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Chapter Text

The drawing room in the Pontmercy residence was opulently decorated for Christmas. A fire burned in the fireplace, ornaments gleamed in every corner, a crèche stood near the window with fine sheep of white wool and the Magi in brightly painted robes, and a large mound of presents was waiting to be unwrapped.

Grandfather Jean had found refuge in an armchair by the fire. Great-grandfather Gillenormand was entertaining Marie’s parents at the table, where silverware sparkled and candles gleamed. Little Marie could not take her eyes of the presents. Any moment now it would be time to unwrap it, and perhaps there would be a new doll for her, as large as that of her older sister Jeanne.

Then the doors to the drawing room opened, and in spilled the crowd. The women wore beautiful robes, and the men were tall with impressive mustaches, all of them friends of her parents. There was only one man whom she had not seen before. He stood out from the crowd by his somber black coat and waistcoat and a pair of impressive whiskers. Georges thought that he had to be a retired officer, for he carried himself with a military straightness, and his face was dark and forbidding.

“An army needs a cavalry,” Georges now said in a hushed voice. He had been speaking of nothing but the chestnut horse and the cuirassiers for weeks, even though his collection of tin soldiers already took over half a shelf in the cupboard where their toys were kept. “Father knows that, don’t you think? Grandfather Georges had a sabre and a horse at Waterloo.”

The hum of conversation at the table increased. Glasses clinked, and Marie could hear her mother laugh. She was the most beautiful woman in the room, with a dress of violet damask and a satin pelisse. Marie’s gaze fell onto the mound of presents again, hoping that her doll would have long, auburn locks and a dress of damask. Perhaps she would call her Catherine, like her mother’s old doll she had sometimes mentioned. Or Violette, or perhaps Anceline.

All of a sudden it seemed to her that a shadow had fallen onto the room. The candles had dimmed, and when she looked up, she found that the stern man clad in black had passed before her. He was carrying a present, wrapped in black paper and tied with a bow of dark blue. As Marie watched, holding her breath, he carefully placed it with the other gifts.

A moment later, a bell rang out, and the candles flickered back into brightness. When Marie’s gaze returned to the presents, the man in black had vanished. In the corner, Grandfather Jean seemed to be asleep in his armchair. His brow was creased, and now he shifted uneasily, as though he was trapped in a nightmare.

“Monsieur le juge, I am glad you could make it,” her father now said warmly, shaking the hand of the man dressed in back. How strange—Marie had not seen him cross the room again.

“Father? Father,” Marie’s mother said. She had moved to Grandfather’s side, and now gently touched his shoulder. “Are you awake? It’s time for the presents. Don’t you want to watch the children?”

Next to Marie, Georges could barely hold back his excitement, and even her older sister Jeanne had forgotten her usual restraint. Soon, all thoughts of the stranger had vanished when her father began to hand out presents to them.

Jeanne received a new doll, even larger than her old one, with a dress of ruffles and beautiful, golden locks. Georges unwrapped a tin box with an assortment of cuirassiers.

“Look how brave they are!” he exclaimed, holding up an officer in a blue coat, a silver sabre held high in his hand. “What battles they will fight!”

Marie received a doll as well, as large as Jeanne’s. Her doll was more beautiful than Jeanne’s, with tresses of auburn to her waist and a beautiful dress of damask. Her face was of porcelain, smiling serenely, and Marie cradled her in her arms with excitement.

There was more to unwrap: illustrated books of fairy tales, another set of soldiers for Georges, and the most wondrous automatons that stood in a castle of clockwork, ticking and tocking and suddenly, as if at an invisible command, springing into motion. A princess turned and turned, her ball gown sparkling; a prince waved from atop his white horse; two soldiers raised their rifles; and behind the palace’s windows, silhouettes moved as if of couples twirling at a ball.

The room erupted in delight, the adults laughing and applauding while little Marie clapped her hands.

“Is it not wondrous, children? That gift was sent by Justice Joubert—who I believe is also an amateur clockmaker,” her father said. “Why monsieur, there you are! I cannot thank you enough; what a marvel! To think that such wonders exist.”

Her father seemed enchanted by the automatons, smiling as he shook the hand of the Justice. With sudden shock, Marie realized that he was the man in the black coat she had seen before, with his fearful whiskers bristling and his brow low and dark. Even now he kept silent, while before them, the little automatons kept turning in their small, mechanical motions.

After a while, as the evening progressed and the adults still stood in front of the toy palace, Georges returned to his soldiers, bored by the automatons that could only do their one motion, and would never ride off to war. Marie as well had begun to realize that the princess would never stop turning, and that the prince would never lift her on his horse to carry her away. Still cradling her doll, she moved away from the small palace on display—only to run straight into the Justice, who looked at her with a stern expression.

“Well? Are you not pleased by the automatons, mademoiselle Pontmercy?” he asked grimly.

Marie gasped in terror, clutching her doll tightly to her chest. When she did not speak, his expression seemed to turn even darker. From the corner of her eye, she saw his hand reach out. Almost she feared that he would snatch the doll right out of her hands to do something terrible to her in retribution, when she felt a hand gently touch her head.

“Look, Marie, there is a present left,” the familiar voice of her grandfather said. He smiled at her, although something about him seemed very sad, as it had always been.

When her eyes followed where he pointed, she saw that only the present wrapped in black paper had remained. Had not the Justice carried it in earlier?

But when she turned around, the man no longer stood in front of her. She could not see him anywhere else in the room. How strange it was that he had vanished, although she did not dwell on the thought for long.

Instead, accompanied by her grandfather, she went to unwrap the final present.

“Grandfather, look!” In delight, she held out the wooden figure she had uncovered. It was the figure of an officer, stiff and wooden, but with a uniform of blue and shoes of polished black. He had a large, strong jaw and fearsome whiskers, and when she opened his jaw, he showed a row of strong teeth.

“That’s a nutcracker,” her grandfather said. “Shall we give him a nut to crack?”

“I’m sure he must be a prince,” Marie said in delight. “How handsome he is—look how his shoes gleam. How much more beautiful than that Justice he is, although they both have such whiskers! But his uniform shines and his boots are polished. I’m sure he is brave and strong, just like a prince.”

Together with her grandfather, she sat down by the fire, and the nutcracker bravely cracked any nut he was given. Then her mother called for her, and Marie spent half an hour listening to her great-grandfather sing old songs that made the adults laugh. She had already forgotten all about the automatons, as had her siblings. Yet she had not forgotten about her brave nutcracker, and when her mother was at last busy with another guest, she quickly ran back to where she had left her grandfather behind with her prince.

But oh, to what a sight of disappointment she returned! There, where they had sat and talked about her nutcracker’s feats of strength, now her brother Georges sat with the nutcracker in his lap, surrounded by nut shells.

“Bah! He’s not strong at all. Why, my cuirassiers would have run him straight through,” Georges said and dropped the nutcracker to the floor. Marie could not hold back a sound of dismay, for her brave nutcracker’s jaw was open, and three of his teeth had fallen out, victim to the hard nut which Georges had tried to feed to him.

“Oh, my poor prince!” Sadly, Marie cradled the nutcracker in her arms, tears rising to her eyes as she looked at his broken jaw. She drew a ribbon from her hair and tied it around his head, bandaging his battle wounds—but even so her brave prince would look at her no more, the light gone out of the small, black eyes.

“Come, I will fix him for you,” her grandfather said gently when he came upon her. “There’s no need for tears. I’ll take him to a shop tomorrow, Marie, and then he will crack nuts again, just as bravely as earlier.”

Wiping her eyes, Marie nodded. In the distance, the small palace sprung into motion once more, the princess turning and the prince raising his sabre and the soldiers shouldering their rifle, but all Marie could think about was the wounded nutcracker in her arms.

“It’s late, Marie,” her mother said. “Let’s put those toys away into your cupboard, and then it’s time to sleep.”

Marie did not want to give up her brave nutcracker, but eventually, despite her tears, she allowed her grandfather to carry her to bed.

“Do you promise that he’ll be healed tomorrow?” she demanded, holding on to her grandfather’s arms. “Promise, grandfather.”

“I promise,” he said seriously. “He was very brave today. Tonight he needs to rest. Tomorrow, I will visit again and take him with me to a carpenter, and then he will be just as fine as today. But for tonight, you have bandaged him very well. He’ll rest now and sleep, just as you.”

Reluctantly, Marie nodded, although she kept holding on to her grandfather's hand. As she fell asleep, her head was turned towards the cupboard where now the dolls, Georges’ soldiers and the new, small automatons rested, the palace dark and the princess and prince no longer moving.

In the morning, when Valjean returned to the house in the Marais, he found the household in a flurry. Marie had been walking in her sleep during the night, it seemed, and had fallen, shattering the glass door of the cupboard where the children’s toys were kept.

“The doctor just left,” Cosette said, her face very pale. “Her arm is bandaged, and she fell back asleep at last. I’m afraid she might have a fever. Oh father, the things she dreamed…”

Valjean allowed himself to wrap his arms around Cosette with guilty delight. He knew that Pontmercy was not pleased to see him here, but as much as Valjean agreed with Pontmercy’s opinion that a man like Valjean had no place in such a home as that of the Pontmercys, it had been impossible to withdraw himself as completely as he knew he should. Cosette had not allowed it, and Pontmercy had eventually relented when the years passed and chances of the scandal being unearthed decreased. Now, Valjean came to visit regularly, watching the children and how they grew, listening to Cosette call him father, and he thought that he was lucky to die like this, with Cosette unaware of who he was.

In the children’s bedroom, Marie was asleep in her small bed, her hair matted with sweat and her arm bandaged. Against the wall, the cupboard that held the children’s toys stood. The glass door was shattered. A servant must have cleaned the room already, for there were no more splinters to be seen—but Valjean could still make out a smudge of blood on the floor, and here and there, further tiny red tracks, almost as if a mouse had run through the blood.

“Grandfather Jean,” Marie said, waking when he sat down by her side. Her eyes were fever-bright, but when he reached out to rest his hand on her forehead, he did not feel any telltale heat. “The nutcracker—”

“Are you still going on about that thing, Marie?” Pontmercy asked. He was very pale as well, but in his eyes, Valjean could see a worry he had not seen since Cosette had given birth. “I should never have let you take it with you into the bedroom. What a ghastly gift; it must have given you nightmares. I don’t even know who brought it—”

Tears began to run from Marie’s eyes. “Father, no! The nutcracker is very brave. He is a prince, and he saved me tonight when the mice attacked—”

“Good God, that tale again!” Pontmercy said and turned away, although Valjean could see that his hand was trembling when he raised it to his mouth. “Enough of that now. You are sick, Marie; you need to sleep, and when you wake, cook will have some broth for you.”

“I’ll stay with you.” Cosette gently touched Marie’s hair.

When their fingers touched, Valjean looked up. Cosette’s eyes were focused on Marie, but there were lines of worry around her mouth, and her eyes were red. She looked very weary. Valjean reached out for her hand, gently pressing it even though Pontmercy was in the room.

“No. You should sleep as well, Cosette. You must have been awake with her half the night and all morning. I’ll watch over her. Go and sleep, and then you can watch once I leave.”

Cosette hesitated for a long moment. Her lips were trembling. Involuntarily, Valjean raised his head, fearing that Pontmercy might be displeased by his offer—but Pontmercy’s eyes were on Cosette, and he too looked exhausted.

“He’s right, Cosette,” Pontmercy said. “Come and rest for an hour or two. You look very tired, and now that the doctor was here, surely the worst is over.”

Cosette looked back down at Marie. After a moment, she leaned down and pressed a kiss to her hair.

“Goodnight, Marie,” she said softly. “Grandfather will stay with you for a while, and I’ll be back before you wake up again.”

Then she touched Valjean’s hand, and pressed a kiss to his own brow. A wave of joy ran through him, enough to make him tremble at that heavenly benediction—followed by shame, for surely Pontmercy, who knew what he truly was, was still watching him.

“Grandfather,” Marie said softly. “Will you make sure that the mice stay away?”

He raised his eyes again to look at Pontmercy, who could only helplessly shake his head.

“I will,” Valjean said gently, pulling the covers tightly around Marie. “I promise. No one will harm you while I’m here. Now sleep. I will tell you a story, if you want.”

Pontmercy and Cosette extinguished the lamp when they left Marie’s bedroom. The curtain was drawn, and there was a curious twilight that filled the room. The house still smelled of cinnamon and aniseed and allspice, and the fat of the goose that had cooked in the oven yesterday. Outside, the garden was covered in snow, which brightly reflected the light. But in Marie’s bedroom, there was now only the light of a candle by her bed. In its flickering illumination, Valjean found himself eyeing the broken cupboard once more where the nutcracker sat with Marie’s ribbon tied around his jaw, and where the dolls rested still and silent next to the tin soldiers.

How strange it was now to think of that Christmas so many years ago, when he had hidden a golden coin in the wooden sabot of a half-starved girl.

Tenderly, Valjean smoothed Marie’s hair out of her face.

“It’s a story I read your mother once, long ago, when she was your age,” he began. “It’s a story about the nut Crackatook, the hardest nut in the world.

“There was once a princess called Pirlipat, who lived in a beautiful castle. Her mother was the queen, and her father was the king. One Christmas, they had prepared a beautiful feast. But the Mouse Queen came to visit the queen and demanded to be fed. Afraid, the queen allowed her to take some of the bacon—but at night, all the mice returned. Together, they devoured all of the bacon and all of the lard.

“The next day, when the king discovered that there were no sausages at the feast because the mice had stolen all of the bacon, he was very angry and declared a war against the mice. He hired a clockmaker, who invented many traps and killed many of the Mouse Queen’s sons and daughters. But in revenge, the Mouse Queen placed a curse upon the king’s daughter. The beautiful princess Pirlipat was turned into strange figure of wood, with a square face and a strong jaw that could crack even the hardest nut.”

“A nutcracker,” Marie murmured sleepily. “Pirlipat was turned into a nutcracker.”

“And the king sent out many wise men to find a way to break the curse,” Valjean said earnestly. “They returned with the answer that only the nut Crackatook could break the curse. It is the hardest nut in the world, and it had to be given to the princess by a man who had never shaved nor worn boots. When the clockmaker finally found that nut and the right man, the king was overjoyed. But when the man gave Pirlipat the nut, the Mouse Queen was hiding in the bedroom, and she interfered at just the right moment. So when the curse was broken and Pirlipat was turned into a beautiful princess once more, it was the man who had saved her who was turned into a nutcracker instead.”

“Did the princess kiss him to break the curse?” Marie mumbled. “The nutcracker is so very brave…”

“No, Marie, she did not,” Valjean said sadly. “She was scared by the nutcracker’s terrible face, and even though her father had promised her hand to the man who saved her, she refused and demanded that her savior be exiled.”

“Oh no,” Marie said, “grandfather, that can’t be right…”

“He is still looking for a way to break the curse even now,” Valjean said as he leaned forward to press a kiss to Marie’s hair. “So you are right. The nutcracker is very brave. And to see beyond his wooden face to the bravery and courage within is the sign of a good heart. I don’t doubt that your nutcracker will defend you from all harm tonight.”

“The Mouse King attacked us last night,” Marie murmured, blinking sleepily up at him. “He fought very bravely, but he had no sword, you see. Grandfather, I’m afraid. What if the mice come back tonight? They wounded him yesterday.”

“I’ll be by your side,” Valjean assured her. “And when the Mouse King attacks, I’ll protect you.”

“But what about the nutcracker? He has no sword.”

Valjean smiled. “I’ll bring him a sword. Will you sleep then?”

Marie nodded, and Valjean stood from his place by her side. He went over to the cupboard. There, on the lowest shelf, rested Georges’ oldest soldiers, who had been wounded in battle and retired.

“May I, monsieur?” he asked of an officer who had lost an arm to a cat, then added, “very kind,” ceremoniously resting the soldier’s sabre against the side of the nutcracker.

“I hear that you are a brave and valiant man, and I hereby command you to defend my granddaughter bravely and allow no mice to come near her again,” Valjean said seriously.

At the same moment, something made the candle sputter. For a heartbeat, it seemed as if the black eyes of the nutcracker gleamed at him. Valjean’s breath caught in his throat.

It was only now that he took a closer look at the nutcracker. Something about the face of the figure was strangely disconcerting; had there ever been a nutcracker with such fierce, bristling whiskers before? The uniform the nutcracker wore was blue, its boots black, and for a moment, Valjean found himself staring at what seemed to him a distant ghost of the past: the inspector who had so hounded him, and who had vanished without a trace after Valjean had pulled him out of the river years ago.

Then the candle burned brightly as before, and all shadows receded. The nutcracker was but a toy, and Javert, of whom Valjean had not thought in many years, became a shade of the past once more—perhaps dead, perhaps living elsewhere, but after so many long years, surely no longer a concern of his.

Relieved, Valjean turned away from the silent toy. In the bed, Marie rested calmly, a smile on her lips as her eyes finally closed. Once more Valjean sat down by her side, covering her hand with his, and then he watched her sleep.

A trumpet sounded. Soldiers marched. In the distant palace, the princess clutched her chest while the prince’s white horse reared up.

And Valjean woke to find Marie’s bed empty while above him, the fearsome figure of the nutcracker loomed, Marie’s ribbon still wrapped around his jaw.

As Valjean stared up in terrified confusion, the nutcracker pulled the ribbon away. His eyes gleamed fiercely, and his whiskers bristled. From somewhere, he had borrowed a coat—a coat, Valjean vaguely realized, that looked very much like the black cloak of one of the cuirassiers. Now it covered his blue uniform, giving him the appearance of a dark shadow.

It was a shadow which Valjean knew well.

From the square, wooden face of the nutcracker, it was the cold determination of Inspector Javert that glared down at him—and a heartbeat later, Valjean found a sabre pressed against his throat.

Chapter Text

From far away, Marie heard the old grandfather clock in the drawing room strike twelve times. It was not quite dark when she opened her eyes, although she was not certain at first where the light was coming from.

Then, there was a distant shout and a metallic rattle.

When she sat up, she gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. In front of her, Georges’ army of cuirassiers had taken position, sabers gleaming and rifles shouldered, the officer on his chestnut horse trotting back and forth as he grimly surveyed his soldiers.

The gleam, she realized now, came from the palace that spread along the back of her room. Every window was lit, and the wooden bridge had been lowered. There, the princess stood, tying a ribbon to the arm of the prince, who gallantly sat on his white charger. In front of the palace, his soldiers were marching, their bright uniforms gleaming while people waved in encouragement from the windows of the palace.

Hastily, Marie slipped from her bed. There was a bandage wrapped around her arm, although the wound no longer hurt. She was wearing nothing but her nightgown, and for a moment, she felt embarrassed as she looked at the beautiful princess.

“Here. Take this,” a gentle voice said from her left. When she turned in surprise, she found her new doll Violette standing before her. Her brown tresses gleamed in the light, and she looked almost as beautiful as Marie’s mother.

Violette was still wearing her damask gown, but had pulled off her satin pelisse. Now she wrapped it around Marie’s shoulders.

“Thank you,” Marie said politely, for that was what one was supposed to say when given a gift. She did not have time to say more, or inquire about what was going on, for just at that moment, a trumpet resounded, and the prince on his charger raced forward to take position in front of his soldiers.

From the other side of her room now came a strange, chittering sound—like the sound a hundred claws make when scurrying across the floor.

Marie’s eyes grew wide. There was a large opening in the wall of her bedroom. She had never noticed it before, but there in the corner, the wall split open, and from the triangle of darkness, now a first, quivering snout appeared.

Again the trumpet resounded, and the soldiers readied their rifles. At the same moment, the dark hole seemed to open, and a cloud of blackness began to spill out. A hundred small, furry bodies rushed into her bedroom, greedy eyes and hungry snouts sniffing and hissing as they rushed towards the palace’s army.

Now, at last, the soldiers fired, the rifles going off in one loud explosion that felled many a greedy mouse.

But the soldiers had no time to rejoice, for more and more mice spilled into the room. The officer’s chestnut horse reared up as it was surrounded, and valiantly, the soldier used his saber to hack away at his opponents, felling many an enemy.

But Marie’s attention had already turned away from the battle, for at that moment, she became aware of movement on the other side of her bed. A frightful mouse stood there--a mouse with seven heads, each of which wore a crown.

This was the Mouse King, and as soon as Marie saw him, she cried out and rushed away from her bed.

The Mouse King hissed from each of his seven heads and came after her. He held a large sword in his hands. It was this sword which had wounded her brave nutcracker during the past night. Now the sword gleamed in the distant light that came from the palace, and Marie ran towards this light.

She did not reach the safety of the prince’s soldiers in time. There was a rug upon which she had often played with her dolls; now, it seemed strangely grown in size, as large as a pond, and she found herself tripping over it.

“Oh, fie!” her doll Violette said, who had suddenly appeared by her side once more. Unafraid, she pulled her pin out of her hair and then held it threateningly out against the Mouse King, who had come rushing after them.

“Ho ho,” the Mouse King laughed from every of his seven heads, “what is that little needle? Do you call this a sword?”

Instead of an answer, Violette swiftly stuck the Mouse King’s leg with her pin. As he hissed in anger, a sudden shadow fell over Marie.

“This is a sword,” the familiar voice of her brave nutcracker said.

When Marie looked up, she saw that he wielded the saber her grandfather Jean had given him. Bravely, he had blocked the Mouse King’s sword before it could come down. Now, Nutcracker swung it skillfully again, forcing the Mouse King to take one step backwards, and then another.

“Nutcracker!” Marie cried in delight. “You came!”

“At your service, mademoiselle,” Nutcracker said and bowed to her, his black greatcoat fluttering in the wind like a flag as he turned around to drive the Mouse King back another step.

Behind them, there was a sudden sound of thunder, then an explosion so loud it made them recoil. A cloud of dust expanded rapidly, the air filled with the smell of gunpowder and fire.

Marie coughed. In the sudden gloom caused by the smoke, Nutcracker found her hand and helped her stand. And when the cloud dispersed, they saw that in front of the palace, canons had been rolled into position, aimed straight at the invading army of mice.

The canons had dealt the mice a fatal loss. All around the battlefield of her room, dead mice lay scattered. A few could be seen limping hastily back towards the hole where they had crept from. Now, when Marie turned, she saw that the Mouse King too was gone.

“Hurray,” the watchers from the palace walls cried. Someone had found a flag to wave, and the princess herself was cheering as the prince came proudly cantering back towards her through what remained of the smoke of battle.

“The war is won!” one of the soldiers cheered. When Marie raised her head to beam at Nutcracker, he solemnly shook his head.

“The battle was won, mademoiselle, but not the war, for the Mouse King is still alive. Still, we dealt him a heavy blow today. His army is scattered. It will be a while until he has regrouped his strength.”

“Will they return tomorrow?” Marie asked, looking around. Many of her brother’s foot soldiers had been wounded by the mice, although the new cuirassiers in their shiny uniforms still stood proudly in formation.

“Not tomorrow. And if he shows himself again, I will kill the Mouse King, now that I have a sword.”

All of a sudden, Marie realized that her grandfather had been in her bedroom when she fell asleep. Where had he gone? She hoped that the battle had not scared him.

But now Nutcracker held out his hand. “Come, mademoiselle.”

“Where are we going?” she asked curiously, smiling at the way he proudly sheathed his saber once more.

“The battle is won, and the Mouse King driven away. Today, we celebrate,” he said, and then he bowed before her.

“I know who you are. A rascal, a thief, a man surely in the employ of the Mouse King,” the nutcracker growled, and Valjean felt his muscles straining as he tried to lean back to escape the sharp blade of the saber.

“Is this a dream?” he asked in confusion, even as he gripped hold of the nutcracker’s arms.

The nutcracker was strong, and there was a blade against his throat. The weight and the sharpness of it was all too real—but nevertheless, Valjean could not make sense of what was happening.

“Ah, so you admit it?” the wooden figure with the face of Javert hissed.

“Admit what?”

“You know me,” Javert said in triumph. “There, that’s all the admission of guilt I need. You know me, and I know you. Now tell me what the Mouse King is planning to do.”

Valjean groaned as he strained against the weapon. “A nightmare,” he murmured, confused—then remembered Marie’s empty bed. “What happened to Marie?”

“Marie is safe,” the nutcracker said imperiously. “The Mouse King has been driven back. There is now only the matter of the spy—you.”

“Javert, good God, I don’t know what is going on here,” Valjean managed to force out. “Are you a nightmare? Am I ill? Marie has a fever…”

“The Mouse King wounded her last night, but today, we drove him back. He won’t harm her again.” Now, at least, Javert eased up—but only to wrap a rope around Valjean’s wrists instead. “Very well. If you will not confess, I will take you prisoner instead.”

Dismayed, Valjean found himself marched towards the corner of Marie’s bedroom. There, in the shadows, an opening loomed. How strange that he had never taken note of it before. It admitted both him and the nutcracker easily. Valjean’s heart was beating quickly with dread as he found himself suddenly plunged into darkness, his hands tied, and led deeper into this nightmare by a man who knew his wretched secret.

And yet, Javert claimed that he knew what had happened to Marie. For now, what choice did he have but follow this strange figure?

They traveled through darkness for several minutes. At last, the corridor widened, and then the gloom receded. Lamps were glowing at regular intervals. Javert was walking quickly, with military stride, and Valjean had little time to question his surroundings, given that he was busy trying to keep pace with the nutcracker’s wooden legs.

Finally, after half an hour had passed, they took a turn. They traveled in silence for a few more minutes before they reached another doorway—and there, before them, sunlight awaited.

Valjean gasped as he stepped out of the gloomy corridor.

They were outside. The sun was shining, and the grass beneath his feet was green and long. But apart from these observations, the place was very strange, and looked like nothing he had ever seen before.

Houses rose before him—yet their walls were not made of stone, but of gingerbread. The fences were striped red and white and looked like peppermint sticks, and the smoke that rose from chimneys was soft and voluminous like cotton candy.

“Am I asleep?” Valjean asked softly, raising his bound hands to rub at his eyes.

The nutcracker turned to give him an impatient look. Valjean ignored his grim mien, stepping forward to beseechingly raise his hands. “Please, let me wake up. My granddaughter is sick. I can’t afford to dwell on dreams…”

The nutcracker’s wooden jaw made a clacking sound. “You are my prisoner. I know who you are; do you think I will let you leave, Jean Valjean?”

Then, despite Valjean’s protests, he found himself dragged forward through the streets, being made to walk past doors of chocolate and trees that grew candy instead of apples.

The house he finally found himself pushed into was made of gingerbread. The air smelled of sugar and cinnamon—yet nevertheless, although they were made of sugar, the bars showed all too clearly what purpose this room held.

It was a jail, and no amount of protest would keep the nutcracker from thrusting him straight into the cell.

“This is a dream,” Valjean said again, his hands still bound. Even so, he hesitantly touched the bars of his cell. The sugar was hard. The bars did not give way, and he did not wake up.

Javert was watching him with a satisfaction that was terrifyingly familiar, even on the wooden face of the nutcracker.

“I know you,” Javert said again, his wooden jaw creaking as he spoke. At his waist, he still carried the sword which Valjean himself had placed into his hand—only now it was no longer a toy.

“You know me,” Valjean acknowledged at last, seeing that he would make no progress any other way. If this was a nightmare, perhaps he was cursed to follow it to its end. “What do you want to do with me?”

With the scrape of wood, Javert drew his sword once more. Valjean swallowed when the tip came to rest against his throat. The saber was sharp, made of good steel: the weapon of an officer, which he himself had taken from one of Georges’ little soldiers. Did he have himself to blame for this nightmare?

“I want you to be silent,” Javert said grimly. “I want you to await judgement. You are under arrest, Jean Valjean, for treason and conspiracy with the Mouse King.”

Now Valjean at last took a step backwards, his eyes widening.

“Yes, that has to be the reason,” Javert said in satisfaction, his wooden jaw opening for a silent laugh. “How else did his army know where and when to strike?”

“Javert, I’m the one who gave you that sword,” Valjean pointed out, his heart still pounding as he looked down at the sharp tip.

What an unsettling nightmare this was. Perhaps his death would end it?

And yet, something about the feeling of the sword against his throat had been very unnerving. For lack of a better explanation, the sharpness of it had felt all too real. He felt an inexplicable horror at the thought of it cutting into his skin, even here in this strange dream land.

“So you did—yet only when prompted so by Marie.” Javert’s eyes were still coldly watching.

For all that he was a puppet made of wood, something about the strong features was so very familiar that even here, in what had to be just a nightmare, Valjean felt an old, instinctive terror at staring into this guard-dog’s face.

“Marie…” Valjean murmured, remembering once more what he had seen. Perhaps he was sharing Marie’s dream, impossible though that seemed.

In that case, the Nutcracker was no more but a figment of his mind, conjured by a glimpse of the unsettling Justice, who had seemed just as forbidding as Javert once had.

“Won’t you bring me to her?” Valjean asked plaintively. If he had to play along to defeat this dream, he would do it. “I will confess, if I may just see that she is well.”

“To take a traitor and known criminal to her?” Again Javert’s jaw made a sound that from any other man would have been laughter. “What’s your ploy? Will you try and lead the Mouse King into the heart of the Confectioner’s realm?”

“Javert, I am bound and unarmed. What harm can I do?” Valjean stared into the face of the nutcracker, who did not budge. “And how would I alert him while in your power?” he added after a moment, refusing to avert his eyes.

Again Javert’s jaw ground. After a moment, it decisively snapped shut.

“Very well,” Javert announced. “You will be taken to the Confectioner straightaway, to there make your confession and be judged. The punishment for a traitor is execution.”

“And Marie?” Valjean immediately came forward when the door of peppermint sticks opened for him.

“At the Confectioner’s court. Now be silent, and follow along.”

“You don’t need to bind me—where would I run, and how?” Valjean tried to argue.

Yet this time, Javert only scoffed, the harsh lines of his wooden face haughty. Valjean found that he had no choice but to hasten along.

Once more they walked through streets of candy and chocolate, and despite his worry about Marie’s wellbeing, Valjean could not help but marvel at the flowers of spun sugar that grew from a window sill here, and the tree of dark chocolate that shaded a well from which lemonade streamed.

Javert was silent now, refusing to answer Valjean’s questions as they turned into a street that seemed wider and grander than the streets they had traveled so far. This part of the town was busier, and even though he thought himself lost in a dream, Valjean could not help the sudden surge of shame as he was led past windows and surprised passersby with his hands tied, paraded along like a criminal by Javert.

“There,” Javert said proudly, nodding towards a gleaming square of white chocolate and sugar sculptures. “Once you have been judged, this is where you will meet your fate.”

Valjean shuddered instinctively as he looked at the deceptively tranquil square.

“No one has been executed before. Not for as long as the Confectioner ruled,” Javert added. “Today will be the first time. But don’t harbor any false hope: there is no mercy for a traitor. You have betrayed Marie to the Mouse King, there is no doubt about it.”

Valjean’s lips parted to protest against that declaration, even though he knew it was useless to argue with Javert. Yet at that exact moment, he heard a terrifying, by now familiar sound behind him: a high-pitched squeal and the chittering sound of many tiny feet.

Chapter Text

Somewhere, a trumpet sounded. There were shouts all around them now. To their right, a window was quickly barricaded shut with planks of chocolate, whereas in the house across the street, the windowpane of sugar opened and several rifles were thrust out.

“Javert! What’s going on?” Valjean asked breathlessly, trying to turn back to find out what was happening.

Javert kept pulling him forward by his bound hands, his wooden jaw creaking as he hastened on without listening to Valjean’s demands. Only when they turned a corner did they suddenly stop—and Valjean quickly came to realize for what reason.

There, from a street to their right, mice came pouring in. Their teeth were bared in greed as they attacked houses and citizens alike, a wave of ravenous, grey-furred bodies washing against houses and through streets. Then the trumpet resounded again, and from a large alley, a group of soldiers came charging in full gallop. When they met the army of mice, the air was filled with the sound of squeals and the screams of horses.

Abruptly, Valjean found himself pulled close against Javert’s chest. Again the nutcracker made a grinding sound as his jaw worked.

Valjean shivered, his hands still bound. Perhaps he could use the confusion of battle to escape—but right now, it did not seem as if Javert was willing to let him out of his sight even for a moment.

“If you try to escape—if I see you lift even a single finger to give help to the Mouse King—I will not hesitate to strike you down myself, right here on the battlefield,” Javert declared.

Valjean gave him a nod to show that he understood. He ceased twisting his hands, even though he had already found out what he wanted: the rope might be ripped by the use of enough force. Valjean had not had a reason to make use of his strength for many years; even so, with Marie’s safety at stake, he was willing to risk injury to escape Javert’s grasp.

Again Javert’s jaw clacked, the stiff, wooden features conveying an all too familiar suspicion. Javert’s grip around his saber tightened. Once again, he raised it. This time, he set the tip against Valjean’s chest.

Valjean forced himself to stand very still, not breathing as he met Javert’s eyes, the blade of steel sharp enough to prick his skin even through his coat. For a long moment, they stared at each other.

And then there was another enraged, high-pitched squeal nearby, and Javert’s attention turned away from him.

In the moment that had passed, it seemed that the battle had at last reached them. When Valjean lifted his head, he found that there was a foot soldier fighting next to him, holding off a mob of three enraged mice with his bayonet. But even as he managed to deal one of the mice a lethal blow, the two others sprang forward. One was aiming straight for his throat, and without thinking, Valjean made to throw himself forward.

Then a shot resounded. The mouse crashed to the ground mid-jump. The other mouse, the soldier was able to deal with himself, and when Valjean turned, he saw Javert lowering his pistol.

“Don’t think I didn’t see that,” Javert said grimly. “You were trying to flee as soon as you saw me distracted.”

“No,” Valjean protested. “I was trying to help—”

“Ha!” Again Javert’s jaw clacked shut in an expression of dark amusement. “Trying to help the Mouse King, running to his allies to let them gnaw through your bonds. That’s more likely. Now be silent. I won’t hear another word out of you, traitor.”

Again Javert grabbed hold of his bound hands. Valjean found himself pulled forward by them, forced to hasten along behind Javert as Javert made use of the shifting battle to run towards a large square, which was now opening before them. It was the white square that Valjean now realized he had seen before from a distance.

As they ran, he watched cannons hastily rolled into position. Soldiers were lining up while the inhabitants of this strange land milled behind them, some of them armed with rifles as well, others brandishing chocolate branches and cudgels of peppermint sticks. Behind them, families huddled, children crying in fear as a first wave of mice came racing at the soldiers.

And at the end of the square, with wide, marble stairs leading up to a gate flanked by pillars of white sugar, a palace rose. It had roofs of pink meringue and towers of blue icing, intricate railings of spun sugar, and candied flowers decorating every window.

And there, standing on the balcony—was that not Marie…?

“Pay attention,” Javert barked, yanking hard on Valjean’s bound hands to force him to stumble into a narrow alley after him. “You won’t get me killed, no matter what you try. We’ll drive the Mouse King back—and then we’ll deal with you once and for all.”

“Is the Mouse King attacking the palace?” Valjean asked, thinking again of the small figure in the dress of white that could have only been Marie.

“What else is he here for?” Javert snapped impatiently. “Now silence.”

Valjean’s heart was pounding as he was forced to slowly follow behind Javert. Even though the battle was raging so closely, this alley seemed deserted. No one was in sight.

How strange a dream this was, Valjean thought again, but even that realization did not calm his racing heart. Marie was in danger—and though this was certainly only a dream, the fear within him was entirely too real.

If this was a child’s fever vision, perhaps God had indeed granted him a way to help Marie by stepping into her dream and beating the nightmarish vision of the Mouse King.

And yet, if that was true, what would happen to her if he failed?

Slowly, he walked behind Javert, who held his saber openly in his hand now as they neared another corner. The alley was unnaturally silent. The houses around them were all barricaded shut. The windows and doors showed no sign of attacking mice.

Nevertheless, Javert did not cease his vigilance—and it was this suspicion that saved both his and Valjean’s life when they slowly moved past a house that seemed as deserted as any other.

Only a heartbeat later, the bushes of cotton candy moved, and a battalion of mice came charging forward. And there, in their midst, came the Mouse King, a terrible vision with his seven heads bearing seven crowns, holding a sword in his hand as he stared at Javert with an expression of deep malice.

In the second before the mice attacked, Javert drew a whistle from his pocket and blew it. The shrill sound made the mice falter. For a moment, they cowered, squealing in fear—and despite his terror, Valjean thought that he heard the answering sound of a trumpet on the square.

Then the Mouse King raised his sword, hissing in anger, and the mice regrouped before they charged straight at them.

At first, Javert’s saber was able to hold them in check. Twice, when there was an opening, he pulled free his pistol and felled a mouse with a shot straight to the heart. With his hands still bound, Valjean had no choice but to stand behind Javert. He watched and waited while the mice squeaked in rage, retreating, charging, then retreating again when Javert’s saber rained down cutting blows on them.

Once more testing the strength of his bonds, Valjean now dared to half turn and look into the narrow alley they had come from. It was still empty. He could make his escape that way—but then, what would become of Marie?

Javert had told him that the Mouse King’s target was the palace—the palace where Marie stood even now, probably frightened by the sound of the cannons and the fighting going on in the square below her.

He couldn’t leave her alone in this nightmare of hers, even if that meant choosing to remain Javert’s prisoner.

At that exact moment, having just come to the conclusion that he must stay in Javert’s power for now, he heard a sound behind him.

His bound hands raised in front of him, he whirled around just in time to defend himself from the attack of a mouse who had snuck up on him from behind. With its sharp teeth bared, it had flung itself at him and would certainly have sunk its teeth into his neck if he had not turned in time.

Instead, he was able to give its head a blow with his hands, the mouse hitting the wall of a house as it fell. Panting, Valjean barely had time to gather his breath as two more mice came skittering from the alley behind him. There was no time to alert Javert, who in any case was beset by an entire battalion in addition to the Mouse King himself.

Even as the mice came racing towards him with murder in their small, black eyes, Valjean raised his bound hands again, the muscles of his arms straining as he used a strength he had not been forced to call upon in many long years.

The coarse rope cut into his skin. He groaned, sweat running down his face as he continued to strain. The mice were so close now that the first gathered itself, then propelled itself straight at him, long, sharp teeth aimed at his throat.

And at last, the rope gave, his hands free as the bonds fell away.

Almost at the same moment, the first mouse hit him. Valjean had just enough time to wrap his hands around its neck, panting with effort as he pushed its teeth away from his vulnerable throat. He could feel the feral animal’s hot breath on his skin, teeth impotently snapping as it struggled against him.

Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw the other mouse jump straight at him. With a groan, he tightened his hands around the first mouse’s throat. He twisted around beneath the heavy weight of it, so that instead of his arm, the second mouse’s teeth sank into its companion’s skin.

With loud squeals, the two attackers retreated a moment later, the injured mouse limping and leaving a trail of blood.

Still panting, Valjean reached for the windowsill next to him and tore it off. It was made of a heavy, solid dark chocolate, and when the mice charged once more, he was able to use it as a shield. Defending himself against the first mouse’s attack, Valjean then used it to give the second mouse a blow that left it slumping unconscious against the house’s door.

But already, the first mouse came at him again. Blood was still dripping from its fur, and it seemed unable to use its left foreleg. Even so, its beady eyes were filled by a dark, greedy anger, and when it charged again, Valjean allowed his shield of chocolate to lower, as though his own arm was injured as well.

As he had hoped, the snarling mouse went straight for his throat once more, seeking to take advantage of the deliberate opening in his defense.

At the last second, he raised his shield, bashing it straight into the face of the mouse. The impact of the heavy animal sent him spinning around with it, both of them hitting the wall together. But when Valjean hurriedly forced himself back on his feet, the mouse no longer moved.

Valjean’s head was aching. Blood was trickling from a scratch at his brow, and the mouse’s claws had ripped through his coat to scratch his skin. Even so, he was alive and free, and his attackers were dead. Now he could make use of his new freedom to hasten to the palace and try and free Marie from this nightmare…

But even as he turned, Valjean found himself confronted with Javert. He seemed to have killed mouse after mouse, but was now faced by the Mouse King himself.

The nutcracker’s finely painted uniform was dull and scratched, his polished black boots wet with the blood of mice. Even his wooden face bore a scar left by claws—and he no longer brandished his saber, which one of the Mouse King’s attacks had sent skittering away.

It had landed only a few feet in front of Valjean, the blade still sharp, even though the steel was wet with blood as well.

“Nutcracker,” the Mouse King said, laughing from each of his seven mouths. “Now you will die—and then the palace will be mine.”

Even from where he was standing, Valjean could hear the wooden creaking as the nutcracker’s jaw ground.

“Come and face me, you coward,” the nutcracker said, standing straight even though he was wounded and unarmed. “I’ve sent you running before; I will do it again.”

For a second, Valjean stood still in indecision. The alley behind him was empty; he could escape through it and then try and make his way towards the palace from a different direction. What debt did he owe Javert? Certainly all of this was but a dream--and Javert not even the man he had once pulled from a river many years ago, but just a wooden figurine his granddaughter had dreamed into being.

Was he not here for Marie? Was Marie not sick and fevered, dreaming of strange countries and puppets—perhaps even dreaming of him?

But even as Valjean contemplated his escape, the Mouse King raised his sword and came forward. Without thinking, Valjean threw himself forward as well, rolling across the candy-paved street slick with blood until he managed to close his fingers around the grip of Javert’s saber.

“Javert!” he cried out. Then he threw the saber—and Javert caught the weapon just in time to raise it, thrusting forward to pierce the Mouse King’s heart at the exact moment the Mouse King came charging at him.

Panting, both Javert and Valjean found themselves rooted in place, watching as the Mouse King crumpled to the ground. All seven pairs of eyes lost their life at the same time, seven crowns rolling from his heads onto the street. Seven mouths closed.

And Javert pulled his saber out of the corpse of the king, raising it high. “The Mouse King is dead!” he shouted, “The Mouse King is dead!”

With loud squeaks of terror, mice suddenly began to flee, rushing past them through the narrow alleyway. Behind them appeared the foot soldiers who had guarded the palace, their uniforms stained with blood as well, their swords raised high.

The mice fleeing in fear trampled their fallen king’s red cloak into the ground, the soldiers pursuing them. Only moments later, the retreating enemy had been driven from the narrow alley—and Valjean found himself face to face with Javert once more, both of them panting and breathless as they leaned against a wall.

“You,” Javert snarled at last, eying Valjean’s no longer bound wrists.

Valjean looked at him silently, blood still running from his brow. “Will you bring me to Marie now?” he asked at last, refusing to back down.

“Impossible!” Again Javert’s jaw ground. “I know what you are.”

“Haven’t I proved myself?” Valjean demanded. Then, ignoring the way Javert’s hand tightened around his saber, he took a step forward and went to his knees. One by one, he gathered the Mouse King’s seven crowns from the street. Then he presented them all to Javert, still on his knees in the blood that covered the street.

“Here. Surely that is payment enough?”

Once, twice, three times Javert’s jaw clacked. Then, at last, he took a step forward, taking the crowns from Valjean’s hand as he stared down at him from unreadable eyes.

“You may come,” he said. “The Mouse King is dead. Now Marie is safe.”

“Grandfather!” Marie exclaimed in joy when she saw just who had come to pay court. It was her grandfather Jean, his white hair shining like the spun sugar decorations all around her.

And by his side, there stood her valiant Nutcracker, his saber by his side. He had been wounded in battle, she saw, as had her grandfather—but both of them were alive, with nothing more than scratches to show for their bravery.

“Mademoiselle,” Nutcracker now said, going down on one knee before her. “From now on, you will forever be safe. The Mouse King has been slain. Here are his seven crowns.”

One by one, he laid them at her feet, and Marie clapped her hands in delight.

“Hurrah!” the puppets in their ball gowns all around her shouted. The officers in their fine uniforms saluted, and the prince and princess bowed before Nutcracker in gratitude.

“You have done a valiant deed, Nutcracker,” the prince said as he came forward. “Pray tell us how we might reward you.”

“There is nothing you may give me,” Nutcracker said in regret, then gave the prince a deep, military bow, his wooden joints creaking.

“You saved me,” Marie said in excitement. “I know what comes next. The curse must be broken. My dear, valiant Nutcracker, who is the handsomest prince in all the world—please tell me what we must do to break your curse.”

“It is impossible, mademoiselle,” Nutcracker said stoically.

“That can’t be.” Marie shook her head in determination. Like all children of that age, she was well acquainted with the laws of curses and how to break them, and she thought to herself that it should be impossible that one might perform such a heroic deed and yet end with the curse unbroken. This went against the rules of all the fairy tales she knew.

“Perhaps if I were to kiss you,” she said. “To me, you are the handsomest prince in all the world, and if I were older, and if I were a princess, I would marry you.”

Nutcracker gave her a grave bow. “Thank you,” he said. “But I am afraid that this curse is of a different sort.”

“Then I will break the curse.”

Astonished, Marie looked at the man who had spoken. It was her grandfather Jean, who had now come forward to stand next to Nutcracker.

“I believe I know this sort of curse,” he said softly. “Sometimes, it does not take a princess. Sometimes it takes—”

“A good heart,” Marie said and clapped her hands in delight. “That is right. Mother always says that there is no one who is better and kinder than you, grandfather.”

Valjean smiled at her. Then he rested one hand on Javert’s wooden arm and leaned forward. Solemnly, he kissed Javert’s cheek. “Compassion. Forgiveness. Love. These are what save us, even from the greatest darkness.”

Nutcrackers wooden face was frozen with shock. Then there was a sudden light, spreading rapidly. A moment later, it receded—and where her brave Nutcracker had stood, a stranger was now standing by her grandfather’s side. He was clad in a splendid uniform, wearing a large, black topcoat with three collars. He had impressive whiskers, and instead of a crown, he wore a black hat.

“I thank you, mademoiselle,” the stranger said earnestly. Then he turned to her grandfather, and as she beheld them standing together, Marie realized that they seemed to be of a similar age, her Nutcracker’s hair already grey at his brow.

“And I thank you,” he said after a moment of silence, bowing again. “Monsieur.”

There was a smile on her grandfather’s face now. As Marie watched, she saw him reach out and touch her Nutcracker’s arm.

“Is it time to go home now?” her grandfather asked, and Nutcracker turned and looked at her again.

“No,” he then said and laughed, and as his jaw was no longer wooden, this time his laugh did not creak. Then he bowed again and offered her his hand. “First, it is time for the ball, mademoiselle.”

Chapter Text

“Marie? Marie!”

When Marie yawned and stretched, she found her mother sitting by her bed, eyeing her worriedly. “Oh, thank God, you are awake!”

“Of course I am awake, mother,” Marie said and frowned. “Is something the matter?”

A heartbeat later, she found herself pulled into her mother’s arms.

“Oh, if you knew how you had us worried! Your grandfather sat by your bed all night!”

“No, that isn’t right, mother.” Marie shook her head in excitement. “He was fighting the Mouse King together with Nutcracker. And then we danced all night at the ball. Oh, my feet still ache, but what fun that was!”

“You were dreaming,” her mother said gently, smoothing the hair out of her face. “And no wonder your dreams were strange, you had a fever. But come now, rise and wash yourself. A guest has arrived, and now that you’re awake, we shall all have breakfast together. Your father will be so relieved.”

When Marie entered the dining room not much later, accompanied by her mother, who was now wearing a beautiful gown of blue damask, she was greeted by relieved faces. Even Georges was impressed when Marie reported how well his cuirassiers had fought in the battle during the night, and how valiantly they had charged at the attacking army of mice.

“Come now, Marie, no more of those tales, or the nightmares will return,” her father said sternly, although he then lifted her onto his lap and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “If you only knew how worried your mother was for you.”

“She needn’t have worried,” Marie said brightly. “Grandfather gave Nutcracker a saber, and he fought very bravely, until the battle was over and the Mouse King slain.”

“Must I have a word with your grandfather as well—” her father began, but then the door opened, and the mysterious guest was announced.

To Marie’s astonishment, it was Justice Joubert who came striding in—his whiskers bristling, wearing a black topcoat with three collars, and accompanied by her grandfather. How strange it was to see them together. Marie blinked, for a moment almost certain that she was seeing her dear Nutcracker again.

“Justice Joubert,” her father introduced their guest once more.

“The prince,” Marie immediately corrected in delight, even as the Justice frowned at her.

“Mademoiselle Pontmercy,” he said earnestly, “I can assure you that I hold no such title. Nevertheless, I fear that I have been rather too mysterious about my identity; it was not until your Christmas gathering yesterday that I realized that I have been wrong in withdrawing myself so entirely.”

“Grandfather, are you two friends now?” Marie asked when she noticed that her grandfather Jean had hesitated by the door. “I remember that you broke the curse, and you kissed him.”

Her grandfather’s eyes went wide, just as her father sputtered. “Marie,” he chided, “you cannot simply assault people with these figments of your dreams—”

“Oh, please leave the child be,” her grandfather muttered, finally coming forward to sit at the table as well. “It is of no matter.”

“In fact,” the Justice explained, “your grandfather and I are old friends, and I should have declared myself to him straight away. He saved my life once—no, in fact, he saved it twice.”

“Once when the Mouse King was about to kill you,” Marie said in delight. “But what is the second story? Please tell us.”

“That is a story for another time,” the justice said gravely. “Be content with today’s tale.”

Intimidated, Marie watched as he seated himself, his whiskers bristling, his face almost as square and harsh as that of the wooden nutcracker.

Was this truly her prince, who had defended her and then taken her to visit the land of candy?

After a moment, when the attention of the table was with the servant who had just entered, he leaned forward, staring at her intently with his dark eyes.

“The death of the Mouse King and the breaking of a curse is a tale without equal,” he murmured, eyeing her with a faint smile. In his voice, she thought she could still hear a hint of wood creaking. “Let that be enough for the time being.”

Then he leaned back, turning his attention towards her grandfather. As she stared at his profile, Marie smiled to herself. There, with his head turned, she could still faintly make out the scar where the Mouse King had wounded him.

Valjean hardly knew what to say when he found himself faced with Javert after breakfast was over. How strange the events of the past few days had been. Surely it had all been nothing but a dream. And now Marie was no longer in danger, the fever gone and the cut on her arm beginning to heal.

On any other day, he would have quietly excused himself after breakfast, grateful that Pontmercy allowed him to attend at all, and saddened by the knowledge that he should have no place in this family.

“Jean Valjean,” Javert said quietly when all others had filed out of the room.

It was Christmas Day; decorations were still sparkling in every corner, and by the window stood a large crèche. Outside, it had once more begun to snow.

Valjean took a deep breath and forced himself to face Javert. “I did not recognize you yesterday. I must have been asleep when you entered—and then, you go by a different name now. Still, I’m grateful you did not arrest me right there.”

“Arrest you—and on Christmas Day?” Javert’s face was very serious. “Jean Valjean, have you forgotten what you have done for me?”

Valjean remembered the moment when, beset by the angry Mouse King, he had retrieved the saber just in time and tossed it to Javert.

“I pulled you from the river,” Valjean said quietly. “I remember that. But that was long ago, and I did not do it to strike a deal with you. I had no doubt that eventually, you would come for me.”

“I never did,” Javert said. There was a strange earnestness in his eyes, some of the old, fearful fire dimmed and replaced by a new thoughtfulness.

“I thought you might have tried the river again, and succeeded,” Valjean admitted. “Or that you had gone mad and vanished.”

Javert barked a laugh. “Not so far from the truth, not at all.”

Valjean looked him up and down. It was true that Javert no longer wore the uniform of the police. Furthermore, Pontmercy had obviously known him—and he had introduced him as Justice Joubert.

Javert bared his teeth in a smile. “I took up the study of law, if you will believe it. A strange thing to do, and at my age... Perhaps it kept me from throwing myself into the river again, or from coming after you.”

“I am glad you are not dead,” Valjean said faintly, still not quite certain what to think about these events.

“Are you?” Javert muttered. “Are you truly?”

“Are you going to arrest me?” Valjean asked in return. When Javert remained silent, he nodded. “There. You see. Either way, Pontmercy knows what I am.”

“I remember Pontmercy,” Javert said. “But it seems he doesn’t remember me—nor do the servants. That is, they remember a tall agent of police, wet with blood, dragging in that boy. But no one has recognized me yet.”

Valjean drew in a sudden breath. “Do not tell them of that night,” he begged. “Or if you do, leave me out of it. Say that you found Marius half dead there in the sewers. Surely that will be enough?”

“So it is true…” Javert muttered, his jaw working so that Valjean found himself staring for a moment, listening for a familiar, wooden rasp.

“Come. It is high time I talk to Pontmercy.”

“No,” Valjean said faintly, raising his hands. “Please. Leave me out of it. He lets me visit every day; it’s enough for me, and anyway, I am old now. There are only a few holidays like this left to me. I come every day; I visit the children; I watch Cosette smile at me. I tried to stay away once, I truly did, and Pontmercy did what he could as well—but Cosette would not have it, and Pontmercy would not have her unhappy. This compromise suits us both; what harm is there in it?”

Javert’s hand shot out. His fingers clenched around Valjean’s wrist who gasped, thinking for a moment that he felt the familiar clench of wooden fingers once more.

“Come,” Javert said impatiently, and despite his protests, Valjean found himself led to Pontmercy’s study without further explanations.

“I have a confession to make,” Javert said when he faced Pontmercy’s desk. The young man had stood as they had entered, greeting them with a smile that had quickly turned to confusion.

“You said that you knew my father in law, M. Fauchelevent,” Pontmercy began, and Javert raised his hand.

“That is wrong. I know Jean Valjean.”

Pontmercy grew pale. “Please. If you seek to blackmail me, I am well aware of who he is. I won’t—”

“Blackmail?” Again Javert laughed, the sound hoarse, with a hint of the old wooden creak in it. “I can see that you know who your father in law is, but it seems that you do not remember me. Long ago, M. Pontmercy, you came into a station-house to make a report, and you left with two pistols.”

“The inspector of the Rue de Pontoise,” Pontmercy said faintly, looking at Javert as if he were a ghost risen from the grave. “But no—that is impossible. I saw him shoot you!”

Pontmercy stared at Valjean, who felt heat rush to his face, half turning away to hide his reaction from Javert.

“Nonsense,” Javert said brusquely. “You, M. Pontmercy, saw this man lead me away, and a short time later, you heard a shot. But you did not see him shoot me—because what this man did instead was to set me free. I fled through the Rue Mondetour.”

Pontmercy’s mouth opened, but he did not speak as his astonished gaze returned Valjean.

“And several hours later, once the barricade was fallen, I encountered you again,” Javert continued grimly.

“What!” Pontmercy said, and then his eyes went wide. “You! You are that agent of police who brought me home?”

“I encountered this man at the gate of the sewers. He had carried you through it. It was he who brought you to your grandfather. I merely offered the service of my carriage.”

“What!” Pontmercy exclaimed again, looking at Valjean with such a mix of horror and astonishment on his face that Valjean found himself turning away from it in shame.

“How is that possible? How did you not once mention—”

“I did not lie to you,” Valjean muttered. “I am a convict. It’s the truth.”

“But that’s not all you are. That’s far from everything.” There was no humor in Javert’s voice—just that steely old resolve. “In a fit of madness, I threw myself into the river that same night. And Jean Valjean, who observed it by chance, pulled me out of the raging water. He saved my life again that night, even though I was the only remaining person who knew his true identity.”

“What does it matter?” Valjean said, his voice trembling. “None of that changes what I am. I am a danger to Cosette and to your entire family, monsieur. If someone should recognize me in the street—”

“Not a murderer!” Pontmercy said in astonishment. “A hero, a savior—a man who saved not only my own life, but that of his enemy, and twice over!”

“And still an ex-convict,” Valjean insisted. “But the money was earned honestly. You truly should use it, monsieur. It was meant for Cosette’s happiness. It’s the only thing I desire. She should have a coach with four horses, and a box at the opera…”

“She has that now,” Pontmercy pointed out, his voice faint. “Even though it took a few years to accomplish it on my own. But what of you, monsieur? What of your own comfort?”

Miserably, Valjean hunched his shoulders, meeting neither of his interrogators’ eyes. “I have what I need. It’s enough.”

A moment later, a hand grasped hold of his. When he allowed himself to be turned around, he saw that Pontmercy’s face was wet with tears.

“Enough, he says—this man who is my savior, this angel whom I’ve sought for so many years! And all this time, he was here, in my own home—being made to feel unwelcome by my own hand.”

Swallowing hard, Pontmercy sank to his knees. “Monsieur, whatever you desire of me, it’s yours. How can I ever make up for this terrible wrong I’ve committed?”

“Let us not talk of it,” Valjean said quietly. “Let me just keep coming every day to see Cosette and the children. That’s all I want.”

“That, and more. Anything you desire,” Pontmercy hastened to assure him.

“And now we will have to talk,” Javert said gravely. “You will excuse us, Pontmercy.”

“Of course,” Pontmercy said, his eyes still wide and shocked. At the door, he hesitated, as though he had just remembered something. “Monsieur, you will not seek to arrest him then?”

“I left the police, as you know” Javert said brusquely. “That’s not my concern anymore. This man has nothing to fear from me, I assure you.”

Nevertheless, Valjean felt a hint of the old fear as the door closed and Javert turned towards him.

“You left the police,” he murmured, looking at Javert. It was true that he no longer wore the uniform, but he had lost none of his former, intimidating air.

“You were right about that,” Javert said, walking towards an armchair that stood by Pontmercy’s desk. There, he sat down, studying Valjean.

“I went mad. I thought of many things I could do. I could have thrown myself back into that river, or shot myself. I could have searched you out and shot you, perhaps. I could have returned to being the man I’d been before—but that seemed impossible. Where is a man to turn when he is lost on sea without compass? Any direction seemed equally terrifying. So at last, I chose the unknown. I set sail and ventured forth into a new life.”

“The law,” Valjean murmured faintly.

Javert bared his teeth in a new grimace. “You might think it ironic, but I can assure you, it was not an easy path to take. To follow the law, that is easy. To be forced to think about it, day and night; to juggle questions that leave you stranded in that ocean of uncertainty again and again, day after day, with no clear path before you and no compass to show you the way, with your head hurting because no matter where you turn, nothing but doubt awaits…”

“It seems to have served you well,” Valjean finally offered with a tentative smile.

Again Javert bared his teeth.

“Perhaps. Perhaps.”

Then he rose and strode towards Valjean, who instinctively took a step back.

“And you? It seems to me that you have not been served well by life while I was gone.”

Valjean refused to meet Javert’s eyes. Instead, he looked at Pontmercy’s desk. It had not been so bad—he had seen Cosette and the children most days, after all. And that, after those weeks when Pontmercy had decided that he should no longer come, had seemed like Heaven itself to him. Better to know himself unwanted yet still hear Cosette call him father, than to spend his days alone with nothing but his own misery to keep him company in his room.

“But that is over now,” Javert then declared. “I have returned. And it is true that you have saved my life several times. If not love, then duty bids me to return the favor.”

“Love?” Valjean echoed weakly. What a strange word to hear from the mouth of Javert… Javert, who even now towered above him, as intimidating as the nutcracker in his dream had been.

“It is curious,” Javert mused. “A man told me once that we may be saved only by compassion, by forgiveness… by love. Yet which man gives love to others, but keeps none for himself?”

Distantly, Valjean heard an echo of words spoken in a grand hall of white icing and gleaming statues of sugar. Surprised, he staggered—and suddenly, Javert was very close. One of Javert’s arms had come around him to keep him from falling.

As he looked up into Javert’s face, Valjean found his heart racing. For one short moment, he thought that he saw a weathered, wooden face, the polished paint scratched by the claws of mice.

When he reached out with a trembling hand to touch the imperious whiskers, he found them coarse to the touch, but with the natural softness of hair. He blinked. There was nothing wooden about Javert’s features. He was without doubt a man of flesh and blood, his skin warm to Valjean’s touch, even though the harsh lines of his face woke a strange memory in him.

“You are Javert again,” he murmured, blinking against the confusion that refused to let go of him.

All of that had been a dream, certainly…

And yet, had not Javert returned as soon as the dream’s curse had been broken?

“And you are Jean Valjean,” Javert said gravely. “It has taken many years, but you were right. Mercy can transform even a wooden heart.”

With unsteady fingers, Valjean reached out. Carefully, he brushed away a strand of graying hair. And there, at Javert’s brow, very faint, his fingers found a scar.

“Where did you get this?” he asked, his voice shaking.

“Does it matter?” Javert said. Then, just as gently, he reached out in turn. His thumb touched Valjean’s forehead, trailing slowly along a scratch that began to ache once more at the touch. “Where did you get this?”

Valjean could not speak. His heart was still pounding in his chest, his throat dry. Was he asleep once more? Was he trapped in another nightmare?

Surely these things could not truly have come to pass…

“If I had seven crowns,” Javert murmured hoarsely, “I would lay them at your feet. But even that could not make up for the debt I owe you.”

“You owe me no debt,” Valjean said. “Everything I did was freely given. I would have done the same for any other man in need.”

“Truly?” Javert murmured. A smile tugged at his lips, the sight unfamiliar and strange. “Would you have kissed any other man?”

Valjean’s chest felt strangely tight so that it was difficult to breathe. Javert was still standing so close that it was difficult to think, dream-like memories of the nutcracker’s heroism mingling with the words Javert had spoken earlier.

“It was not the kiss, in any case,” Javert then said. “Do you know nothing of curses, Jean Valjean? Only love breaks such a curse.”

“But I have never loved,” Valjean found himself protesting faintly, his face flushing. “No one—except for Cosette. When I—I didn’t mean to—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Javert said. He was still smiling, the gesture sitting awkwardly on his wooden features—but his face no longer seemed frightening at all.

“What matters is—would you like to?”

Valjean could not speak. His heart was still thudding in his chest, every pulse of his blood making him tremble. He wanted to run, yearning for the solitude of his small room. There, he would be safe, living out what remained of his time with daily visits to Cosette and the children.

Certainly that was enough—certainly that was all a man like him could ask for.

Javert took a step forward, pushing demandingly against Valjean. His arm was still resting around Valjean’s waist, and as Valjean looked into his eyes, he thought again of the grim, wooden features of the nutcracker, his resilience and heroism, and the way he had defended Marie so valiantly.

He thought, too, of the light he had seen, and the way the nutcracker had been transformed in front of his own eyes. He thought of the man he had dragged out of a river, and the man who had stared into his eyes without fear when he was bound and Valjean had produced a knife.

Valjean exhaled. “I think… I think I would like to,” he said, and then, impossibly, Javert leaned even closer.

This time, there was no sudden burst of light and no transformation. This time, there was only the careful press of lips against his own, Javert’s mouth warm and tentative. His whiskers were rough against Valjean’s cheek, and for some reason, Valjean thought he could still smell a faint scent of sugar.

His eyes fell close, and his fingers relaxed against the wool of Javert’s topcoat. It was not so frightful to kiss after all. In fact, despite the racing of his heart, there was a strange comfort in the warmth of Javert’s skin.

Outside, snow was falling. In the corner, the fire in the stove burned merrily. The house was quiet, as though they were all alone. Valjean could feel his heart beating fast. But this time, it did not feel like staring into an abyss; this time, no sorrow-paved road stretched all the way to Golgotha before him. Something inside him felt light at last. Now that the greatest fear of all had been lifted from his heart, it beat in his chest with the fluttering wings of a small bird fallen from its nest. Would it remain there on the ground forevermore? Or might it not test its wings again and take flight?

How foolish he was, Valjean thought, his lips trembling against Javert’s. But no one had ever touched him so, and the warmth of Javert against him stirred something within him. And perhaps, by the grace of God, even an old heart could grow the wings of a younger man on Christmas…

When Javert drew back at last, Valjean found that there was a disbelieving smile tugging on his lips.

“Yes. I would like to,” he said bravely, and this time, it was he who leaned in first.