Obviously, there's a lot of fluff in this story, but it isn't entirely fluffy. In this chapter, we have some angst rearing its head again, as it is always wont to do. Many thanks again to those who've reviewed!


Strong inside, but you don't know it
Good little girls, they never show it
Madonna, "What It Feels Like for a Girl"

After almost a year in the convent, Cosette was reading and writing as well as the other girls her age, and even better than a few of them. As soon as she could write well enough, she had copied down her two favorite Bible verses on a slip of paper, and she kept it always in her apron pocket. "I praise You because I am fearfully and wonderfully made," read one side of the paper, and on the other, "Six days work shall be done, but on the seventh day is a Sabbath of rest." The second verse was to remind her that Sunday was never more than six days away. Sunday was Cosette's favorite day. She looked forward to it all week, for on Sunday, there were no classes. There were only church services in the morning, then breakfast, and then she and the other girls were free to spend the whole day however they wished. Cosette, of course, always spent the entire day in the garden with her papa. How she loved Sunday.

As Cosette grew more comfortable with life in the convent, she'd become more confident, too. She had even done what her papa had asked of her, what had seemed so impossible at first, and made friends with the other girls. She got along especially well with Delphine and Clorinde, and they often played jacks and hand-clapping games together in their dormitory, in the evenings before bed. They sat together at church on Sunday mornings too, and one Sunday after services, as they were leaving the monastery for the garden, Delphine asked her, "Cosette, why don't you come play House with us? We've found the perfect spot for it, a little hideaway under the cherry tree."

Cosette had been scanning the garden, looking for her papa – he was probably around the corner, working in the vegetable beds with Uncle Fauvent – but she hesitated. Papa had always encouraged her to get along with the other girls; she'd never played House before, but it was always fun playing with Delphine and Clorinde. She always spent Sundays with Papa... but surely he wouldn't mind if she played with her friends for a while first?

"Well..." she said slowly, "all right, I suppose I can for just a little while."

Delphine took her hand and led her over to the cherry tree that stood near the garden wall. On the side facing the wall, the green branches hung low to the ground. "Come and see," Delphine said excitedly, and Cosette tucked her skirt in carefully and followed her as she crawled under the branches. Beneath them, with the tree trunk on one side, the wall on the other side, and the leafy branches overhead, it was almost like a little room. It was a warm summer day, but this shady spot felt so pleasant and cool.

Cosette sat back on her heels and looked around, impressed. "Ooh, this is nice," she breathed.

"It's just like our own little house outside," Delphine said.

Clorinde was already there, spreading pine needles out in a circle on the grass. "These pine needles can be the rug," she explained. "Don't they smell nice? Ooh, I know – I can pretend the rug smells so good because I was just outside beating the dust off it."

Cosette suddenly felt a twinge of fear, and she didn't know why. Then the pit of her stomach tightened, and from deep inside her, something old and ugly began rising to the surface. "You'd better get that rug clean, or you're what's going to get beaten around here." Madame used to make her clean all the rugs; if she was lucky, there was only dust that she could beat off with the broom handle. But too often, the rugs were soiled from where Monsieur or one of his friends had spilled beer, which left such foul-smelling stains that were so hard to scrub out. She'd scrubbed her hands raw.

Delphine held out a little tree branch she'd found on the ground. "And I'm going to make-believe this is my broom," she announced happily to the other girls. "See, these leaves at the bottom can like be the bristles." She swept the leafy end of the branch once across the ground, stirring up a little cloud of dust.

Cosette stiffened. She didn't understand this game at all. Why on earth would Delphine want to make-believe to be sweeping? Sweeping wasn't fun. The broom had been so heavy. It was taller than Cosette, and holding it had made her back and arms ache. Madame used to make her sweep all the rooms, on both floors of the inn, as well as the staircase and the steps outside, every morning before she could have even one bite of breakfast. Cosette took a deep breath and told herself to calm down, but she couldn't stop that old, familiar mix of fear and panic from rising in her chest. Delphine swept the branch again, and Cosette flinched, as if someone had struck her. She didn't want to play this game. The very idea terrified her.

"Are you all right, Cosette?" Clorinde asked her, but her voice seemed to come from somewhere very far away. "What's wrong?"

But Cosette couldn't explain what was wrong. She knew only that she needed her papa; she needed quiet time; she needed it right now, before something awful happened. Her mouth had gone very dry, but somehow, she forced herself to speak. "Excuse me," she heard herself say, and her voice was a strange sound in her ears – high and fearful. "I have to go find my father."

And with that, she turned and ran.


"It's just a scratch," Valjean said for the second time that morning. He was kneeling on the grass beside and the cucumber patch, studying a red mark on the back of his hand. "It's nothing."

"It could get irritated," Fauchelevent argued. "You should put some aloe on it."

Valjean shook his head. "You remember how long it took for us to get those aloe plants to grow. I don't want to waste one of their leaves on this. Besides, it doesn't—"

But he was abruptly cut off by the sound of running footsteps, and then Cosette was there, flinging herself at him so hard that she almost knocked him over. She said nothing, only threw her arms around him and buried her face in the front of his tunic.

"Good heavens, Cosette," Valjean said, straightening up. "I'm always happy to see you too, love, but you mustn't tackle your old papa so hard." He smiled and kissed the crown of her head, but as he wrapped his arms around her, he realized that she was trembling against him, and that his tunic was wet with her tears. Every day when she saw him, she always ran to him and hugged him, but today she was clinging to him with a desperation that he hadn't seen from her in a long time.

"Cosette," he asked, growing concerned, "what's wrong, darling?" But she didn't answer, or even lift her face from his tunic. She was still shaking.

Beside him, Fauchelevent furrowed his brow. "She looks as if she's had some sort of fright," he said.

Valjean felt as bewildered as Fauchelevent sounded. He didn't know what could've upset Cosette so much, but he just put one hand on her head and said calmly, "I think she'll be all right. She just needs some quiet time."

He pulled her closer against his chest and held her, stroking her hair and murmuring sweet nothings into her ear, as she slowly began to calm down. She was nine-years-old now, but she was still quite small for her age and still fit neatly into Valjean's lap. He lived in dread of the day when Cosette grew too big for his lap.

A few minutes later, after she had calmed down and stopped shaking, Valjean said, "Cosette, come now and tell me what's wrong, sweetheart. Use your words." Use your words had been a common refrain from him, especially during their earliest days together. She had been so unhappy for so long, with no way to express how she felt and nobody who would listen if she ever did, that articulating her emotions was still quite difficult for her.

Cosette leaned back from his chest and sniffled for several seconds, thinking and searching for the right words. Then she said, "Papa, I... I don't want to play House. It isn't a fun game."

Valjean felt rather perplexed by this explanation, but he just smiled and stroked her cheek, which was wet from tears. "Well, goodness, child," he said gently, "you don't have to play House if you don't want to. It's nothing to cry over. Let's get your face cleaned up, all right?"

He pulled his handkerchief – which was really her handkerchief, for they were still swapping back-and-forth regularly, and they had each others' at the moment – from his pocket and wiped her tears away. "There we are. Now, can you give me a kiss?" Cosette leaned into him and kissed his cheek. "That's my good girl." He wrapped his arms around her again and held her a moment longer. "Do you feel better now, sweetheart?" She nodded against his chest, for she always felt better when her papa held her. "Are you sure?" Another nod.

Fauchelevent, still watching them, guessed that the girl needed a distraction from her troubles. "Why don't you tell your father to put some aloe on his hand, Cosette?" he asked. "Perhaps he'll listen to you."

Cosette looked down at Valjean's hand and noticed the scratch on the back of it. "Oh, Papa," she fretted, "your poor hand. What happened to it?"

Valjean smiled and stood up, setting Cosette on the ground. "It's nothing, love, really," he assured her. "I just scratched it picking some cucumbers. The leaves look so soft that it's easy to forget how prickly they really are."

"Here, I'll kiss it for you, Papa." Cosette drew his hand to her mouth and pressed a kiss to the scratch mark. She went on, now bright-eyed and eager again, "There, it feels better now, doesn't it? Can I help you pick cucumbers? Oh, I mean, may I? My hands are smaller. I could reach right under the leaves and pick some for you."

"No, I think your uncle and I have picked enough cucumbers for now," Valjean answered, "but why don't you come help us pick some tomatoes? There's nothing prickly on a tomato plant." Between the cucumbers, tomatoes, squash, and carrots, early summer was a very busy time of year for their garden. He touched her nose with his finger and added teasingly, "You know, your face was almost as red as a tomato when you were crying just now."

Cosette smiled. She loved nothing more in the world than helping her papa in the garden. She took Valjean's hand in one hand, Fauchelevent's hand in the other, and as they set off for the tomato beds, she slipped closer to her papa and asked in a whisper, "Papa, am I still wonderfully made, even when I'm crying?"

Valjean squeezed her hand in his and smiled down at her. "You're always wonderfully made, child," he promised. "Every second of every day. Always."