Cleveland Street Workhouse, London

Before she was fully awake, Cosette's hand came down hard on her shin. She cracked one eye open, her soul catching up with her body, and gazed blearily at her leg. A bed bug, once fat with her blood, now lay flattened in a glut of red and tiny legs. She sighed, brushing the insect from her skin. The light pouring through the window was a weak eggshell blue—it was not quite dawn—and she took the rare moment of silence to sit with her thoughts.

She peeled the blanket, (which was no better than cheesecloth,) from her body, and observed the damage that the tiny bug had done. She rubbed a hand ponderously over her newly emaciated legs, feeling the shin-bone poke through like the spine of a book. There was something so familiar about these matchstick-thin legs, the flea-bitten skin. It conjured memories that she had tried to quash, memories of her childhood, of rough clothes that failed to remain anchored to her small frame, of wooden clogs that were far too big for her, broomsticks that splintered her soft hands.

But then her rescuer had come. She remembered the first time her Papa had seen her without her clothes. It had taken days for her to even relinquish her shawl, but eventually she relented, bowing her head as she let the filthy garments fall to the floor. She remembered the smell of soap, the sound of hot water gushing loudly into the metal bathtub, and the look in her father's eyes when she had turned to face him. It was a look she had never seen before, at least not directed at her. It was the look she gave the lame dog that used to limp past the Thernardier's inn in the bleak winter months, hugging the side of the building for an inch of warmth. Up until then, Valjean had been strong and elusive. She had been quite scared of him. But when he saw just how far her ribs protruded from her body, grimy her skin was, how swollen her little-girl stomach was with malnutrition, he couldn't help it. His eyes began to shine, and, as his free hand holding the washcloth, he pressed his bent wrist to his mouth to choke back a sob.

Cosette dashed the whole blanket away from her body, as if hoping that physical movement could cause the memory to dissipate. The thought of her Papa bled every time she touched it, so she didn't. He's not coming back, she thought to herself. You're alone. No-one's coming to save you. She swatted the thought away like the bug from her shin, focusing instead on the day ahead.

It was a chilly morning, and Cosette's thin pinafore did little to mitigate the cold. The women in her bunk siphoned out into the cobbled courtyard, clapping their hands together for warmth and shifting their weight from foot to foot. Cosette found herself defaulting to a pose she knew from childhood; hugging her arms around her body and biting the inside of her cheek to distract herself, watching as the men around her broke stones with a mallet, sweating in spite of the weather. The first task of the day was oakum picking. The women were herded into a shed with a needle-thin window and given thick plaits of fisherman's rope. It was strange how big the quartered rope was up-close, so big that Cosette couldn't fit her whole hand around it. The task was simple; separate the rope with an iron pick.

'Not as easy as it looks,' an elderly woman said, watching as Cosette struggled to make her first incision. She gave Cosette a toothless grin as she finally punctured through the gum-hard rope. 'Good,' she said. 'Now—' the elderly woman demonstrated, cleanly tearing through the stiff fibres until they split into fronds. Cosette nodded, fingertips whitening on the iron pick as she wrestled through the rope. She cut spastically and raggedly through, her brow furrowed in concentration, before the fibres separated with such suddenness that Cosette couldn't contain the force she had been using to cut it. Her pick swooped through the empty air, almost catching the elbow of the elderly woman next to her. The shed erupted into cackles.

'You're bloody lethal with that,' the woman said, pressing a hand to her racing heart.

'Bless her,' said another. In the dark, Cosette hadn't even noticed her. The tiny chink of light illuminated some of the crags in her face, making her appear like a gargoyle that had sprouted from the stone walls. She leaned over and placed her hand on Cosette's. The skin was as rough as salt leather, encased in hardened skin. 'It gets easier. It's your young hands. You have to break them in. Like new boots.'

'She's right,' another piped up, one who, Cosette assumed, had never owned a pair of new boots to break in. 'It's murder to begin with, but you get used it.'

There was a hum of approval. Cosette nodded, careful not to speak too much. The maternal warmth with which they were treating her was entirely new. When she had first lined up against the walls of the workhouse in her fine silk dress, the inmates had assumed she was there on some charity mission. When they discovered that she was there to work, their attitude had changed. One woman, with cropped, sandy hair and eyes that were dull with the clap had spat at her feet. 'What makes you think this place is for you?' she raved. 'That's real silk aint it? Think I'd be putting my kids in here if I had real silk to sell?' The woman's children were huddled around her, saucer-eyed and ragged, the youngest held tightly to her chest. It was only when the woman had fallen into a whiskey-thick slumber and her grip had loosened did Cosette see the baby properly. It was blue with death.

The old women's fingers, curled and withered with arthritis, nonetheless moved with fluency. They unpicked reams and reams of rope, humming and chatting and smacking their lips to fill the silence. Cosette, who had abandoned the pick, tried to dig under the thread with her fingernails. She puffed out a long, controlled breath, trying to stymie the pain as the tiny fibres cut into her open skin. Knots upon knots of clogged-up rope sliced at her fingertips, digging under her water- weakened nails. Baubles of blood rose on her hands.

'There now,' one old lady said. Cosette had been trying to hide it, but her eyes were shining in the darkness. She took Cosette's young hand in her aged one. 'Look at that; white as a lily,' she smoothed her thumb over the back of the girl's hand. The same spot that Papa used to stroke. An unpleasant spasm of memory went through her and, taking advantage of the woman's kindness, Cosette allowed herself to unleash all the rotten feelings that had been prowling inside her.

The old women abandoned their craft, clucking around her like mother hens. Such warmth was so rationed in a place like this that Cosette greedily got her fill, sobbing bitterly as the women encircled her, fussing over her lacerated fingers, petting her hair.

'Still got a beautiful head of hair on you,' one of the women said, wiping her tears away. 'And skin like buttermilk.'

' 'ere,' another woman said. She arranged the newly splayed rope over her head, giving the illusion of a crude pantomime wig. 'Am I as lovely as Cosette?'

The women whooped in laughter. Cosette managed a watery smile. The old woman continued to play up, pouting her lips and tossing her thick chunks of rope over her shoulders. She started to swing her hips, drawing more clamour from the pickers. It made Cosette realise that the women around her were not as old as she had thought. The wigged woman had not forgotten how to perform her femininity; her body held the memories of pub dances, sweat-soaked and cheery, of young men who promised her the world for twenty minutes of her sweet, lively body in a darkened shipyard. Those twenty minutes had landed her here, in a pitch-black cell, forgotten by the world, by the men who had danced with her, a mop of loosened rope the only thing she had to her name.

Suddenly the door flung open, startling the vaudeville act.

'Maude!' a thunderous voice boomed. The old woman who, in the light, seemed no older than forty, let the rope wig slither from her head into her lap, before lowering her head.

The woman in the doorway was the matron, a severe, houndlike woman with a brutal grey fist of a bun. She grimaced at the women, all of whom had dropped their gaze into their laps. 'This is a place of work, not a public house!' the matron snapped. 'And if you aren't going to work, then there are hundreds who would gladly take your place.' She focused her gaze on Cosette, who was sheepishly nursing her bloody fingers. 'You,' she said. 'French girl, come with me. And Maude, you come too.'

Cosette and Maude obediently rose from the wooden bench, following the matron along the frigid courtyard. Maude gave the palm of Cosette's hand a reassuring tweak as they passed the stone cutters; topless men whose veins and muscles bulged through their arms like they were about to split the skin. Sonic booms sounded across the cobblestones as their mallets came down, along with grunts of effort and clouds of yellow dust that jaundiced their skin. Some lowered their tools as Cosette passed them. That was one thing she was glad about in the workhouse; no man had touched her. She ate, worked and slept in bunks with women. Still, at moments like this, with no father on her arm, the young men would gawp without shame, gaze drooling from chest to leg to face. A hundred such small rapes happened every day.

'Maude,' the matron barked. Maude glanced up ruefully. The matron gestured to a male guard. 'Take her to the house of correction.' Maude's eyes widened. 'Six lashes ought to do it.'

'Please!' Maude cried, as the male guard took her roughly by the forearm. 'I didn't mean no harm! We were just having a lark—I'd finished my work; you can see for yourself! Please, matron!'

The matron ignored her, dismissing her with a wave of the hand. Maude let her legs buckle, causing the guard to stagger under the added weight. She clasped her hands in prayer-like reverence. 'Please! I'll pick oakum 'til my bones poke through, but not the lashings, please!'

'Please,' Cosette interjected, her voice so quiet that the matron didn't hear it at first. 'Maude was just trying to…' she struggled to find the words in English, '…make laugh, me. Her work… good. Piles and piles of rope. Please.'

The matron looked at her in disbelief. She stood forwards, towering over Cosette until her face was darkly near. She smelled of lye soap. 'You'll do well to hold your tongue, imbecile,' she spat. 'Or I'll send you to the house too.' She turned to Maude. 'Add another six, for the fuss.'

Maude howled, tossing her head back and writhing against the cobbles, causing such a stir that two other guards had to help hoist the hysterical woman's body upright. 'Mind what company you keep,' the matron murmured to Cosette, steering her towards the dining hall. 'You don't want to end up like Maude. Play your cards right and this place might be your salvation.'

Cosette staggered uncertainly forwards, looking over her shoulder all the way. Maude had ceased her thrashing and now hung ragdoll-limp between the arms of the men. Her eyes were screwed shut. Her lips moved soundlessly. She was praying. 'Madame,' Cosette started, 'is there no way—'

'He's a benefactor,' the matron said, assuming that the girl was asking where she was being led to. 'A judge.'

Cosette said nothing, confused. She stole glances at Maude until the doors of the dining hall closed behind her.

'Line up,' another matron ordered, pointing to the opposite end of the room. It was only then that Cosette had gotten her bearings. Both sides of the cavernous building were flanked with lines of girls, some she recognised, but most who were strangers to her. The eldest looked to be around twenty, the youngest, twelve. Every single one boasted fair hair and pale skin.

Cosette slotted herself between two girls of a similar age, recognising that they were loosely arranged in order of height. The girl to her left was obsessively smoothing her apron over her skinny knees. 'Why are we here?' Cosette whispered.

'Rich man,' the girl hissed back. 'Needs a girl to work in his house.'

'What kind of work?'

The girl shrugged. 'Who cares? As long as it gets me out of this shi—'

The girl suddenly bolted upright, like someone had stuck a poker up her spine, stitching a smile onto her face. Cosette soon saw why; a man, around Papa's age, with fine clothes and white hair, was walking past them, glancing each girl up and down before moving onto the next. His beady eyes lingered on Cosette's face. She shot him an uncertain smile.

'Ladies,' the matron called, after positioning herself at the head of the two lines. All attention turned towards her. 'I am sure you're all wondering why you've been brought here today. It's no cause for concern, I assure you. In fact, the Lord has smiled on you this day.'

The old man, having finished his rounds, took his place beside the woman.

'Girls, this is Lord Turpin. He has been a benefactor of this House of Industry for many years, and he now wishes to expand upon his generous offer by offering one of you the opportunity to work for him.'

The girls erupted in excited whispers.

'It won't be the work you've grown accustomed to,' the Judge interjected. Cosette shivered, in spite of herself; there was something about his voice that put her on edge. As though attuned to her discomfort, the Judge directed his dark eyes towards her once more. 'I will offer you more than a job. I will offer you a sanctuary, a safe haven, far away from these—' he glanced discerningly at the water-rotten ceiling, the splintered pews, '—abject conditions. You will be more than merely a member of staff. You will be a member of the household. A daughter of sorts.'

'God is good,' the girl beside Cosette breathed, her eyes wide with beguilement.

The Judge began to stalk the nave between the two lines of girls. 'Some of you,' he continued, giving a pointed look at a milky-eyed teenager, and another with a swollen belly, 'I'm sure, will be fallen women. Now, it is God's place to judge, not mine, but such debauchery will not be tolerated under my roof. I have a ward, around your age. I will not allow her to become corrupted by such… dark forces.'

Cosette wondered what he was talking about.

'As such, I require that the girl I select meets certain moral standards. She must be unattached, without a husband or children, in or outside of this House of Industry. I do not tolerate dishonesty; any girl who has had run ins with the law will not be considered viable. And do not try to fool me. I am a judge. I cannot be fooled.'

This piqued Cosette's attention. Her heart began to race. A judge. A judge could help her. A judge as God honouring and selfless as Turpin would surely take interest in her plight, would understand that Valjean's imprisonment was an awful mistake. He could get Papa back.

Forgetting every rule of etiquette that taught her otherwise, Cosette looked brashly into the judge's face, willing him to notice her again. He did. His lip curled into a smile. Cosette was so overcome with desperation that she ignored the shudder that went through her at the sight.

It was not the first time a kindly old man had taken pity on her, and it would—God willing—not be the last. The girls were instructed to hold their hands out for inspection. Cosette dutifully turned her fingers forwards, trying to tuck her bloodstained thumbs out of view. Turpin took each small hand in his own, flipping it over, like he was inspecting a leather wallet, before moving onto the next girl. By the time he reached Cosette, she was serving her most endearing smile, eyes shining, every fibre of her being urging him to take notice.

Turpin's gaze dropped to her hands. A pleasant shiver went through him at the sight of them: satin-smooth and tender with cuts. He lifted his gaze back to her face. There was something new in his eyes, something Cosette might have thought of as piggish, hungry. 'How long have you been here, my dear?' he asked, his voice low.

The matron answered for her. 'Three months. She's from a good family, but no stranger to hard work.'

Turpin's eyes flitted down towards her stomach, which was hidden under the baggy pinafore. Knowing what he was alluding to, the matron bustled behind her and pulled the smock taut over her flat stomach. 'Nothing to worry about there. She's had her blood since arriving.'

'And the itch?'

'She's clean.'

Turpin cocked his head to the side. 'And how old are you, young one?'

Cosette turned her eyes up to him. 'Sixteen, sir.'

Cosette would revisit that moment innumerable times in the months to come. She wondered if the girls around her were sniggering at her zealous naiveite. Perhaps if she had been less blitzed with hope, blind, stupid gullible hope, she would have trusted the uneasiness that stirred in her gut, the shrinking feeling she got when she looked at his mouth, cold and wet, his chin smattered with sparse whiskers, his fingers tight and covetous on the back of her neck as he steered her away. And the look in his eyes, like he was taking something from her that she didn't know about. She wondered if hindsight would have changed her decision, whether she'd rather have stayed in the workhouse until she, too, became one of those gargoyle women who grew like fungus from their work benches, oakum picking until her fingers bled.

As they stepped into the courtyard together, she heard the sound of lashings coming from the house of correction. This was a prison. This is what her father was enduring. That hardened her resolve; she would oblige Judge Turpin, fulfil his every desire, be the model of an obedient daughter, and find a way to free her father.

A thousand thanks for reading! Reviews would be greatly appreciated :)