at her hands, folded neatly in her lap. "You must eat as well, Roche," she said.

Roche blinked. "Fantine," she groaned softly, and once more fell to her knees. "Why won't you let me save you?"

This time, Fantine did manage a smile. "This is different," she said, putting her hand on Roche's head. "The money I gave you was my parents'; I hardly would have starved without it."

Roche's head bowed until her pointy chin was pressed against the dip in her collarbone. "Then, so help me God," she said. "I'll make this last. We will eat, Fantine. We'll both eat."

She had no intention of eating much of anything, but this was no time to be saying that.

The course of action was decided. This was no time to be sitting idly by. Roche got to her feet and dropped the money on Fantine's little work-table. "You must look for work on the morrow, Fantine."

"Yes," said the grisette, looking weirdly nervous. "What about you? What are you planning?"

Roche thought about it for a moment. "I will look for work as well," she decided.

"Real work?" asked Fantine. "Or…" She didn't finish the sentence. Roche had never really gotten into the nature of her work with Fantine, and the grisette didn't know what to call it.

"My brand of work," said Roche.

"What do you do, Roche?" asked Fantine. She didn't appear as though she expected an answer; Roche had dodged the question so many times that Fantine was probably used to disappointment.

"Not today," said Roche. "But one day I will get into it. I promise."

Fantine nodded. "Will you—are you going to stay? Or…"

"No, I should be going," said Roche. "I have work I have to get done." Before it's too late, she thought to herself, but saying that kind of thing aloud would only frighten Fantine unnecessarily. She wrapped her woolen cloak around her shoulders and turned to Fantine, who remained in the chair. "It will be alright, Fantine," she said, hoping that her tone was more convincing than it probably was. "We will make things work."

Fantine only nodded. "Roche," she whispered, and her voice cracked. "Please don't leave again."

She felt the words slam into her chest and bury themselves there, like tiny nails in a heart-shaped coffin. "I will never leave you again," said Roche, and she meant it. "Good evening, mon amie."

"Good evening," whispered Fantine, and she looked at her hands before curling them into fists. She has just made some sort of decision, thought Roche, noting the determined glint in her friend's eye. Fantine. I hope you know what you are doing.

At least one of us should know.


He'd be damned if that Mayor Madeleine was not Jean Valjean.

The station was filled with idle chatter, most of it concerning but not including the recently-installed Inspector Javert. Lafayette had been an embarrassing failure. Javert was not going to say that Montreuil-sur-Mer was rampant with crime because of his predecessor's shortcomings (indeed, it seemed a peaceful town from what he could tell) but even the most peaceful of towns could not function without the guiding hand of the Law. Lafayette had not been the right man to administer that hand. Javert had the utmost confidence that he would do well where his predecessor had failed.

But here he was, worrying himself over Mayor Madeleine when his current objective involved his patrolling the town on some sort of nightly circuit. It was a standard procedure, but it would take some time getting used to. He forced himself to put thoughts of the Mayor out of his head (if only for now) and turned back to the bright young man with the map.

"And here's the docks, Mister Inspector, sir," the lad exclaimed, blithely stabbing at the map with a grubby index finger. Javert could not for the life of him see how the young fellow had gotten himself this kind of position, but as head of the Montreuil-sur-Mer police, he would see to it that the young idiot didn't get into any manner of trouble.

"I'd recommend spending some extra time down there," the boy continued. "Not because of the ladies, mind you. It's just that there's lots of scuffles goin' on, especially at night when us decent folks are trying to get some shuteye." He grinned a gap-toothed grin.

Javert did not return the smile. "Continue," he said, waving his hand at the map.

The boy's smile dimmed. "Well… That's all, sir. After that, you go home for the night and Favre takes the rest."

Javert nodded and plucked the map from the boy's hand. "That will be all," he said, not glancing up from the rectangle of paper. The boy was a bit of an idiot, that much he could see, but he had a good hand for drawing. Which won't help him very much in this profession, Javert thought grimly.

When he looked up again, the boy had vanished amongst his peers. The night had fallen quickly, and it seemed that most of the men were anxious to get home. Javert folded the map neatly and placed it in his pocket. He'd only use it when he was truly lost; the less he used it now, the easier the town would be to navigate in the future.

He left the men to their idle chatter. The cold of the night air hit him and he drew his coat a bit tighter around the shoulders. The moon hung fat and heavy in the sky, the stars obscured by scudding clouds.

This is no time to be looking at the sky, he thought.

He could do this patrol on his horse, but he preferred to do the walk himself. The more he walked these streets, the more he'd understand them. Besides, he needed to stretch his legs. He needed to think.

Mayor Madeleine and Jean Valjean are one and the same. There is no other explanation.

There was no concrete proof, and for this reason alone he had not already alerted the proper authorities. But the man had the strength of an ox and the face of the convict. Javert had noted the way he kept his wrists and ankles out of sight, going so far as to draw down the sleeves of his coat when they slipped too high. It was a standard practice among criminals, to keep the scars from the heavy manacles from showing. It was true that Javert had nothing but his suspicions, but he was willing to wait. If he is Jean Valjean, he will slip up, or try to run. They always do. And then I will have him.

It occurred to him that he was not paying as much attention to the streets as he should have been. He had not run across a soul as of yet, and that disturbed him. I will get nothing done if the people hide at my approach, he thought. They have nothing to fear from me, so long as they follow the path of the righteous.

An intersection loomed ahead. Javert frowned at it for a moment, and then, resigned, reached for the map. He drew it out from his pocket and moved to unfold it.

The gust of wind was so sudden that he was not at all prepared. With a violent tearing sound, the map was torn from his grip. He whirled around in time to see it floating nonchalantly over the top of a peaked roof, fluttering in the air for a moment, and then vanishing from view.

His finger had been sliced by the paper and was now bleeding. Idly, he wiped the blood away on the back of his hand and considered his options. Going back for the map would be a pointless waste of time. There was no telling where the wind had taken it. No, his best option would be to pick one of these streets and to hope for the best. A doubtful prospect, but it would serve him better than standing here all evening.

He started forward and was surprised to hear the sound of quiet footfalls, coming his way. The first person I'll have seen this evening, he ruminated. I don't suppose he'll know the way to the docks.

A small figure rounded the corner of the right intersection, paused when it saw him, and then continued coming forward. As it approached, he realized that what he had assumed was a young man was actually a slim young woman with a strange, dark expression on her face. She came within five feet of him and then stopped dead, blinking once or twice.

"Good evening, monsieur," she said. Her voice was oddly calculating. "I don't believe I've seen you before."

"You have not," he agreed. "I am… new to your town." He really didn't have the time to be standing here, making small talk. "Do you know the way to the docks, mademoiselle? I fear I have lost my way."

She looked at him for a moment. "Yes," she said finally. "I don't think that my description alone will be enough to guide you, however. If you could promise me a fast pace, I would be willing to bring you there."

He raised an eyebrow. "If you are frightened of being alone in the dark, mademoiselle…"

To his surprise, a flash of irritation flickered across her face. "Fear has nothing to do with it, sir." A small, self-satisfied grin tugged at the corners of her mouth. "Fear is not a particular problem with me. Non, monsieur, I simply have business to attend to." That, for whatever reason, wiped the smile away.

He was torn. It was clear that the girl did not want to help him, did not have time for it. But he was her new inspector, and if anything she should be at least somewhat deferential in his presence. He was no tyrant, but he was an authority figure that demanded a certain level of respect. And it was absolutely essential that he patrol this route tonight. Any hesitation would have him labeled weak or ineffective, and that he could not allow.

"Will this particularly impede you, mademoiselle?" he asked.

She sighed heavily. "It is a small thing, Inspector."

So she recognized his rank. He had a small, suspicious inkling that this was the only reason she was showing him any respect at all.

"Show me the way, then," he ordered. It was easier to be rather commandeering when around civilians. After so long as a prison guard, he found it difficult to get that distinctive authoritarian snarl out of his voice. The girl did not seem particularly bothered by his tone, though.

"This way," she said, turning and waving him forward over her shoulder. She walked quickly, but he had no difficulties catching up. He was well-exercised; had to be in order to be an effective inspector.

The girl's eyes were on the road, but it was clear that she was walking a route she'd walked dozens of times before. He wondered briefly if she was a prostitute, but dismissed the notion. She was much too young, and she walked with a regal, prideful air. He could not imagine her lowering herself to such an extent. But she had mentioned business at this hour, and prostitution was likely the only thing a young girl would be up to so late in the night.

It was not a topic he could bring up without inciting wrathful (and rightful) indignation. "You mentioned business," he said lightly. "What exactly did you mean by that?"

She started, as though she'd forgotten he was there at all. Her big black eyes fixed on him, and then she turned back to the road. "Perhaps someday I will tell you, Inspector," she said, and yawned.

That was not the kind of answer he'd been expecting. "Might I remind you that you are speaking to a man of law?" he reminded her darkly. "It would be wise for you to speak the truth."

Her nostrils flared, but she seemed mostly unworried. "Forgive me," she said. "You and I have never been properly introduced. I could not be sure you were an inspector at all, could I?"

"That is a ridiculous loophole, mademoiselle."

"It is, isn't it?" she murmured, brushing a strand of dark brown hair away from her pale forehead. "Perhaps we should introduce ourselves, then."

He might as well try out his new title. "I am Inspector Javert of the Montreuil-sur-Mer Police," he said, giving her a short bow.

"Javert," she said, as though she were trying out the name on her tongue. "Delighted to make your acquaintance. I am Roche."

So she goes by her surname, Javert mused, or else she is attempting to conceal her given name from me. She was an odd creature, certainly.

The scent of sea air hit his nostrils. They turned a corner and he could see the ocean spread out before him, like a glossy dark canvas. Several ships were moored at the massive docks. From here, he could see lights bobbing and no doubt refutable characters gathering at them. He wondered if they would scatter at his approach, or if he would be propositioned or bribed. He was ready for either.

"I thank you for your help, mademoiselle…" he said, and trailed off. There was no one standing beside him. In the space of about thirty seconds, his companion had vanished.

He turned to look behind him. The alley from which they'd come was dark, deserted. She's gone, he thought, mildly astonished. She is faster than I realized.

The astonishment turned rapidly into irritation. She ran from me, he noted darkly. And she never answered any of my questions. She has something to hide.

It was similar to the Madeleine situation in that he could not prove anything. But Javert had not yet been wrong about something like this.

Madeleine, Roche, he thought. If you are guilty under the law, as I suppose you are, prepare yourselves.

For I am the Law, and the Law does not yield.


From her perch on the rooftop, she watched as the inspector gave one last glance behind him and continued on his way to the docks.

With a yawn, she stretched out and got to her feet. Scrambling to the rooftop might have been more challenging if she hadn't previously known the exact places to put her feet and hands. This was hardly the first time she'd needed a quick escape from the docks. And while she hadn't exactly needed to escape, she'd wanted to avoid any further conversation. She was a girl with a mission, after all.

But something kept Roche rooted to her place. She glanced down at the street and a dreadful lethargy took hold. She flopped back to a seated position, resting her forearm on her knee and her chin on her forearm.

Au revoir, Inspector Javert, she thought, watching him walk away. I was right. I already miss Lafayette.

She could not just walk blindly. If she'd been any sort of careful, that encounter would not have happened at all. Now she'd wasted time, and Fantine didn't have any time. With a growl, she smacked her forehead against her forearm. She'd been hoping for some kind of jolt, a buzz, but she felt nothing at all.

"I need to think," she said aloud. Her words floated on the salty air and hung there, suspended by moonlight.

Who in Montreuil-sur-Mer would require her services? She couldn't think of a single person right off the bat, which was unsettling. Paris had been filled with people that needed her. There was a significantly smaller group of people that were willing to pay her, but that was another matter entirely.

She groaned and smacked her forehead again. She could hardly go back to Paris, as she'd promised Fantine she wouldn't. Besides, the idea of leaving Montreuil-sur-Mer on any sort of extended trip made her feel vaguely nauseous.

Think, Roche, think. She tugged at her hair and set her chin on her knees. The pain prickling at her scalp set her mind to a sharper, razor-like state of being. And there was the answer, so glaringly obvious that she couldn't believe she hadn't thought it before.

She swiveled her head wildly, but the inspector had vanished into the darkness. "Merde," she said quietly. There would be no finding him now, unless she went after him to the docks (which was an exceedingly stupid plan.) No, if she wanted to find him, it would have to wait until the morrow. She realized, with a grimace, that if she wanted the inspector, it was the police station that was her destination.

"Merde," she said again.

There was a part of her that wanted to lie down on the roof and go to sleep. But the day had been one of the most hellish days of her life, and she knew that she would not be able to fall asleep if she tried. She was suddenly irrationally angry. With one hand, she scrabbled for something to throw. Her hand closed around a loose chunk of wood and she ripped it from the roof.

She tried to gather enough air in her lungs to yell something, but the anger evaporated like water and she was left holding the piece of wood and feeling like a fool. She was white as a sheet as she clutched it in her hand. Then, with a deep growl, she tossed it off the roof and listened as it clattered to the ground.

She would not stay on this roof all night. She got to her feet and made her way back down to street level. There, lying in a puddle of glass-colored water, was her little chunk of wood. With a small grimace, she kicked it free. It clattered into the darkness.

Home. She would go home, and she would change clothes. She felt so dirty all of a sudden; her skin crawled with it, and her scalp tingled unpleasantly. Rubbing her hair, she began to walk and then sped up to a brisk trot. Her home was not so very far from Fantine's, although Fantine had never been there. Roche owned a single room with a bed and some clothes in a trunk, on the odd occasion she found it necessary to sleep there. She had long since paid for the place, as she was busy enough worrying about Fantine's rent and didn't want to think about her own.

It was not long before she arrived at her building. She slipped into the hall as quietly as she was able (the respectable residents were probably asleep) and made her way to the tiny room. The bed was neatly made, the curtains folded back to reveal the night sky. She paused for a moment in the threshold and the nausea finally took her. She collapsed on her knees, crawled for the bedpan stowed away underneath her sheets. She grabbed it by the metal rim and heaved, closing her eyes to avoid looking at the mess. When she was done, shivering and shaking, she collapsed on her side. Her chest heaved and she was covered in sweat and bile. Her breath probably smelled of sick, and her throat burned like acid.

She didn't care. It was with herculean effort that she dragged herself to her bed. There, splayed across the mattress and fully clothed, the events of the day caught up with her, and a bone-numbing weariness enveloped her in fatigue. She was asleep in moments.

With the morning came an unpleasant clarity. She sat up in bed and her scent made her wrinkle her nose. I can't smell like this, she thought, and that was the only thing that had her trudging downstairs to the pump. When her face no longer had bits of vomit on it, she returned to her little room. She wanted to sink back into the bed. No. I have to change. Hurriedly, she stripped off her clothes. Her trunk was a jumbled mess of clothing in dark shades. She realized, feeling like a fool, that she did not have any dresses at all. Her cloak served to cover the fact that she was not one for skirts. If not for the cloak, the harassment would irritate her to no end. I'll just leave it on, she thought. And I'll wear my baggiest trousers. Nobody will notice.

They would probably notice, but Roche had a penchant for ignoring appearance-based insecurities.

There was nothing left to do. She looked at the room for a moment, how haphazard her return had left it. I have to go now, she told herself, trying to ignore the irrational nervousness. There was no guarantee that this would work at all… But she would make it work. She would be there for Fantine. She would not fail.

"Here I come, Monsieur Inspector," she whispered, and crossed her arms over her chest. "I certainly hope that you're ready."


Javert had been startled to discover that there was a disturbing amount of paperwork to be filled out in order for him to take complete control over the Montreuil-sur-Mer police force. There were wavers that had to be signed and files to oversee, and it meant that an entire day would be wasted completing the arduous and totally pointless task. He had been issued a small office that he had no intention of ever using again, and was currently supporting his head with his hand as he tried to make sense of the more ridiculous clauses on the contract he was meant to be signing. Whoever had written it clearly thought that it would only be official if it was mostly "big words" and most of them did not make any sense in context.

He was deeply engrossed in the writing and it took several knocks before he finally looked up. It was the lad from the previous evening, Montagne, who stood at the door. His grin seemed twice as huge as normal, and he jittered from foot to foot with a nervous energy.

"Pardon," said Montagne. "There's a girl here to see you, Mister Inspector sir. A girl!" He made a dramatic hand gesture, as though there being a girl in the station was something majestic and grand.

Javert was not so easily pleased. "I am busy," he said, indicating the paperwork. "Tell her to come back later."

"It's too late for that," said a voice, and it was one that he recognized. Montagne jerked around, saw the figure leaning against the door, and grinned again.

"Mademoiselle! You followed me!"

"I did," Roche agreed, with a trace of a smile on her face. "Will you forgive me?" Her words were directed towards Montagne, but her eyes were fixed on Javert's.

Montagne was nodding emphatically. His eyes were staring at a point significantly lower than Roche's eyes. She noticed, and the smile vanished. The glare on her face was unpleasant, and Montagne swallowed.

"I'll be leaving you two, then!" he squeaked, and darted past Roche, to freedom. She stood in the doorway with an unreadable expression on her face. Then, with a lazy sweep of her hair, she fell into a bow.

"It is my pleasure to see you again, Inspector Javert."

"Your pleasure," he agreed. "I am busy, mademoiselle. You had no right to enter my office uninvited."

"Indeed," she said. She did not look remotely sorry. "I am sorry."

"You are not," said Javert, putting down his papers resignedly. "Why are you here?"

She opened her mouth, closed it, and brought her hands together. Her demeanor, which had seemed so placid the night previous, was now uncertain. "You asked me what business I had in the night," she said abruptly.

Well, that was true. "And you mean to enlighten me, I suppose?"

She gave him a tiny smile. "Your powers of observation are astonishing. Yes, Inspector." She took another step forward, so that she was directly in front of his desk. Leaning against it, she took a shallow breath.

"They say that you can buy anything in Paris. I don't know about that. But I think it is very true that everything in the world is being sold, somewhere. Some people sell love. Others sell bits and pieces of themselves." She paused. "I sell information."

He made to speak, but she cut him off with a hawk-like glare. "Nothing happens in this town without my knowing about it," she said, as though it were a simple observation of fact. "There is no secret that I don't know, and if I don't know it then I will learn it. There is no one in the world that can hide from me." Her gaze went dark. "I have been in Paris for the past three weeks, locating a debtor for a bourgeoisgentleman. This man had been looking for his scamming friend for over five years, and it took me two weeks to track him down. I am very good at what I do, Monsieur Inspector."

"You are new here," she continued. "You know nothing of this town. I know everything." She narrowed her eyes. "You will have those who run from the law, from judgment. You will have suspects who hide from you. And you will have no way to find them, not without me." She spread out her fingers on his desk, as though she were spreading her literal cards on the table. "I do not ask for much, monsieur. Only that you think of me in these situations."

He did not have to think about it. "No. Certainly not."

She did not seem particularly surprised. "I thought you would say that," she remarked. "Why? Is it because I am a woman, or because I am young?"

"It is because you are not a member of the Montreuil-sur-Mer Police," said Javert darkly. "I will not have a civilian meddling in affairs that do not concern her."

"I will meddle whether or not you take me up on my offer," said Roche quietly. "It would do you no harm to have help." She smiled grimly. "There will be times when, like it or not, you will need me, Monsieur Inspector—but I am not easy to find."

"You might think that I would need you," said Javert. "Are you always so convinced of your own importance?"

He had meant the words to sting, to dissuade her, but they seemed to have the opposite effect. "On the contrary, Inspector. I am not important at all. It is my information which is crucial. And information I have in plenty."

Javert shook his head. "I do not even know what it is that you are suggesting, mademoiselle."

"I am no enforcer," said Roche. "But as an informant I would be invaluable. Crime is not rampant here, but it is not invisible. I know when it happens, and I know the repeat offenders. I certainly know those who pose a significant threat to the safety of you and your men. It is information that could save lives, Javert. What kind of man could refuse that?"

Javert was not going to rise to the obvious bait. "It is a foolish, fanciful idea. I do not know why you want this, and I do not particularly care. I trust you can see yourself out." He looked down at the papers on his desk and reached for his pen.

When the sounds of Roche's departure were not forthcoming, he glanced up from his work and discovered something startling. She had moved so that the desk was no longer between them. Then she closed her eyes and made a dark, brooding face. "Heaven preserve me," she muttered to herself, and knelt at his feet.

She could not have surprised him more. "Mademoiselle," he growled. "What do you mean by this?"

"I will do anything to get this job, monsieur," she said. Her tone was light, but it was clear that she was not pleased by her current position. "Anything at all. This is a matter of life or death urgency, sir, and I am afraid that I cannot take no for an answer. So… please." She said the last as though it left a sour taste in her mouth.

"This changes nothing," said Javert. "You are making a fool of yourself."

"So be it," said Roche. "If you want me to kiss your feet, I will." Her tone was still airy, but there was a conviction mixed in that made him think she probably would kiss his feet if he wanted her to, which of course he did not.

"Enough," he exclaimed. "Do not test my patience."

"Then open your damned eyes and see," said Roche. "I am offering you something that you cannot get anywhere else, and you're too proud to take it!"

"If your services are so fantastic, why come crawling to me?" asked Javert.

She grimaced. "You are the only one in Montreuil-sur-Mer who needs me," she answered. "I am a commodity in Paris. Unfortunately, I can no longer leave this town. You are my last option."

Javert was not moved by self-pity. If she had been whining or crying, he would have called in the men to take her out by now. But her eyes were dry and defiant, and as she kneeled she trembled with energy. Still, if it had not been for his next thought, he would have had her thrown out.

Perhaps she can discover Mayor Madeleine's little secret.

The thought shocked him. No, he could hardly ask a young girl for help in this matter— but he did not have the time to spare to be chasing after the demons in Madeleine's past. "You say that you found a man in three weeks' time?" he asked her.

She nodded. "Two weeks," she corrected. "But it amounts to the same thing."

It would not be good if he asked her to nose around in the Mayor's past and his suspicions turned out to be incorrect. But it would be just as bad, more so, if he acted on those suspicions and they turned out unfounded.

It was not a decision that was easily made. But she wants to help. I have never seen a young person take such interest in the law before.

He felt, suddenly, that he was condemned either way. I'll be damned if I let her help, certainly. But how can I turn her away, if she could set my mind to rest on this matter of Valjean?

His next sigh was so low that it was something akin to a growl. "I will give you one job," he said. "And I will not pay you until the end of the month, when I receive the bulk of my own payment." She raised one eyebrow slightly, but did not protest.

"Now," said Javert. "If you want this as much as you say you do, you will stop kneeling."

She nodded, and in one fluid motion was on her feet, leaning against the side of his desk. He could not help but widen his eyes slightly. A less observant person would not have noticed, but she did, and smirked.

"You will not smirk," he warned her.

She stopped smirking.

Javert shifted his weight in the chair and wondered if he was making a mistake. Well, he was almost certainly making a mistake. But perhaps, somehow, it would be worth it.

"You will look into the past of the Mayor of this town," said Javert. "Find out if the facts are as he tells them. If he has secrets, you must discover them. If your performance is satisfactory…" He let the "if" hang in the air. "Then you will receive your payment."

She nodded; her demeanor had changed to one of pure business. Gone was deference, the determination. Now there was nothing at all in her eyes. "I charge 15 francs a week," she said, and hurried on before he could protest. "How often shall I report back to you, monsieur?"

He considered it. He did not want to deal with this strange woman any more than he had to. But he was hardly going to pay her for services she wasn't providing him. "Weekly," he decided.

She nodded, bowed, and extended her hand. "Shall we shake?" she asked. "Normally I would require some sort of contract, but you are a man of your word, I'm sure." Her expression dared him to argue.

As he took her hand in his own, he knew he was making a mistake. But it is too late to back down now, he thought. And she might be able to close the case of Jean Valjean, once and for all.

"You are dismissed," he said, releasing her hand and turning back to the papers. If she was going to be working for him, he would treat her no better than he treated his subordinates. A small part of him hoped that his attitude alone would be enough to make her change her mind. A larger part of him was well aware that this would not be the case.

He didn't have to look up again to know that she was gone.


Translations:

Au revoir- goodbye

Bitte- cock

Grisette- working-class woman

Non- no

Mon amie- my friend

Merde- shit