This chapter might not be exactly what you were expecting, but I so hope you enjoy it. As always, thanks to all my reviewers for their words of encouragement! I couldn't get through this story without you.

November 15, 1829
Feast Day of St. Albert de Cologne, patron saint of students

Today, the sun came out – finally, after weeks of nothing but clouds and rain – and this afternoon, Papa came into my room and said, "Cosette, it seems a shame to let this sunshine go to waste. Put your coat on, and we'll go out for a walk. You and I need to talk."

My heart began to hammer so hard that I could barely pull on my coat and gloves. I couldn't remember when I'd ever been so nervous and excited. You and I need to talk. Could Papa possibly mean what I hoped he meant? Maybe now he was finally going to answer some of my questions. Maybe... maybe he would even tell me everything. Or was I a fool to hope for that?

We went to the Parc Monceau, entering at the northern part, near the rotunda. As we walked past it, Papa said, "Cosette, you know it's a sin to tell a lie, especially to one's parent."

That rather shocked me. I've committed some sins, of course – who hasn't? – but I've never in my life told a lie to Papa. Was he accusing me of lying to him? "Papa," I said reproachfully, "I've never lied to you, ever."

He smiled and put his arm around my shoulder. "I know you haven't, darling. I didn't mean to imply you had." He paused and took a deep breath. "But tell me truthfully now... did it frighten you, child? Seeing my back?"

We turned left past the rotunda, which brought us by the fountain, which of course wasn't running in the wintertime. "Yes," I answered softly, because the truth was that seeing Papa's back had frightened me very much.

His arm tightened around my shoulders. "I am sorry for that, Cosette. I never meant for you to see that."

Past the fountain, the path forked. Papa and I veered right, over the beautiful old stone bridge. Our footsteps sounded heavier as we walked across it. He'd said that we needed to talk, so perhaps if I asked him now, he might tell me. "What happened to your back?" I asked.

But Papa shook his head. "It was a long time ago, my girl – before you were even born. It's best forgotten. I don't want to frighten you any further."

Perhaps I shouldn't have admitted that his back had frightened me. But I didn't want to lie to him, and thinking about his back does still frighten me. The nightmare that I had, the same day I saw his back, doesn't frighten me anymore; as always happens with dreams, the urgency of it faded. Walking through the sunny park, it seemed so far away that I felt foolish to have ever believed that it could've been more than a dream.

Papa and I crossed the bridge and kept walking on the path along the edge of the pond. There were fewer trees there, and it felt warmer in the sunshine. We sat down on a bench overlooking the old colonnade. There was ice on the surface of the pond, and I wondered vaguely what had happened to the ducks that paddle there in the summer. Had they flown south for the winter?

I could tell that Papa had rehearsed what he said next. He began slowly, "Cosette, listen to me. I know you went through some... hard things when you lived at that inn."

I said nothing but thought he was putting it very mildly.

"Darling, everyone has... an inn in their lives, so to speak. Each of us has a time in our life that we must get through and move on from. But what matters is that ours are behind us. That's all that matters."

There are no words for how disappointed I felt. How stupid. I had foolishly hoped that Papa was going to tell me everything, and now he was actually telling me nothing. No doubt that had been his intention all along. I had heard these words from him before, about how the past was behind us and that was all that mattered. But he was wrong. It wasn't all that mattered. How could he not understand that?

I was quiet for a moment, trying to find the right way to word this. I didn't want to say anything hurtful to Papa again. Finally, I told him, "But sometimes, I feel like I don't even know who I am, Papa. There are just... so many things about my own life that I don't understand. I don't even know for certain how old I am. Sometimes, I feel like I don't know who you are, either."

He sighed and looked down at his hands. "You know enough about me, Cosette. You know that I'm your father, don't you?"

"Yes, I didn't mean it when I said that you weren't, but —"

He laid his hand over mine. There was a strange, desperate look in his eyes. "I want to hear you say it," he interrupted.

"You're my father," I said.

"Good girl. And you know I love you, don't you?"

"Yes," I answered quickly, "of course I do. I love you too, Papa. But I still... I wish so much that I knew more. I wish I knew..." I paused, trying to decide on the one thing about my past that I was most curious about. It didn't take long. I still worried that I might've been born of rape, that my mother could've despised me. "Did my mother love me, truly?"

Papa looked surprised. "Cosette, of course she did. I've told you that. Your mother loved you very, very much."

I didn't mean to, but I blurted out, "Are you sure she didn't hate me?"

Now Papa looked shocked. "Good heavens, where did you even get such an idea? No mother could hate her own child. It would go against the very laws of nature. I'll swear on the Bible that your mother loved you, Cosette. She loved you even more than I do."

I felt comforted, until he said that my mother loved me more than he did. That unsettled me a bit. "She couldn't have," I argued. "No one loves me more than you do."

He smiled but said firmly, "Your mother did, and God does."

"I do wish I knew more about her," I said softly.

That was when Papa changed the subject. What he said next surprised me. "Do you remember when I first found you... in the woods? There were bruises on your arms and legs."

I remembered that – did he think I'd forgotten? I know he thinks, or hopes, that I've forgotten a great deal more than I have. But I can even remember, still, how I got those bruises. But I could never tell Papa that. I can't speak of that time to anyone, not even him. It was too terrible.

And just then, it was like something clicked in my mind, and I could see, as plain as day, why Papa couldn't speak of his past, not even to me. It was for the exact same reason. Whatever he'd been through had hurt him too much. My bruises faded, but his scars never did. Perhaps it had been wrong of me to push him so hard to talk about something so painful. He would never in a million years do that to me.

Suddenly, I wanted to weep for us, for the little girl I used to be, for the unscarred man Papa once was.

Papa went on, "But not once were you ever afraid of me. You let me touch you and hold you, and you were never afraid I might hurt you." He shook his head a bit, as if still surprised by that.

And looking back, I'm surprised, too. Those inn-keepers had only ever touched me to hurt me, and Papa was a stranger to me then: a tall man who came out of nowhere in a dark forest. I should've been afraid of him, but I never was – never.

He finally looked back at me, and he put one hand on my cheek. He said, "God always meant for me to be your father, Cosette. That was the only reason why you trusted me so soon. God always wanted you to belong to me. Can you understand that?"

I nodded, my throat too thick to answer. It didn't make any sense that I trusted Papa right away. How I could've found it in me to trust a strange man, after all the other adults in my life had been so cruel? But Papa was right. It was only because God willed it so.

He looked at me for a long moment, his hand still on my cheek, and then he said softly, "I know it isn't fair to you, Cosette, and I'm sorry, but I can't give you the answers you want."

Yes, you can, I thought, but I didn't have the heart to say it aloud, not when Papa looked so sad. You can, but you won't. I couldn't stop the tears from gathering in my eyes. I just felt so utterly defeated.

"I'm sorry, Cosette," Papa said again. "I'm so sorry, sweetness." Then he pulled me in against his chest and hugged me so hard it hurt, and I realized that we were both crying.

Sweetness. He hasn't called me that since I was a little girl.

I think I knew then he was never going to tell me more than what he had just said. I'll probably never know Papa's real name, or my mother's name, or my own exact age, or so many other things. I suppose my life will always be like a book with its first pages torn out.

The story might seem to reach a conclusion here (and in a way, it does) but there's still another chapter or two to go, so please stay tuned!