Cosette lay in her bed and twined her fingers round the stray ends of her blonde hair anxiously. Toussaint had helped her bathe before bed and had put her ties in her waves to curl them for the morning, and her hair was still slightly damp. But the warm night had bathed the house in inky black velvet, and so all Cosette could see upon the ceiling of her bedchamber were flickering little shadows cast by the candle that sat on the little table beside her.

She could not sleep, not a single wink. She had been trying desperately now for nearly two hours, if the clock above her fireplace were true. Her mind was consumed with worry about Marius and the injuries he had sustained fighting at the barricades, about whether or not he would live. She imagined him now, lying in agony in a bed at his grandfather's house, tended to by nurses who daubed water onto his feverish skin as he moaned softly in pain, his wound still gaping and garish. She could see him, restless with discomfort, wheezing as his carers tried to get him to drink a little.

The notion of it twisted Cosette's insides into a knot of fretful heartbreak. To be certain, it had not been so very long in the entirety of her life since first she had met Marius Pontmercy. And Cosette's life had been filled with meetings and partings, with a rather confusing series of comings and goings and a baffling, everpresent sense of loss. She had grown accustomed to it by now. In her early childhood, almost before her memories had begun to really form, her mother had left her with the horrid people at the inn who had beaten her so cruelly and had forced her to labour without ceasing like a slave. She knew that her mother had loved her, but she had never seen her mother again. Then Cosette had left those awful people in the arms of her Papa, a good and gracious man who had come in fine clothes bearing a beautiful doll and loads of money and a promise of a comfortable life.

There had been cloistered life in Paris, which had been comfortable enough, but long and lonely, and then they had come here, and this was lonely, too, and Cosette missed her friends from the convent, and some of the sisters, too. So little in her life had been permanent. So much had been fleeting - always moving, always running about…

Running.

Her breath hitched where she lay as she remembered what Inspector Javert had said to her at the dinner table. He had informed her that he had met Cosette's dear Papa many, many years earlier because her Papa had been a criminal and Inspector Javert had been a man of the law. Surely her father could not have been any real sort of scoundrel? Javert had said that her Papa had committed crimes in his younger years, but that he was a changed man now. Could it be true? Cosette simply could not believe such a thing. She simply could not. Suddenly her eyes burned terribly, and she shook her head just a bit wildly as she found herself springing out of her bed, with its mustard yellow brocade bedding and its soft cream sheets, and she snatched her turquoise velvet dressing gown, which was richly embroidered, and cinched it shut over her silk and lace nightgown. She slid on her simple cream silk slippers and adjusted her Chantilly lace nightcap over the blonde hair that Toussaint had put in ties. She huffed out a breath and swallowed hard before seizing the pewter candle holder from the small table beside her bed.

She opened her own bedroom door and went out into the corridor on the first floor of the house she had shared for some time now with her father, and she glanced about as she ensured that no one else in the house was awake. She flicked her eyes to the bedroom where she knew Inspector Javert would be sleeping, and her stomach stirred oddly. She licked her lips as her mind, quite against her will, contemplated the sight of the man. He was old and he was a stranger, Cosette scolded herself with a little scowl. Moreover, he seemed unfriendly. And she was quite concerned with Marius just now. Yet, she was oddly drawn to Inspector Javert for some bizarre reason she would not have been able to articulate with good reason. He was very, very tall, and intimidating in his broad, almost massive size. He made her a little dizzy, with his square jaw and his piercing eyes and his very deep voice. Of course, of course Cosette found Marius unfathomably handsome. Of course she did. She wanted to spend her life with Marius. Of course she did. But Marius was very young, and he stood just but a few inches taller than Cosette herself, and he was narrow and slight with a boyish face spattered with innocent-looking freckles. It was an endearing appearance that Marius had about him, and Cosette found him charming. But the sight of Inspector Javert set her heart to racing. He ought not to, she knew. His greying hair, pulled back into a severe queue, his chilly demeanour and his the way he drummed his fingers in an aloof manner, ought not to be magnetic. But…

Cosette shut her eyes and pursed her lips, silently admonishing herself for standing in the silent, dark corridor and thinking about the sleeping police inspector as she was doing. She said a quick and silent prayer to ask the Mother of God to intercede for her to God Almighty himself, that she might find modesty and grace. Then she recited a few Hail Marys in Latin in a soft whisper and sighed, and she finally opened her eyes as she finished the final one off.

" ... nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen. "

She shifted the candle to her left hand and used her right hand to cast a reverent Sign of the Cross over herself, thinking she needed absolution now more than ever, and then finally she moved through the corridor until she reached her father's bedchamber. She hesitated outside his door, knowing he was sleeping. She pondered what to do just now. If she knocked, she would wake not only her Papa, but potentially Toussaint and certainly a man whose hearing had grown attuned to threats through decades of police work. So instead, Cosette slowly turned the doorknob that led into her father's bedchamber, knowing he would not mind her unannounced entry. He had never begrudged her seeking comfort from him when she would wake from nightmares in her childhood, which had happened very often. So often, her sleep had been rattled by distinct recollections of a whip cracking upon her back for not performing some task quickly enough, followed by howls of laughter from drunk patrons of an inn and cackles from the Madame who was meant to care for her…

Cosette shivered now where she stood, pushing her father's door open slowly to avoid it creaking. She was surprised to see that he was not asleep at all, but was sitting in his leather armchair with a book in his lap, the text illuminated by candles from the beloved silver candlesticks that had followed them wherever they had journeyed in life together. At the sound of his door opening, he looked up and then slowly shut his book, and Cosette closed the door behind her. He set his book aside and folded his arms on his lap, and Cosette noticed he, like her, had on a full array of bedclothes. He'd dressed in a brocade dressing gown and had on velvet slippers over his nightshirt, and when he smiled a little at her, tipping his head, he said warmly,

"I was wondering, dearest Cosette, how long you would manage lying there alone before you came to me tonight."

Cosette gnawed at her lip and shrugged. She approached her father and wordlessly sank into the matching leather armchair opposite his. She stared for a moment at him in the flickering candlelight, studying his face and seeing nothing but serenity. Finally, he held out his hands, as if inviting her to speak, and she managed to say to him,

"Inspector Javert claims that you are a criminal, Papa."

He just nodded, very slowly and deliberately. He flicked his pale eyes away for a moment, taking a deep breath, and then he considered,

"This is all… something I suppose I had hoped to leave you with, as a legacy, perhaps, upon my death. I had not hoped to have to live with this truth with you, as your father, while walking this Earth. But… sometimes, I have discovered, circumstances dictate what must be so. Things happen to wrest control from us. So it is. So it always will be."

Cosette felt deep frustration then. She grit her teeth, digging her fingernails into the arm of the chair, and she demanded quietly, "Is it true?"

Her father gave her a deliberate look and requested of her, "I ask of you a modicum of patience to allow me to explain everything."

Cosette winced, feeling strange, but then nodded. Her father sighed and then stroked at his beard, which at his age was practically entirely white. He cleared his throat and shut his eyes, tipping his head back. He was quiet for so long that Cosette wondered if he had fallen asleep, but then he spoke, his voice low and quiet.

"Once upon a time," he began, as if he were telling her a bedtime story like he'd done so often in her youth, causing her to lean forward, "a very poor young man named Jean Valjean stole some bread out of sheer desperation to feed his sister's family. He was caught and thrown in prison. He tried to escape and earned himself more time. He served nineteen years, labouring relentlessly, before being granted parole. But you see, Cosette, Jean Valjean found that a paroled man in France might as well still be in prison; no one will grant such a man honest work or lodging. He was granted supreme mercy by a very kind Bishop and taught very important lessons. He tore up his yellow ticket of leave and began a new life."

He paused then, and suddenly Cosette could not breathe, could not think. Tears had begun to stream silently down her cheeks. She swiped at them with her fingertips, but still her father did not look at her. She heard him murmur very softly then,

"It was a man of the law called Javert who granted Jean Valjean his parole, you know. In Toulon."

Cosette let out a shaking sigh. Jean Valjean . So her father's real name was Jean Valjean. Her eyes seared and watered so badly she could not see him. She sniffled badly and then felt a handkerchief being pushed gently into her hand. She wordlessly accepted it and daubed at her eyes and heard her father continue in an emotionless, steady, quiet voice,

"In a town called Montreuil-sur-Mer, Jean Valjean lived a life in hiding and became successful. He became a wealthy factory owner and the mayor. Gone was the poor young man, so in need of food that he had stolen bread. But one day, one of the young ladies who had worked at his factory was sacked. It later came to the attention of Monsieur Madeleine - Valjean's name there - that this young woman, called Fantine, had fallen into terrible times because she was desperate to save her sick child. You see, her child was being cared for by innkeepers. Monsieur Madeleine felt terrible for Fantine, for her child. Just before Fantine died, he promised her to go fetch her child. Her child was called Cosette."

"Oh. Papa. Papa." Cosette heaved with sobs then. She shook her head wildly. Her tears fell quickly now as she gasped for breath and choked out, "Oh. Her name was Fantine?"

She managed to see her father through her tears, and she watched as he dragged a finger around the bottom of one of his silver candlesticks. He nodded slowly. "Yes," he whispered. "Yes, Cosette. Your mother was a woman called Fantine. She loved you so much that she gave every last bit of herself to the pursuit of saving you. In reality, she had been deceived by the horrid people from whom I took you… I paid them, and from then, you became my daughter, as I promised your mother. Javert was there, too, you know. In Montreuil. It was… there was more between us during those times. When I came to get you from the inn, I took you to Paris. Once we were safe, I decided to keep you in one place in a sanctuary. We took the name Fauchelevant."

"And…" Cosette gulped hard, shaking her head again, "and all the running? All the fleeing? You were running from… from Inspector Javert? Because you tore up your papers? Because you… because you stole bread?"

Her father sighed quite deeply then and gave her a very meaningful look as he said, "I shall tell you something now, Cosette, that I perhaps ought not to, in the interest of preserving a man's dignity. But… the inspector is at our home instead of his own not just because I bear him little trust, but because on the night of the rebellion, I discovered him a split second from leaping from a bridge to his death."

Cosette scowled in confusion. She lowered her handkerchief and licked her lip. "Whatever do you mean, Papa?"

Her father sniffed lightly, still touching his candlestick as if doing so brought him some comfort. He blinked a few times and then considered, "For a man such as Javert, who has spent his entire life believing that what is legal is correct and what is illegal is evil, I think it absolutely shocked him to his core to witness a genuine act of mercy from a man who has dwelled in his consciousness as an irredeemable convict for decades. I freed him from captivity at the barricade; the students meant to execute him."

Cosette gasped and clapped her hand to her mouth. Suddenly she imagined Inspector Javert with a bullet going into his chest at close range, and she shuddered. Then she imagined her father granting him freedom, and Javert being unable to reconcile that the man who had broken parole so many years earlier was not wicked. She thought of how, at dinner, Javert had calmly informed her of what he thought now of her father, of Jean Valjean.

Your father committed crimes in his younger years, yes. It's true. And I pursued him for it, because I have, for a great many years, represented the Law. And that has been how we knew one another, Mademoiselle. But… your father's life has morphed and shifted, I daresay into something which…. I confess myself impressed by him. It is a bit difficult to understand, for a man like me, how your father has become who he is today, but he has done so, and I admit that witnessing has affected me a great deal more than I…

So Javert had stood on a bridge and nearly leapt from it. He had nearly taken his own life because he could not reconcile any of this. Cosette frowned deeply, feeling a strange mix of bewilderment and anger and pity. She blinked a few times and shook her head and asked,

"Papa, do you forgive him?"

She met her father's eyes, and he just curled his lips up into a sad little smile and nodded. "Yes. I forgive him. And as for me, I will receive my judgment from God when I die. What about you, my child? Now that I have you the truth, do you forgive me?"

Cosette worked through the sudden thickness in her throat and managed to whisper at last, "Dearest Papa… there is nothing to forgive."

In the morning, Cosette was bleary and drowsy as Toussaint helped her dress in a pale blue silk damask day dress. In the sheen of morning light that poured through the glass of her bedroom windows, the delicate embroidery on the bodice of the dress and the silk caught the light, and Cosette stared at herself in her boudoir mirror as Touissant arranged her curls atop her head carefully, noting the way the pale blue complemented her blonde hair. She tried to smile a little as she noted to Toussaint,

"It is a pretty dress, this one. I had it made in the spring, and I think it is very fine."

"So it is, Mademoiselle," Toussaint assented. She pushed a pin into a bundle of curls and seemed to hesitate for a moment before saying quietly, "If I may say so, Mam'selle… I should like to advise you… be careful around the police inspector."

She finished off Cosette's hair, and Cosette frowned deeply. She turned around to face Toussaint, who silently reached to open Cosette's jewellery box and extracted her black velvet choker with its pale blue cameo pendant. Toussaint said nothing in response to Cosette as she placed the choker around her slender neck and hooked it in the back, but Cosette scowled and let out an indignant little huff as she demanded almost roughly,

"Toussaint! Whatever do you mean, be careful? "

Toussaint shut her eyes and put her hands on her broad hips. She pinched her lips into a straight, sombre line and finally said, her voice just over a whisper,

"Mademoiselle Cosette. The police inspector is not a good friend of your father's. That much I know. And furthermore, he is a grown man without a wife."

She gave Cosette a meaningful look, as if Cosette were meant to know precisely what those words indicated. Cosette felt her lips part, and she shrugged as she wondered,

"Are grown, unmarried men dangerous by their very nature?"

Toussaint scoffed a little, then quickly corrected her posture and said, "Forgive me. You are young. You have no mother to guide you in matters such as these. It does all young ladies well to be cautious… many men want only one thing from young ladies."

Cosette felt her brows knit with bewilderment. She gulped, remembering the way she'd found herself thinking about the inspector's broad shoulders, the way she'd contemplated that his towering figure and imposing presence and low voice set her heart racing and her mind whirling in a way that even Marius' pleasant but boyish countenance could not. An unwanted surge of confusion washed over then as she shook her head, for she suddenly wondered where all of that led. She knew that men and women married. Children came from marriage.

She had, on one occasion, been passing through a slum with her father giving out alms when a scantily-clad woman whose bosom had been spilling out the top of her dress had approached them and had groped at her father, purring at him like a cat and asking him if he wanted to come with her. Cosette had been baffled, not sure of what the woman had been suggesting or why her father had so vehemently rejected her with his face going scarlet. But she had, somehow, known that the entire experience had had something to do with what happened between men and woman. She could tell , somehow. There had been another time, once, when their carriage had been stalled in a drizzling rain and Cosette had looked out the window to see a man and a woman against the wall of a building, moving together rhythmically in the lamplight. She had curiously asked her father what the pair was doing, and he had furiously shut the curtains and insisted that it was nothing for her eyes to behold. She had known then, too, that whatever the couple in the street had been doing had had something to do with what happened between men and women.

Still, to this day, she found herself ignorant. She was in love with Marius, she thought. He made her chest and stomach flutter. When he touched his lips to hers, she smiled and wanted more kisses. But she never had ny clue what was meant to happen after that. If Cosette were to become Marius' wife, surely she would bear him children. But how would that happen, exactly? Physically? Cosette had seen women walking about Paris who were heavy with child. How had they become that way, she wondered? And why was Toussaint so worried about Cosette's safety around Inspector Javert, simply because he was a grown man and she was a young lady? She pursed her lips and shifted where she sat, and she finally asked Toussaint,

"How does it all work?"

Toussaint shut her eyes and shook her head. The woman's dark face bowed, her expression looking dispirited for a long moment. Then, finally, she sank onto the small padded bench at the foot of Cosette's bed, her simple wool skirts billowing about her. She looked up at Cosette, adjusting the wrap around her hair, and said at last,

"I knew I would have to be the one to explain it to you, Mademoiselle. It could not be your poor father. A girl who has grown into a woman, who is of age to marry, who hasn't a mother… it all needs explaining of some sort, I know. I have known it would be me. Still, I…" She looked almost humiliated. Cosette felt her heart hammering at a gallop against the inside of her ribcage. Toussaint studied her short fingernails, worn down from hard work cleaning the house, and then she said in a hurried, soft tone,

"When it is appropriate for you to be doing such things, you and the man you love - the man you marry - will escalate physical relations beyond kissing. Mind, all of this is best enjoyed without clothing, though it can be done with some clothes on. In any case. That entrance betwixt your legs, the entrance from which you bleed each month? That is the the same place that leads to your womb, and so that is what allows you to birth your children. That is why your husband will enter you there with his manhood, and move about until he finds his pleasure. He will then spill his seed, which will put a child on you, God be good."

Cosette just stared at Toussaint, feeling mortification and abashment. She was twisting her fingers around each other so hard that they were practically trying to tear each other from her hands. Her breath panted, quick and shallow and quivering, through her clenched teeth. Toussaint met her gaze and shrugged a little, as though to indicate that she had done her best in the absence of Cosette's real mother. Fantine, Cosette found herself thinking. Her mother had been called Fantine.

"What is their… manhood?" Cosette whispered, and Toussaint tipped her head, licking her lips before whispering,

"God gave men their trappings on the outside, my dear. Ours on the inside. Theirs are like rods that grow long and thick when they want a woman, and then they place it within and thrust it about until they find completion."

Cosette winced, trying to imagine such a horrific invasion of her body. She felt herself clench between her legs at the idea of it, gulping hard, and she demanded of Toussaint,

"Is it very painful?"

Toussaint scoffed and shook her head, "Only the first time, really. Sometimes, if you are lucky, it feels quite good. But birthing a child… that is very painful. And dangerous. Such is the fate of woman… the curse of Eve."

Cosette frowned and sank her teeth into her bottom lip again as she contemplated what Toussaint had said earlier. She had cautioned Cosette to be careful around Inspector Javert, because he was a grown man and she was a young woman. Did Toussaint think Javert would force himself on her? Surely not. The inspector did a not seem like such a beast. Cosette had a sudden flash in her head then, like a vivid, purple-white bolt of lightning.

She was in the inn in Montfermeil, no older than seven or eight, and a strange man she'd never met who was thoroughly drunk was staggering up to her and dragging his hands all over her, trying to kiss her, whilst she shrieked and punched feebly at him. He was dragged off of her and pummeled by others as a brawl broke out, and Cosette sprinted from the room in terror.

Suddenly Cosette was trembling where she sat, feeling numb. So often, little horrors, little mental disturbances would boil up to torture her. She could often go weeks, maybe even months at a time, hardly thinking of her earliest years. But then a hideous memory would seize her like a vice and she would feel like all of her bones would break for a few moments.

"Mam'selle. Cosette."

She snapped to attention to see that Toussaint was standing over her, gently holding her shoulders. Cosette had apparently gone into a bit of a trance. She forced a weak, sad sort of smile onto her face and nodded as she insisted,

"I'm fine. Perfectly fine. Thank you. I should like some tea and brioche with jam for breakfast, please."

Toussaint looked terribly concerned, but she immediately nodded and bowed her head, hurrying out of the bedchamber. Cosette gave herself a moment to compose herself, trying desperately to calibrate the last few days. She had learned that her father had rescued a gravely injured Marius from the barricade. She had met Inspector Javert, who made her think and feel strange things. She had learned of her father's mysterious past, and of her mother's tragic life story and name. She had been informed of the reality of what passed between men and women. It was all so very… overwhelming . She was downright overwhelmed.

Cosette resolved to spend the rest of her day not being overwhelmed. Her mind simply could not handle any more intensity just now. She needed to sit in the garden on this summer day with a good book, she thought, and to luxuriate and relax. She could not make Marius heal faster. She could not change anything about her father's history, or bring back her mother Fantine. So she would soothe her mind today.

Cosette sat on the wooden bench in the garden behind the house she had shared with her father for some time now and stared at the fountain as it bubbled and gurgled. Nearby, at one of the white rose bushes, a bumblebee landed, hovered on a flower for a solid ten seconds, and then flew away without any real sense of urgency. Cosette sighed and reached up to adjust the wide-brimmed bonnet she had put on before coming outside after breakfast. Toussaint had insisted she properly shield her delicate pale complexion , for the sun was shining vibrantly today. So Cosette had put on a broad straw bonnet with a light blue ribbon that tied beneath her chin in a rather extravagant bow. The bonnet was adorned with a cluster of small white silk roses. It was very fine, as were all of Cosette's clothes and all the things she had had for years now.

She took a deep breath at the thought of that as she remembered what her father had confessed to her. His own life had apparently begun in poverty. He had been so desperately poor that he had thieved bread to feed his sister's starving family. He had been imprisoned for that crime. Then, because a paroled man could not truly make an honest living, he had broken the law again by tearing up his papers and living a prosperous life under a pseudonym. Had that been wrong of him, Cosette wondered? No. She did not think it had been wrong of him; if he hadn't done it, he would not have been able to rescue her. He would not have wound up saving the inspector's life at the barricade, either. Perhaps, she thought, all of that was why the legally-minded career policeman had wound up suicidal. It all must have felt profoundly contradictory to Javert, so much so that his consciousness had simply surrendered.

Almost as though he had sensed that Cosette had been thinking of him, the sound of Inspector Javert clearing his throat politely to announce his presence sounded from behind Cosette, and she turned around quickly from where she sat on the bench. She tipped up her chin a little and flicked her eyes up and down his tall, broad form, observing that he was wearing his full uniform, shiny boots and all. He seemed to have left his gloves and hat inside, though, and as he stepped out into the garden, Cosette wondered why he was not yet at the station-house for his work. Surely he was due for a patrol, or to sit at a desk to fill out papers or do some such labour? She fidgeted with her pale blue skirts and nodded politely as she acknowledged,

"Hello, Inspector. I had thought you would be gone by now."

"Oh. I… erm. Your father and I have agreed that I shall be staying here for the time being," said Inspector Javert, shifting somewhat awkwardly a few paces from the bench. He cleared his throat and glanced to the fountain. "Early this morning, I went to my own home and left money for my cleaning woman for a few weeks' time, and I fetched some belongings. It is a bit of a complicated situation, I'm afraid. It must seem odd, having a stranger such as me as a house guest without any real explanation. For that I do apologise."

Cosette curled her own fingers over the back of the wooden bench and stared up at the inspector, who towered over her. She considered her words very carefully for a moment, and as she did, she could not help but notice the way his gaze was sharp and cutting in the sunlight, the way his police uniform fit perfectly around his broad and imposing form. She shivered a bit, despite the warmth in the garden, and finally, she said in a prim sort of tone,

"My father informed me, Inspector Javert, of why it is you came here to our house. Why it is… that he insisted you come. The night that my dear Marius was so badly injured. I think perhaps it is best that everyone be aware that the truth is well and truly out and about, as it were. I know that you were taken prisoner at the barricade, Inspector, and that my father ensured your safety. I know, too… about the bridge."

"Oh. I see." Javert's high cheekbones coloured a vivid shade of scarlet. He looked awkward and abashed. For a long moment, he just stared at the fountain, as though he was certain of what to do or say. Finally, Cosette frowned and prodded him,

"Have you not got work at the station-house today, Inspector?"

Javert snapped to attention and then turned his eyes back to her. He adjusted his stance and told her in a stiff, polite voice,

"I work a different shift today, Mademoiselle. My patrol begins at seven o'clock tonight. I confess I am most comfortable in uniform, and, anyway, it is a waste of clothing to change during the day unnecessarily, so long as I manage to keep clean."

"Oh." Cosette nodded. Then she wondered aloud, "Will you not be utterly exhausted at the end of it all, Inspector? Surely, if you begin work at seven tonight, and then you are awake all night patrolling, by morning you shall be utterly spent and beyond weary."

Inspector Javert actually curled his lips up into a small smile at that, letting out a brusque little laugh, which surprised Cosette. Not once since encountering him had she sensed even a modicum of amusement from him. But now he clasped his hands together and his eyes twinkled just a bit as he tipped his head and gestured to the bench with a questioning look. She nodded vigorously, and he stalked towards her and sank down beside her. Her stomach quivered as she breathed in and inhaled a clean, heady masculine aroma on him. It was simple but pleasant, a woody and earthy sort of aroma with a bit of leather and citrus. Cosette took the deepest breath she could manage, studying Javert as she peered around the brim of her wide straw bonnet. He eyed her, still looking slightly amused, as he planted his enormous hands on the knees of his dark uniform trousers.

"For my entire life, Mademoiselle, insomnia and fatigue have been my constant companions," he said. "I have learnt not only to accept the sensations, but to embrace them. To be tired is nothing, really. One can simply choose to ignore it. It is not so difficult. The same is true with other sufferings… hunger. Pain. To suffer is a choice. I am, confessedly, not a scholar, but this I learnt from -"

"The Stoics," Cosette nodded quickly, for she herself had received a very fine education indeed. She gave him a weak little smile and quoted, " We suffer more often in imagination than in reality. Thus Seneca the Younger wrote to Lucilius."

"Yes. Precisely." Javert looked terribly impressed. He scoffed a bit and then looked away as he mumbled, "So those years behind walls did you some good, it seems."

"Perhaps they did," Cosette whispered. She sighed and waited for him to meet her eyes again, and then she informed him, "I know who my father is. Jean Valjean. I know what he did. I know he stole bread. I know he tore up his papers. I know he was a mayor of a town with a false name, that my mother Fantine was driven into disgrace in an attempt to get money to send for my care. I know that you and my father hated one another all the while, Inspector Javert. I know that when my mother died, and my father came to fetch me, you chased us. I know that we were hiding from you, for years. I know that you were at the barricades where my Marius was hurt, that you were taken prisoner and that my father saved you. I know that my father forgives you, but that perhaps you do not forgive yourself and that you meant to leap into the river. I know it all. My father told me."

Javert's eyes went dark and cold then, and his breath shook through his nostrils as he just stared for a very long moment. Finally, he nodded slowly and whispered, so softly that Cosette could scarcely hear him,

"Two-four-six-oh-one."

Cosette frowned. "I beg your pardon?"

Javert shut his eyes and let his head loll to the side a little. He pursed his lips and seemed furious, like a man broken, destroyed, enraged, mourning. He was ruined suddenly, and Cosette wanted to reach out and touch his face for some strange reason. Finally, he said, in a quiet tone,

"Your father's prisoner number. For decades, I knew it better than anything I knew about myself, Mademoiselle. It was etched into my own consciousness more surely than it was branded upon his chest. I needed to pursue him and bring him unto the justice of the law. Two. Four. Six. Zero. One. Those numbers rattled about my skull like flies that refused to die for years on end. But when at last I had your father in my grasp, I found not the demon that I thought I had been seeking, but a terrifyingly benign creature, and the notion of that felt… feels … unbearable. Lethal."

Cosette swallowed hard and waited for him to open his eyes and meet her gaze again. She licked her bottom lip and glanced to the fountain for just a moment to collect herself. Staring at him just now felt uncomfortable. She could not decide right now whether to observe how handsome he was, whether to feel sorry for him, whether to perseverate on his long feud with his father, or whether to worry over Marius. So she just looked at the fountain. After a long few minutes of quiet in the garden, she noted to Inspector Javert,

"Both you and my father, it seems, have moved quite a bit throughout France."

"So we have," Javert replied simply. Cosette let out a quivering breath and shrugged.

"May I ask, Inspector… are you from… the South of France? Toulon, my father said."

Javert cleared his throat a little and then said in a careful tone, "My background is… unimpressive."

Cosette emitted a sharp little giggle, unable to help herself. She turned her face to Javert and grinned widely, flashing her white teeth at him and shaking her head. He frowned a bit, but she reassured him,

"Monsieur l'Inspecteur, you know who I am. You know who my mother was, yes? You know where my father rescued me from. I am not proud."

Javert eyed her thoughtfully for a moment, as if realising something suddenly. He looked her up and down, and his facial features shifted considerably. Then he nodded and admitted at last,

"I was born in a prison. To a Gypsy woman from Savoy who had been jailed for fortune-telling. I am the bastard son of a galley-slave. I had no Christian upbringing and have never led a Christian life. If you are wondering what my given name is… I have not got one. I was called Javert at birth by the prison guards; that was the surname of my enslaved father. I was never given a name of my own, nor have I ever sought one or desired one."

"Oh," Cosette breathed. She nodded a few times. "All right."

Javert seemed to be chewing the inside of his cheek then as he considered whether or not to continue. "I served in the army… for Napoleon… in my youth. After the fighting, I returned to work as a prison guard and was stationed at Toulon. That is where I first encountered… your father. Jean Valjean. Two-four-six-oh-one."

Cosette flicked the corners of her lips up and shrugged. "His surname has always been Fauchelevant in my life. I am… I am Cosette Fauchelevant."

"Hmm." Javert nodded. His face shifted again, and his eyes drifted to a nearby rose bush. "Yes. Cosette Fauchevelant. I knew a man called Fauchelevant… in Montreuil-sur-Mer, where Jean Valjean was serving with a different pseudonym as mayor of the town and owner of a very successful factory. There, Monsieur Fauchelevant was a rival of the mayor's who went bankrupt and resorted to driving about a heavy cart. He became trapped under it one day, and no one could save him. No one except for one man… Monsieur Madeleine, the mayor of the town. He pulled the cart of of Monseiur Fauchelevant. Well. the policeman in town was very suspicious, you see, because Monsieur Madeleine, with his great strength and his familiar face, so closely resembled an old convict he'd known. Jean Valjean. A man who was wanted again. It…"

He trailed off then, suddenly looking enormously frustrated. He started to breathe quickly through clenched teeth, and his eyes went strangely wet and red. His cheeks flushed crimson, and Cosette watched his fingers knit and pull. She instinctively reached out and grabbed at his hands, pulling his fingers into her grasp. He seemed shocked and jarred by her touch, jolting as she stroked his hands to soothe him. He kept seething, but he met her gaze, and Cosette shushed him gently before she shook her head and whispered,

"Please, Inspector Javert. No more talk of all those many years ago. Not from my dear Papa and not from you. Perhaps someday. But for now, is it not enough that he forgives you your pursuit of him for his crimes in exchange for the mercies he has granted you, and that you pardon him his past infractions and focus instead on his good deeds? Hm? Because, Inspector, you are much older than me, but you've years ahead of you yet, surely?"

She laughed just a little, and even the gruff inspector could not seem to help but choke out a little noise and smirk at her. He rolled his eyes and glanced down to where she was rubbing his hands carefully with hers. She wondered if she ought to stop touching him, but he did not complain, so instead Cosette pushed back the cuffs of his uniform sleeves and intensified her movements just a little. Her touch seemed to be helping his panic a little, she noticed. She used her thumbs to rub at the insides of his broad wrists, and when she did, she heard his breath hitch in his throat, and he shifted where he sat. His fists uncurled a little, and Cosette watched his eyes shut slowly. His breath slowed a bit, and he licked his bottom lip. She smiled a bit to herself and used the silence to drag her fingers in deep, swooping circles around his palms, to course her fingers through his and then work with his wrists again. She backed off a little when she heard a low, choked sort of sound come out of him, unlike anything she'd heard from a man in her presence.

It frightened her just a little, that sound. The moment she heard it, something flared inside of her. She felt a sharp spike go up her spine, like she was a tree struck by a lightning bolt. That sound, that low little groan, was so masculine, just a bit feral and slightly savage, and as Cosette slowed her movements on his hands, she felt dizzy and warm. She pulled her hands carefully from Inspector Javert's but found herself suddenly wanting him in a way she had never in her life wanted a man. She felt frantic and confused, not least because this man was old and a stranger and had a long and very, very complicated and somewhat antagonistic history with her father. And then there was Marius! Her dear Marius. But here Cosette was, like a proper Jezebel, on the bench in her garden, feeling a foreign and terrifying warm pulse between her legs that sent a signal to her mind screaming, Climb onto his lap, you silly girl!

"Erm." Cosette's face felt very warm all of a sudden. She shut her eyes for a moment, gulped hard, and then tried to collect herself before she managed to steady her voice and her gaze. Finally, she found herself eye-to-eye with Javert, though he looked just as wild-eyed as she felt, and that was distinctly unhelpful. His high cheekbones were a dark shade of pink, and his eyes were flaring with an expression Cosette could not properly read. Suddenly she found herself blurting the only thing that felt like the right thing to say just now.

"I am so very, very worried about my dear, darling Marius Pontmercy, Inspector Javert."

Javert just stared at her for another moment before nodding very quickly as though he'd been violently ripped from a trance. He bowed his head respectfully and murmured in a reverent tone,

"I have more than enough time before my evening shift. I will go to his grandfather's home and check on him to see how he is doing today."

Cosette winced. "N-No, Inspector; I couldn't possibly trouble you to -"

"I insist." He raised his face to meet hers, and when he did, her chest yanked strangely. Her eyes burned a little, and she finally whispered,

"Thank you."

"Would you like to write a letter for the boy?" Javert asked, his voice having returned to its ordinary gruff tone now that he'd emerged from the self-pitying doldrums into which his conversation with Cosette earlier had plunged him. He shrugged. "If by some miracle the boy is awake enough, I will have his nurses read him a letter from you, if you would like, Mademoiselle."

"Oh. Yes, of course. Thank you." Cosette rushed inside and hurried to her bedchamber, tossing her bonnet aside and dashing over to her desk. She stared at her paper for so long that she felt guilty making Javert wait, but she was unsure of what to say. At long last, she wrote neatly,

My dearest Marius,

I pray to God this letter finds you alive and healing, and that soon enough you and I will be in one another's arms again. How I long for you and love you, my beloved Marius! I am here. I am in Paris, and I am not leaving. You and I will not part, and when you are well, we shall be together, you and I. Heal in the loving arms of the Lord knowing that I await you.

Very truly yours indeed,

Cosette