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"Papa!" The voice which sounds through the opening front door is a young woman's, light and sweet and eager. The voice's owner follows in a billow of skirts, glancing back over her shoulder into a homey little hallway as she calls to someone unseen. "Papa, are you quite ready?"

She turns her head -- and falters in astonishment as she crosses the threshold, and her boots hit the Milliways floorboards.

"Papa...?" Her hand falls away from the doorknob, and it swings delicately closed behind her.

She's a young woman of perhaps sixteen or seventeen, her rosy face framed by delicate ringlets escaping from a silk-covered bonnet. Her dress is of blue wool, sloping down at the shoulders, puffed out wide at the sleeves and gathering again at the wrists, her skirts a bell over layers of petticoats, a warm shawl wrapped about her shoulders, gloves on her small hands, a basket over one arm, small boots just visible -- in other words, the height of dainty femininity for 1832, and doubtless extremely impractical and peculiar to the eyes of most of Milliways' patrons.

Welcome to Milliways, Cosette.

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'Simply to ask me to give you an envelope from my bureau next time you wish to visit. Or carry it with you, in case the door comes unexpectedly. I will know what for.'

He did not have much money on him when he arrived, and has amassed a bill from the money he has given away since he has been here. He would like to clear it, and also have enough on hand to use as necessary - even here, there are people in need, and things that can be provided for others. If they will take it.

'Is there more you wish to know of the place? There are grounds outside, which are pleasant for walking in. I would ask that you not go far unaccompanied, however. There are dangers too. Creatures that are not human, that hunt in the forest, for example. Beasts that look human, but are not.'

A small smile then, in case he is worrying her.

'There are also very many wonderful, kind people to be found.'

And it probably goes without saying; he will be keeping a careful eye on her.

Cosette accepts the request without a qualm. It's the kind of mysterious business her father often carries out or disappears to accomplish; he has never offered explanation, and thus she never asks.

"You say this isn't a dream, but I don't believe you. Beasts that look human but are not -- tea that appears by magic -- mysterious rules that won't let you leave! Very well, I'll obey, I won't go far from you."

The only thought she has for beasts that look human is stories -- and that day once, more than a year ago, when they saw the chained wagons full of miserable convicts on their way to prison. She doesn't like to think of it. They were howling and sobbing and blaspheming, they were wretched, they were awful.

She has another bite of cake, and pushes the plate a little towards him, pointedly.

He affects a vaguely chastised expression, and dutifully eats a small bite of cake. He is not altogether fond of sweet things, but he eats them so that Cosette will take them.

'You will see many wonders, I have no doubt.'

Perhaps she will even forget about Marius.

...he hates himself for the thought, but it comes regardless.

'I realise this has been surprising for you, but perhaps there is something that will make it more real. If you think you could stand another surprise?'

"Another! What more can there be?"

She's laughing a little -- all of this has gone beyond bewildering to surreal, and there's nothing to do but be merry at it.

Her ability to be merry in the face of difficulties is one of her very many admirable qualities. He will tell this to anyone who will listen.

'It would perhaps be possible for you to meet your mother. If you would like to.'

He could simply lead her over to Fantine's table. But that might be a cruel shock; better to give her the choice, in case she needs to build her courage.

Of course, as he says it he realises that he has never spoken of his relationship with Fantine to her. A cold hand grips his heart - but there, it is done, and now must be borne. He should have considered more carefully perhaps; except no, it does not matter. He would not keep the two apart for any reason.

And now she knows for certain that this is a dream.

"My mother is dead."

Cosette has dreamed about her, made up stories about her, tried with all her might since childhood to remember anything about her -- nothing. Only distant half-memories she can never quite grasp, and sometimes a sadness, and her father's few words on the subject, hoarded to turn over and over like gems polished by waves. Her mother was kind and good, her mother loved her, her mother would have given anything for her comfort, her mother died.

Ah.

'Yes.'

Perhaps he should have mentioned this first. He reaches over the table, and lays his large hand over her small one.

'My apologies, Cosette. I should have said - one of the miracles of this place is that sometimes, those who have passed come and stay before moving on to their final rest. Your mother is one such as this. She is here. You may see her if you wish - but it is your choice, and yours alone.'

Cosette looks down at his hand over hers, and beneath her thick lashes her eyes prickle, just a little. She wraps her other hand around her father's large fingers and presses them tightly.

She isn't sure at all how she'll feel when she wakes from this dream. She isn't sure at all how she feels now.

"Of course I will." Her voice is low and small.

Her mother.

If Cosette has seen her face in a dream before -- and she isn't certain she has -- she's always forgotten it upon waking. Will she forget it now, too? Will she wake before they meet?

She lifts her eyes to her father's face, and smiles for him. "Of course I will."

He smiles too, though his heart twists in his chest. He has known for some time that he is going to lose Cosette - all the time he has been here, since he found out about Marius just two days before walking through this magical door. But it has never seemed entirely real; it has been a black shadow without form, stealing over his heart with every passing day.

Now, it seems very real. He will not ask Fantine to conceal any truth. Of course, they may not speak of certain things at all - but they may, and it would be only natural. Today may be the day he finds Cosette after what seems like a lifetime without her...and lose her forever as well.

'Come,' he says gently, and rises to his feet. Once more, he offers his arm.

'She is sitting just a few tables away.'

Cosette takes his arm, of course. The tea and cake and basket of lint are utterly forgotten.

If she clings a little closer to his side than before -- well, perhaps it's understandable.

She searches the nearby tables with her eyes, seeking after a woman who looks like her, a woman who could be her mother, a woman who will spark recognition in her heart. Surely she'll recognize her on sight -- isn't that the way it's supposed to be, in stories of long-lost relations?

No one has a face she remembers. But there's a woman bent over sewing with a dress from ten years ago and a careworn face that looks just a little like a wearier relation of the face Cosette sees in her little mirror. Surely she's too young. Surely she's Cosette's mother. Surely--

He sees her gaze in Fantine's direction, and smiles down on her.

'Yes,' is all he says, though he squeezes her hand a little too.

And then they walk, until they come close to the woman who still looks more worn than he would like.

'Mademoiselle Fantine.'

A small bow, of course.

'I have someone with me I think you would like to meet.'

Fantine. That is her mother's name.

Fantine. Cosette will never forget those syllables now.

(But -- mademoiselle? And from her father to her mother?)

She has no words; her lips part a little, silently. She dips a deep curtsey.

It's been a good day for Fantine. The things she has been working on have been going quite well, and she has even taken to trying to replicate some of the more modern bits and bobs that she has seen around the bar.

She hasn't noticed anyone up to this moment, as absorbed as she usually is with her work. When she does look up, there's a contented smile on her face as she sees one of the men she considers friend, or perhaps even family.

"Yes, Monsieur?" And then she pauses, her attention turning to the lovely young lady next to him. There's something about her, something peaceful, something amazingly graceful and pure, but also something almost... familiar. Putting down her sewing, she stands as well, an gives the young lady a deep curtsy. "Can I help you in some way?"

He smiles between the two of them, worries set aside. This is a day he thought he would never see.

He half-turns to Cosette, loosening her a little from his side.

(It strikes him, suddenly, that it is not unlike the movement of a father giving his daughter away at the altar. The last hold before someone else takes over.)

All he says, in a simple tone, is;

'This is Cosette.'

Cosette darts a quick, uncertain glance up to her father. She doesn't bite her lip -- she's nearly seventeen and betrothed, entirely too grown for such childish gestures -- but for a moment she wants to.

She clasps her hands together instead. (The gloves lie with her shawl back at the table, abandoned as unnecessary in this warm room.)

"Papa says that you are my mother."

She gasps, a hand going up to her mouth for a moment. "... my Cosette?"

A moment goes by in which she just stares. Absolutely nothing could have prepared her for this moment, this lovely woman in front of her who seems so peaceful, so removed from all of the pain and suffering that characterized her own life.

"If he says you are my Cosette, then I am." She bites back a few tears and turns to Valjean. "I never thought I would have this moment. Thank you, Monsieur."

To Cosette, she smiles through the tears that are now falling down her face. "It is so good to see you again. I..." She holds out a hand, hoping for a hug, not even knowing what to do.

"Oh!"

Tears have started in Cosette's own blue eyes, though none have fallen.

It seems so unfair that she cannot remember her mother at all, no matter how she tries -- except in this dream. Except now. Even if it's only a dream, she will have this.

Her heart is full; she doesn't know what to do, what to say, except as the swelling of bewildered love in her heart bids her. She reaches out, a swift darting gesture, and catches up her mother's needle-pricked hand in her own soft white fingers; she brings the hand to her rosy cheek.

Fantine would believe this to be a dream, if it had not been for everything she had experienced to get to this place.

Her tears are coming stronger now, but the grin on her face absolutely belies any actual sadness or negative emotion. For a long moment, she just stands there, smiling at her daughter, hand on her cheek.

Finally, she comes to her senses. "Would you come sit with me for a few moments? I would love to hear of your life, and anything else you would say to me."

She will apologize to Valjean later, however, in this moment, she only has eyes for her daughter.

There will be no need whatsoever to apologise; Valjean would not intrude on this moment for anything, and indeed, will not remain to eavesdrop on something so intimate.

'I will be seated at my table if you have need of me,' he murmurs to Cosette.

A last gentle squeeze on her arm, and he withdraws to allow them privacy in their reunion.

Cosette barely notices, though at any other time she would. Her father will always be there if she needs him; she knows this as a fact, just as the sun will rise in the morning.

She presses Fantine's hand in both her own, where their joined hands rest still against her tipped cheek.

"Mother!"

She has never known a mother to call by that name -- not since she was so young that she would barely remember even with a more placid childhood.

"Of course I will."

"My beautiful Cosette." Fantine is beaming through her tears, thanking a God that she thought had abandoned her that she had found this place, and that it had brought her darling daughter to her.

After a long moment, she breaks the touch, taking her daughter's hand and leading her back to the table. Two of the chairs are covered in various fabrics, from the practical to the ornate, but two are free. The table itself has a few yards of purple fabric, along with some various patterns.

"Let us get some tea. I wish to hear anything and everything."

Cosette sits as she's bid, clasping her mother's hand where it lies on the table.

She looks so young -- only a few years older than Cosette, too young to have a daughter old enough to marry, far younger than Cosette's white-haired father. Of course she does, because she died when Cosette was small, but it's so strange.

She laughs a little, looking down at their joined hands. "I hardly know what to say."

Fantine smiles, taking a scrap of material from the table to wipe her eyes with her free hand. The tears are fading now, into a bright smile that has only rarely seen the light of day in many many years.

"Tell me of your life. I have heard some, but I wish to hear it from you." She smiles, clinging to the scrap of fabric to steady herself.

She hardly knows what to say either, but she wants to know her daughter, wants to know absolutely everything there is to know about her darling girl.

"I grew up in the convent of Petit-Picpus -- do you know it? Papa's brother was a gardener there. He was old, his knees were bad, Papa came to help him. They both kept all the convent's gardens and trees, and I went to school there."

Fauchelevent was not Valjean's brother, of course, but Cosette doesn't know that. All her time there, it was the official story, and her father was named Ultime Fauchelevent.

"When my uncle died, we moved out. Papa has business as well. I don't know what sort, he doesn't say much, but we're comfortable. He gives me anything I want, always."

She ducks her head a little, flushing with what's still a private joy. "I am engaged to be married. His name is Marius -- Marius Pontmercy."

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