Many thanks to all of you who've read, reviewed, favorited, or alerted this story! Your encouragement means so much in a project this size. And speaking of projects, Cosette gets started on her own in this chapter. Hope you enjoy!

April 12, 1829
Palm Sunday

I haven't written in a few days because I've been thinking over what sort of journal I'd like this to be. My mind keeps going back to what I wrote in my last entry, about how my life is like a book with its first pages torn out.

This journal is new and whole. None of its pages, neither first nor last, are missing. And it's my own journal, for me to write whatever I choose to. I've thought on it and decided that in this journal, I'm going to put down the story of my life — or at least, as much as I know of it — and how I came to live here on Rue de l'Ouest with Papa. It will be like my own personal history book.

Perhaps if I write down all the bits and pieces I have of my past, then I could fill in the empty spaces. I could guess at what was written on those missing pages. Even though Papa won't tell me a thing, he can't keep me from writing down what I already know.

I suppose I ought to start at the beginning, with my earliest memories. It isn't easy to write about those years — I don't even like to think about them — but if I'm ever to learn more about my own life, then I must try.

I don't remember how I came to live with that awful man and woman at their awful inn. My mother lived somewhere else and sent them money to help pay for my keep. I remember because they always complained that she didn't send enough and they never should've agreed to keep me at all.

I don't know where that inn was, only that it was in a small town, surrounded by woods on all sides. The trees seemed so dark and tall and made me feel trapped. I wanted so much to run away, but there was nowhere to go, except into the woods, where I was terrified that bears and wolves would eat me alive.

My life at the inn was a miserable one. I was always cold and hungry, always tired and afraid. I don't remember the names of those monstrous inn-keepers — I called them only Monsieur and Madame. They called me horrible things. I could fill up this entire journal by writing about how hateful they always were. They hit me with anything within their reach. They used to

Later —

I thought I could write it down, but I can't. My hands started shaking so badly that I couldn't even hold the pen, much less write. Then the memories came too close. I started crying and couldn't stop until Papa heard my sobs and came into my room and held me. As soon as his arms were around me, I felt better. I felt safe again. He kissed my forehead and wiped my face and asked me what was wrong. I don't know if I couldn't tell him or didn't want to, but it took a long time for my lips to form the words.

I was leaning against his chest, and it was easier without having to see his face. It made me brave. I asked, "Papa, the people I lived with when I was a little girl... why were they always so cruel to me?"

He sighed into my hair and kissed the crown of my head and I was sure he wouldn't answer me. But he did. "They were not good people, Cosette," he said carefully. "I'm so sorry they were unkind to you, darling."

I thought unkind was too gentle a word for what they did to me. Perhaps Papa doesn't know just how terrible they were. I can't talk of that time, not even to him — and of course, he would never ask me to — so I've no way of telling him. He suspects, I'm sure, but how much does he really know?

Papa took my face between his hands and raised my head until our eyes met. "You know you didn't deserve any of what they did to you," he said firmly. He'd done this with me before. "You know it wasn't your fault."

"They said it was," I blurted out, still tearful. "They blamed me for ev —"

"It wasn't your fault, none of it," Papa interrupted. "I want to hear you say it."

I took a deep breath. "It wasn't my fault," I repeated slowly, and saying it did make me feel a little better.

Papa pulled me back in against his chest. "Good girl," he whispered, and kissed me again.

I asked, "But... why did I live with them? Why didn't I live with my mother?"

Papa stepped back from me then. He said nothing. For a moment, we just stared at each other in silence. Then, from down the street, the church bells began to chime the half-hour. Papa looked at my window, towards the sound.

"It's late, Cosette," he said, "and you have school tomorrow morning. You should be in bed. Good night, darling." He kissed me again and turned and left my room without another word.

After he left, I put out my lantern, so he would think I'd gone to bed, but I lit a candle and have been writing all this by its flickering orange glow. Outside my window, the church bells are ringing again. I've always liked listening to them, but now, they seem to mock me. I feel so foolish, like a stupid little girl. Why did I ask Papa those questions? Did I really think he would answer me?

Perhaps I'm not as grown-up as I thought.