I: Flowers

The salt from the crashing ocean clung to Javert's skin and made it feel tight against his cheekbones. He looked down at the chanting prisoners and his lip instinctively curled, his distaste for the scum overpowering him. The long, smooth handle of the wooden baton was clutched tightly in his gloved hand.

The day was warm, yet he was still chilled from the biting sea spray. Javert clasped his hands behind his back and surveyed the shipyard and thought about what it would feel like to set sail on one of the wooden ships, their decks lurching from the churning sea. He decided that life was safer on dry land. He removed a pocket watch and looked at the marble face. Spindly black hands pointed to one o'clock. His shift had ended

Javert descended down stone steps and wound his way through the streets, overstepping puddles of filth and ignoring the grime covered faces of shop vendors and workers. He saw a young woman beating out the dust from a rug and noticed her thin wrists and shapely hands, how her arms moved and flexed with the force of the strikes on the cloth. Scolding himself, he averted his hard gaze to the ground.

"Flower monsieur?" asked a little voice from behind his shoulder. Javert turned and looked down at the face of a young woman, her hand extended towards him with wilting daffodils drooping between her fingers. She had her arm looped through the handle of a little wicker basket, tulips, daisies, and daffodils resting inside. "Flowers?"

He regarded her. Her face was clean, free of grime save for a couple streaks on her left cheek, and her eyes were a dusky blue, almost like the roiling sea. He looked at her fingers, and noticed that they too were covered with dirt. Soil clung to the roots of the flowers. He realized that she was clean and presentable in a light yellow dress, save for the streaks of mud on the front of her skirt.

"They're free, monsieur!" she exclaimed, smiling. Her teeth were even. She swung her fist forward, trying to entice the guard into taking her flowers.

Suddenly, there was a commotion down at the end of the street. "Who did it! Where is that girl!? Aimée!" The voice was booming and strong.

Startled, the girl, who Javert assumed was Aimée, let the flowers drop from her fist and whirled around, her blonde curls shining in the gray sunlight. Javert also stiffened as he heard the booming voice and looked up, the tassel from his guard hat brushing the side of his face. From the crowd emerged a man, well-built and strong, his blonde hair tied back with a ribbon, now messy from his obvious anger. Dark eyes shone in irritation and he grabbed the girls arm, causing her to yelp.

"You destroyed the garden, you little brat!" he shouted. The girl whimpered.

"I'm sorry, Papa," she said, her eyes clenched shut.

"Everything's destroyed, there's dirt everywhere! Look at your dress!" the man's voice was rising ever louder; shopkeepers averted their eyes and went inside. Yellowed eyes bulged and his sallow cheeks turned crimson. "You are far too old to be acting like this! You'll be sorry!" There was a sharp smack from his hand striking Aimée's cheek and she stumbled to the ground, muddying her ruined dress even further.

Javert suddenly stepped between the man's raised arm and the girl sobbing on the ground. The guard felt the wood of his baton clenched tight in his fist and he glared at the young woman's father, his mouth turned harshly downwards into a hard frown.

"What is going on here?" Javert demanded, his voice louder and stronger than the enraged man's own. The young woman, Aimée, got up and scurried behind Javert, just able to look over his shoulder and her cheek already starting to redden from her father's strike.

"That brat, my daughter, ripped up the flowerbed again. I told her three times not to do it, but does she listen? NO!"

Javert glanced down behind him and saw the girl peeking out from behind him. He sternly grabbed her arm and brought her out from her hiding spot. Her dark blue eyes were brimming with tears and she glanced at Javert and then to the ground.

"What were you doing with the flowers, girl?" Javert asked, his voice unyielding and even.

"Giving them away, sir," Aimée said, suddenly finding her shoes interesting. "I like to give the flowers away to the people."

"They're not yours to be giving away! You ripped them from my garden!" her father bellowed, stepping to strike her again. Javert grabbed the man's wrist as he moved between them, his grip strong. Aimée yelped and retreated back behind him. Her father was bewildered.

"I do not appreciate the physical abuse of women in my presence, monsieur…what is your name?"

"Gérard Lamenté" Gérard sputtered, Javert's harsh grip starting to make him uncomfortable. For the first time, he noticed the polished wood baton that was clenched in the guard's free hand.

"If your daughter tore up your garden, reprimand her and force her to do work around the house. Do not beat her in front of the world. They do not need to witness her punishment." Javert's voice was cold.

Gérard, who was by no means a small man, seemed to shrink back from Javert's voice. Javert released his arm and stepped away from the girl's father, but he allowed Aimée to shelter herself behind him.

"Fine then," he said, drawing himself up as much as he could, "You deal with her." And with that, Aimée's father stalked off.

Javert watched him go before he slipped his baton back in his belt and turned to continue walking down the road, leaving a stunned looking Aimée standing in the middle of the cobblestones. She scrambled to pick up the wilted flowers on the road and hurried after the straight-backed guard.

"Monsieur, thank you," she said, a little timidly as she fell into step next to him. He didn't glance at her.

"It's part of my duty to protect, mademoiselle," Javert muttered, "Even if I'm just a guard."

Aimée was quiet as she observed him. She liked the way he looked, she decided. Hair clung to his chin and his eyes were downturned slightly, like he was perpetually regarding something or deep in thought.

"Might I inquire as to why you are following me?" he asked, turning a corner and finally casting her a glance as he made his way to a café.

She looked down, searching for an excuse. Truth be told, she was sticking close to him out of fear of her father. She worried that the second she left the guard's side, her other cheek would sting with her father's strike. "You never took your flowers," she said instead.

"Do I look like a man in need of flowers, child?" he said, almost scoffing.

"Yes."

Her answer surprised Javert and he turned to look at her, his eyes stern, but easing into a curious regard.

"How old are you?" he finally asked.

"Sixteen."

Much too old to be muddied in the street trying to give away flowers. She should be inside, learning to sew and create small talk, Javert thought. "And what is your name?"

"Aimée Lamenté"

So he had guessed correctly.

The name fit her, he decided; fit her dusty blonde hair and oceanic eyes. Javert's own stormy gaze glanced at the wilted flowers in the basket. He almost laughed at the dirt still determinably clinging to their roots. But he was Javert, and laughing wasn't an easy feat.

"I think, mademoiselle Lamenté, that you should return home. Clean yourself up and start to mend your father's garden."

Her eyes flickered to the ground. "Papa's so mad at me he won't want to see me home for a few hours."

"Is his temper always this short?" Javert grunted, glancing around to the dirty patrons of the streets and shops. His nose wrinkled instinctively. If the girl noticed, which she undoubtedly did, she didn't acknowledge it.

Aimée nodded, "Usually he's angrier than that."

For a moment, Javert felt a little sliver of distaste swell in the back of his throat, but he swallowed it back down quickly. Why should he be concerned with this child?
"I'm sure he'd be happier if you didn't misbehave and ruin your clothes." His statement meant to be a joke, but he said it too harshly and the girl looked down from subtle hurt.

"Well, monsieur, perhaps I should return home," she said, giving him a small curtsey. She turned, about to disappear into the crowds.

Knowing his words had hurt her, Javert called out before Aimée retreated out of earshot.

"Mademoiselle, wait. I will take a flower," he said before he could stop himself.

Aimée turned and suddenly smiled at him, her teeth bright and cheeks rosy. Hurrying back to him, she thrust out a yellow daffodil. Somber-faced as ever, Javert took it, his fingers gentle on the soft stem. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, sir. Goodbye, maybe I'll see you tomorrow," Aimée said, smiling. She curtsied again, this time much more enthusiastically, and scampered away, leaving a very surprised Javert standing in front of the café, a wilting daffodil clutched in his fist, dirt still clinging to the narrow little roots.