When Cosette awoke in the dark to a tumult on the upper floor of the inn, she immediately sat up in case her mistress called for her. She stared into the blackness and listened to the running footsteps above, her mind concocting wild scenarios to explain the ruckus, each more frightening than the last. Just when she had finished a particularly gruesome story involving a ghost manifesting itself in the Thénardiers' bedroom, a white figure appeared before her in the darkness. Cosette gasped and drew her thin blanket up to her nose, peeking at the spectre over the top. It moved closer, and the child relaxed upon recognising the strange boy clad only in a long, white nightshirt.

"Did I frighten you?" he whispered.

Cosette shook her head.

"Liar. Here, move over a bit."

Cosette obediently scooted to the foot of her little pallet, and the boy sat next to her. His hair, released from its tight ribbon, hung about his head in a ring of tousled black curls, the longest grazing his sharp shoulders. Clad in just the white cotton, his ivory-coloured skin took on a vaguely peach hue, but Cosette could only see it once he was seated at her side, his long legs crossed beneath the nightshirt and his slender hand resting so near her own.

"My mother died," he said levelly.

"What?" squeaked the serving-girl.

He nodded. "She's been sick for a long time. Félix is still going to Paris, but he's burying her in this town. He wouldn't even arrange to have her sent back to Toulouse, or to bring her with him." The boy leaned closer to Cosette. "Want to know a secret?" he asked, but continued without waiting for an answer. "I hate him. As soon as we get to Paris, I'm going to run away from him. And someday, when I get old enough… I'm going to kill him."

Cosette said nothing, watching the boy with her large, shadowed eyes.

"What's your name?" he said suddenly. "Those pampered brats called you 'Lark,' but that's a stupid nickname."

"Cosette," she said softly.

His lips curled into that dark smile again. "Cosette," he repeated.

"What's yours?"

The boy shook his head. "I'm not keeping the silly name Félix gave me. The moment we reach Paris, I'm going to find a new name."

"Oh," said Cosette.

"That woman hurts you, doesn't she?" the boy asked suddenly.

Cosette did not respond.

"I'll kill her too, if you want. And those two brats. D'you want me to kill her? I'll do it, as soon as I'm big enough."

Still Cosette said nothing, staring at him in the darkness. His pretty white face was contorted into a twisted mess of hatred, black eyes flashing dangerously.

He turned to her. "I'll come back for you. Then, when I've killed them all, we could run this place ourselves, couldn't we?"

"I don't want to stay here," whispered the serving-girl.

"Then we won't."

The two sat in silence for a long time. Cosette kept glancing at the boy from the corner of her eye, but his gaze remained fixed on her, so she looked away just as quickly, until at last he said, "Are you afraid of me, Cosette?"

She slowly shook her head.

"Marcel! Where the hell are you, boy? We're leaving!"

It was the voice of the familiar stranger, his father.

"I have to go," said the boy, placing a slender hand on Cosette's bony shoulder. She turned to look at him at last, and the boy leaned forward and kissed her, his mess of curly hair swinging forward and brushing her cheeks. "I'll come back for you, Cosette," he said, and disappeared into the darkness.

Cosette did not move as she heard his soft footsteps climbing the stairs above her head. She stared straight ahead into the darkness and, at length, lay back down and went to sleep. Only then did a little smile slither across her cracked lips.