Sometimes, there exists a love so powerful, it can't be comprehended. It has no logic or explanation. A love that defies the commonplace emotion, one that creates the rules instead of merely following them. In my life, I've seen that sort of love. And I've experienced it.

Dusk, November 9, 1830.

Where do I begin? My name is Cosette. An unusual name, I've been told. I recently turned seventeen years old. I don't feel any different, to be honest. Nothing in my life changes, and I suppose that doesn't bother me. I have Papa for company. He is always there, my dearest friend and most devoted mentor. I feel as if I don't need anyone else since I have such an exceptional father. We go on weekly walks together, with our arms linked...

I sometimes imagine that if my arm wasn't tucked into his, I would float away. Strange fancies for a young girl like me, any yet I still feel that way nonetheless. Our walks go through a simple park, and we always stop and sit at the same stone bench. I love that bench. Once we sit, Papa lets me go. He sometimes reads a book, but I always look. I look at the sky, which is usually overcast, or at the other people walking about. The park is quite small, and if I squint, I can see past the manicured bushes and little trees to the town beyond. Sometimes during our walks, I will stop and pick some flowers, and when we reach the bench, I make necklaces with them. I leave the flower jewelry on the bench when we return home, and the next time we go walking, the necklaces are gone. Just the wind, I suppose.

I feel that diary writing is not for me. I have nothing thrilling to record, and my thoughts must be rather dull. I know I'm quite sheltered, but I am alright with that. A homely girl like me has no need for scandalous outings and a herd of suitors. All I need is my Papa, our walks, and my garden.

I don't think there is a more glorious place then my little garden. I'm not sure why, but the memories of my early childhood are hazy at best. The one thing I can remember most clearly is a fantasy about a place I called "The Castle on a Cloud."

The Castle was large and spacy, and had light gray stone walls with flowers creeping over them. My garden walls are just like that. In fact, my entire garden is like my former fantasy. The garden is circular shaped, with a small fountain in the exact center. There are curving benches along some of the walls, and lush flowers grow everywhere.

I feel that my life is made up of walks to the park and sitting on benches. When I leave my home, I go merely to sit on a bench. When I return home, I go immediately to the garden to sit. I'm in the garden right now. Dear Papa will probably come to fetch me inside soon. The sky is darkening, and the air has a chill. The lightest mist of a rain is falling. It is such a soft rain that the pages in this diary are not even affected. I raise my face to the sky. What a soft caress.

"Cosette! Come inside, darling!" Papa calls from the safety of the house. Regretfully I must rise and leave my garden. It is a nice house, truly, but I feel most at home outside. My skirts seem to grow heavier as I rise and walk away. Once I'm indoors, I feel rotten for wishing to stay outside. Papa positively beams at me and engages me in conversation. Dear Papa. His thick hair and beard are graying, and there are lines around his ancient brown eyes. Papa is a very large man, and still strong in his old age. He reminds me of a stag- a huge, noble and comforting presence.

"Cosette, what are you writing away at?" Papa asks inquisitively. I remember when he taught me to read. We were living in a different house then.

"Just my thoughts, Papa. Do you remember giving me this book?" I say. My voice is so high. It seems to grow higher and more feminine by the day, which is rather infuriating. Just a year ago, I could be taken for a boy, I was so homely and boyish. I am still a plain girl, but now I'm equipped with a keening voice to specify my gender.

"Of course I remember giving you that book." Papa says merrily. We talk for a bit more, then he turns to the fireplace and watches the flames while I continue to write. Our silence is comfortable. I pause to look out the window. The sky has darkened, I can barely see out the dim glass. There are a few murky shapes walking along the street. I'm sure they can see Papa and I inside the parlor, since our fireplace and candles illuminate the interior but make the outside world seem darker....Papa is calling at me to play chess. I suppose we'll meet again, dairy.

November 11, 1830

Papa and I just returned home from our walk to the park. I saw some girls there. I've seen them before, very pretty in their matching dresses. They laugh and walk about with linked arms, with their chaperons trailing behind with worried expressions. I wish I had a friend so that I might experience a merry stroll through the gardens. Yes, yes, I love Papa. But our walks have grown sober...

November 14, 1830

I've experienced a queer sensation around my bosom lately. I can't say that it's entirely pleasant. I've got small breasts, but they seem to be growing. At last, maybe my figure shall look like a woman's. I will face these inevitable changes without fear.

November 18, 1830

An odd thing happened today. Papa and I were walking through the street, on our way home. A man ran right by us, shouting and flailing. Naturally, I was curious, so I asked Papa, but he refused to tell me what was happening. He insisted we continue walking. This always happens. Whenever an ounce of excitement appears, Papa immediately leads me home. He says it is safest there. But what have we to fear? We are Parisians, we live in the city and should embrace the excitement like a brother. I told dear Papa that very thing, but he laughed. I wasn't hurt, I didn't mean it too seriously. And yet, I still wonder. I am seventeen years old, nearly fully grown, and yet my Papa still treats me like a small child. I imagine other girls my age have been introduced and courted by boys already. I know nothing about boys, or even girls, really. The information I've gathered just comes from observing others at the park. No one notices me there. I can watch at leisure without ever having to worry about being spotted, its as if I'm invisible. So I suppose there are benefits to being ugly......

I think I shall go sing a song. I've learned that there are a few benefits to my newly developed high voice. I can sing a multitude of new songs now. Papa says I have a pure and lovely soprano voice. But then again; he always says I'm pretty too.

November 23, 1830.

I saw an interesting man at the park today. Papa was immersed in his book, so he didn't notice I was captivated. He was a young man, not handsome in any way, yet still striking. He had brown hair that was neither curly nor straight, and black eyes that were piercing even at the distance with which I glimpsed them. His clothing was plain, but well made. On his arm was a giggling girl with beautiful gold hair. Her dress was silky and low cut, with her breasts nearly spilling out. I was mildly scandalized at the time. He and the girl walked around the park in circles. She would chatter on, and he appeared to quite obviously ignore her.

Once the girl daintily stopped her foot and cried, "Grantaire, are you even listening?" So I learned his name.

He replied, "You know that I'm not." The girl seemed to evaluate his words, then continued on with her endless chatter. Frequently, he would pull a brown bottle out from his jacket and take longs pulls, seeming to enjoy the beverage very much. Every now and then, he would make offhand comments at the girl, and then she would give him a puzzled look before continuing to talk again. I watched them till Papa pulled me home.

I wish I could talk to Grantaire, and hear the words that so confused the beautiful blond girl. Maybe I could could understand him...Nah, I'd probably just simper about myself just like the girl. I've never really conversed with just a man. I've talked to delivery boys plenty of times, but never have I made a male acquaintance.

November 25, 1830

I learned to sing a new song today. It's called, "Amarilli, Mia Bella." I can even play the accompaniment on the little piano Papa got me for my sixteenth birthday. I love singing, especially in my garden. There I don't an accompaniment, the sound of the leaves rustling through the trees provides a perfect melody. Perhaps I shall write my own song one day, if the right words come to me.

November 28, 2830

No walk today. I'm usually exceedingly fond of the rain, but I fear I've grown sick of it. I haven't been able to leave the house all day. Even indoors, the air just seems damp and dull. Papa has been napping. Its too cold to be outside, but too warm to snow.....What boredom!

November 30, 1830

At last the rain has ceased! Papa says I must dawn many layers before I can go outside. Even bundled up past recognition, I feel that a breath of fresh air will do us both some good.

December 2, 1830

I saw Grantaire at the park again today. He was with another beautiful girl and had another bottle in his hand. He stumbled when he walked, yet still seemed to be regal. I wish I could talk to him.

December 6, 1830

I stitched a pattern a lovely pillow for Papa today. I also painted a small landscape on a canvas.

December 15, 1830

I did it! When Papa and I went out for our walk today, I brought a book with me. It was a very windy day. When we sat down on the bench, my book got carried away in the wind. Papa went off to retrieve it. Grantaire happened to be strolling by right then, a brunette girl hanging off his arm.

He saw Papa run off, then said to me, "Sending your father off on an errand?" His voice was very smooth. The brunette giggled. I looked to the ground. All of this planning to talk to him, and I had not a word to say!

I blurted out, "What is in the bottle that you carry?" After I said that, I could feel my face burn with shame. He instead laughed and said, "What's in your head?" That puzzled me.

Then I replied, "Why, thoughts are in my head! But thoughts aren't in that bottle." He laughed again. The girl on his arm seemed annoyed, as she was no longer merrily laughing.

"What's your name?" Grantaire asked, boldly taking another long chug out of his bottle.

"Cosette. What's your name?" I asked, to be polite.

"My name's Grantaire.. Want to taste?" he said, gesturing to his bottle. He completely ignored the girl on his arm, so I never learned her name. I felt my time with Grantaire was growing short, so ignoring my better judgment, I quickly nodded my head. He smirked and passed me the bottle. It was cool against my gloved hands. The bottle was dark, so I could not see the liquid inside. I tightly shut my eyes and dark. My throat was on fire! I coughed and spluttered. My whole body burned, and tears came to my eyes at the effort of trying to catch my breath. Grantaire and the girl laughed, though his laugh didn't seem as cruel as hers.

When I could finally speak again, I gasped out, "What spirit is that?!"

"Just brandy. Is your throat nicely burned or do you care for more?" he said coolly, and took a long drink. I was torn. I wanted to accept his challenge, but I did not wish to torch my throat again. Slowly, I reached for the bottle from his ungloved hands. I took a tiny sip and passed it back to him. That time, I didn't hurt my mouth and the spirit gave my body a pleasant warmth. Grantaire smiled and drank. He offered the bottle to his girl, but she daintily turned her face away. Over their shoulders, I saw Papa's large frame begin to approach. I grew nervous.

"I've got girls waiting to be seduced. Perhaps we'll meet again." Grantaire said as he turned to leave. I began to breath again. The girl on his arm playfully smacked him and hissed, "Am I not enough?"

I heard him say, "Not for a Don Juan like me." They walked away. Papa sat down on the bench, breathing heavily. He handed the book to me.

"Thank you, Papa!" I cried, and hugged him.

"You would not believe what I had to do to get this book, Cosette. I swear it must have blown throughout Paris before letting me catch it." he said, his breathing slowly returning to normal. He turned to me. "Why, your quite flushed! Is this air too chilly for you? Perhaps we should return home."

I realized that the brandy had given me some color. I nervously clutched the book to my chest. I began to feel horrible at making Papa fetch it. I still feel awful about it, even now. I'm a wicked girl.

After that, I let Papa take me back home. I spent the rest of the day with him, trying to be the most attentive and good daughter I could be. He seemed pleased to have me by his side for hours on end.

I've just retired to my bedroom, so I could write this down. I have never been more daring in my life, I think. Tomorrow, I shall continue to make up for my sly behavior..............And yet, I long to do something exciting like that again....Soon.