When Cosette's eyes are closed and her breathing slow and even, he stirs at last, stretching the stiffness out of his shoulders. Carefully he gathers her up and carries her to the bed, where Catharine is waiting with glass-eyed tranquillity.

It all seems very strange, very natural.

Her face is solemn when she sleeps. Sometimes she wakes in the middle of the night, stifling panicked sobs. He has slept through all sorts of pandemonium, but that noise, small and terrible, always brings him awake. Then he will sing her back to sleep, in a voice gone rusty with disuse.