Sorry for the wait; I struggled with this one. It seems to be part transition, part ridiculously fluffy holiday special? I hope it's not awful.

Re: the potential for adopting Sabine...she's not an orphan, you guys. She has a mom. :)


"Yes."

The response, whispered against Erik's lips, caused his grip on Clara to tighten even further. His mouth swept against hers, drinking her in, before sliding off so that his cheek came to rest against hers. "Oh, my Clara," he murmured into her skin. "I would give you everything."

He pulled away to retrieve the ring from the floor, and in the absence of his body shielding her from the frigid air, she began to shiver. Yet she was still so very, intoxicatingly warm inside. He wanted to be with her, wanted her, forever and ever and ever.

And he had let her touch his face—through the mask, of course, but he had not so much as flinched.

Erik lifted her hand and slipped the gold band onto her ring finger. It fit well, and the diamonds twinkled when they caught the light of an outside streetlamp. It was beautiful, but what thrilled her most was what it meant: a promise.

"It is stunning," she said, "though I am not sure I should wear it out just yet." It pained her to say so.

"I expected as much," he replied, still holding her hand. "But please, allow me one moment to bask in this vision of you wearing it." He paused and then added, reverently, "My intended."

Her teeth began to chatter, and Erik sprang to his feet. "What a fool I am," he said as he shut the doors to the balcony, "to keep you here in the cold, where you might catch your death." She let out a surprised gasp as he lifted her and carried her over to the bed with practiced ease, leaving her to wonder at the strength coiled within his lean arms.

He lay her down and pulled the covers over her shivering form, then stood uncertainly until she freed an arm to pat the space next to her. With some hesitation, he slipped off his wet wool coat and draped it over her desk chair. His hat he placed on the desk. Then he stretched out on his side atop the covers, all hard lines and stiffness, but his eyes were soft as they peered into hers.

"What do we do now?" Clara whispered, turning to face him.

"You decide, my love. If you wish to address your father again—"

"No," she said quickly. "I do not. But we hardly need his permission to marry, do we?" She reflected on a lifetime of hushed murmurs regarding spurned sons and daughters who had, scandal of all scandals, eloped against the wishes of their parents.

"Ah...well." Erik paused, and her stomach fluttered nervously in the silence. "Technically we do, since you are not yet twenty-six as required by law. But should he refuse, there is another, less convenient option."

"Yes?"

"We send him a monthly written request through a notary. He is entitled to correspond in return, likely to persuade you otherwise. But once he has rejected three such requests, we will be permitted to marry."

"Three months!" She sighed. "That seems like a lifetime."

He nodded, adding, "And it begs the question of where you will reside during that time."

Her eyes grew large. "I thought...with you?"

"Clara." He hesitated. "I am aware that my own moral code is...dubious, at best. But it would pain me to see you abandon yours on my account."

Oh, Erik. Each time she thought that she could not love him more, he proved her wrong. She was still buzzing with excitement and gratitude in the wake of his proposal, and suddenly the comforter seemed too great a barrier. She tugged at it, but his weight pinned it to the mattress. He looked at her questioningly.

"Under the covers," she whispered. His eyes flashed in desirous surprise and she could see him wavering, but then he moved to join her in the ever-warming blanket cave. She slipped an arm over his waist, and his hand came to settle on her hip in return.

"I have been a perfect, obedient follower for my entire life," she told him, "and what did it ever do for me? I did not start living until I started bending the rules." She scooted closer until she was nestled against him, their clothes touching lightly, and she leaned in to kiss the pulse point below his ear. She felt him shudder.

His lips found the same spot on her in kind. "Be that as it may, I will note that living in contempt of the rules has not served me entirely too well," he murmured against the tender skin of her neck. "Ah, my fawn, you are so very warm."

Erik, on the other hand, was not warm, not really, but he was tense and thrumming with life and she sought that out, moving herself even closer, pressing her mouth to his, curling her fingertips into his back. He sucked in a breath as her bottom lip skated along his, and when she urged his mouth open with her own, tongue flicking out into the open space, seeking more, his fingers sank tightly into her hip.

"Clara." It was a strangled, pleading whisper; whether it was more or less that he sought, she could not tell. She pulled back, just slightly, enough to question him with a glance. His breathing was heavy, and oh, how his eyes burned.

It was clear that some sort of inner struggle was taking place. He opened his mouth to speak, paused, and closed it again. And then his lips descended upon hers in a rush of such heat and pressure that it stole the breath from her lungs and she felt herself go boneless, reduced to a puddle of longing at his mercy.

They kissed. His hand on her hip trailed up her side, then moved laterally across her ribcage, making her chest constrict. It found the edge of her dressing gown and slipped underneath to where her nightgown lay. Then, sandwiched between the two layers of fabric, it worked its way back down to her hip. His touch was cool, even through cloth, but it left crackling flames in its wake.

Suddenly, there was a knock at her door. Erik rolled off of the mattress before she could even react, landing softly and then disappearing from view.

"Clara?" It was her father—likely making sure that she had not snuck out, she thought. She was not ready to speak to him and certainly not comfortable inviting him in, so she declined to answer, instead pulling the covers around her shoulders to feign sleep.

The door creaked open, and she closed her eyes tightly, willing her breaths to slow and deepen. Henri was silent, and with no idea as to Erik's whereabouts, Clara prayed that he did not come in further to investigate.

And then she remembered the black coat and hat at her desk. Her heart thumped so loudly that she was certain it would betray her.

There was another moment of silence, and then the door creaked shut.

It was some time before she felt safe enough to whisper, "Erik?"

He rose from the floor next to her bed, brushing himself off as he did so. "The underside of your bed has not seen a mop in some time," he remarked.

"Sorry."

"That was," he said, "perhaps fortuitous timing." He sat on the edge of her mattress, glancing down at his hands, not daring to touch her this time. "I wish to bring you into my home as my wife, Clara. Will you allow me some time to consider other arrangements?"

She blushed. "Yes...of course. We ought to wait until after Christmas anyway," she conceded. "It is our first Christmas without Margot, and to leave my family now...well, it seems unthinkable. I let my emotions get the better of me."

"Of course. As you wish."

"And I want to celebrate the holiday with you. And Nadir."

He tilted his head to look at her now. "The daroga does not observe Christmas. Nor do I, for that matter."

"I know," she conceded. "But I have always loved it, and I want to give the two of you gifts, and without my sister—" She trailed off, choking on the last word, and Erik visibly softened.

"Consider it done," he said. "We shall work something out. Perhaps employ the daroga as our go-between once more."

Her eyes widened. "Oh! How shall we tell Nadir our news? And how do you suppose he will take it? He has been so withdrawn lately. I worry about him."

"We shall tell him together, at Christmastime."


The following day was a somber one in the Toussaint household. Henri called Clara into his study and announced that he had no choice but to give her an ultimatum: allow him to arrange a marriage for her, or go to live with the aforementioned cousin in the countryside.

"I am only looking out for your best interests," he told her, and his voice softened as he said it and she knew that he meant it. When she told him that she would allow him to arrange a marriage, the relief and hope she saw in his face made it near impossible for her to look him in the eye, knowing that it was a ruse and she would be gone before any plans came to fruition.

It felt like a betrayal, and it was the first time she began to feel doubt.

Her activities were monitored after that. Henri threatened to bar her from volunteering at the asylum, voicing his suspicions that she had been using it as a cover to "cavort with that man." He did not, however, follow through. She allowed herself to hope that perhaps he had actually believed her when she had denied his accusation, until Adele informed her that he had written the asylum to confirm her attendance. Thankfully, the older woman did not pry, and Clara was spared the embarrassment of explanation.

She had worried that the excitement she felt over her engagement would somehow betray her to her family, but such worry turned out to be unnecessary. She remained upset over the row with her father, she missed Erik, and she missed Margot; and to top it all off, she came down with a cold in the days leading up to Christmas. She was forced to stay home from the asylum so as not to expose the infants. She managed to at least get a message to Nadir to keep their Christmas plans at Erik's house in play, though she knew that the men would be less than thrilled about her traveling in the cold.

On Christmas Eve, the Toussaints attended midnight mass. When they returned in the small hours of Christmas morning, they feasted on smoked salmon and oysters, foie gras with currant jam, roast goose and chestnuts, cheese and croquettes. Clara played the piano to accompany Céleste, the only one of the family gifted with a decent singing voice, as she sang "He Is Born." The festivities were pleasant enough, but they were subdued in light of the recent tensions between Clara and her father, and utterly quiet without Margot and her tireless chatter, her contagious laugh.

They slept late afterward. Christmas day brought another feast for luncheon, and later that night, more drinking. The servants were given small gifts and punch. Clara encouraged the alcohol consumption on all counts, declining due to illness, and when all was said and done she was pleased to find the entire household passed out for the night, such that she was able to walk right out the door without issue.

At her insistence—and despite the protests of Nadir, as well as Erik, by proxy—she took a cab to the Palais, laden with one small parcel and one large hatbox. She wore her favorite fur mantle over a gown of midnight blue, as deep as ink, with tiers of ruffles in the skirt and shiny black buttons trailing down the bodice. She knew that even the finest attire could not offset the redness of her nose nor the puffiness of her eyes, but neither could it hurt.

Her engagement ring she wore on a fine gold chain around her neck, tucked safely under the high-collared bodice. She often found herself pressing her fingers to it, hand to heart, for reassurance that it was still there, that her betrothal was still real.

She was still in her boat on the underground lake when the familiar smell of burning cherry wood wafted into her nostrils and lungs, telling her that Erik had set a Yule log ablaze. Even through illness, she could not stop smiling as she rowed and as she moored the boat ashore.

She walked in to find the drawing-room lit with nothing but candles, easily a hundred of them, lining every surface and flickering from tall candelabras and basking the room in yellow warmth. The mantel was hung with fresh evergreens, and laid out on the hearth was the most beautiful crèche she had ever seen, with perhaps fifty painted clay figures making up the nativity scene and surrounding village. Good smells drifted out from the kitchen.

There was little doubt in her mind that this was all for her.

Nadir and Erik sat opposite each other with tea and wine, respectively, and both stood when she entered, Erik crossing the room to assist with her wrap.

"This is all so beautiful," she told him, her voice quite hoarse from illness.

He placed the mantle on the coat stand and turned to face her. In the candlelight, he was absolutely breathtaking: a vision of imposing darkness and sharp edges, with eyes like glowing coals. "Merry Christmas, my love," he said. "Allow me to fetch you a drink. Something hot, perhaps?"

"Yes, tea would be lovely, thank you."

She greeted Nadir while Erik fetched the tea, remarking that he seemed awfully at home for a man who did not observe the holiday.

"Let it be known," he informed her, eyes twinkling, "that I am merely present alongside you as you celebrate the birth of Christ, and not actively participating myself."

"Of course," she affirmed with a smile. "And if I am not mistaken, you are also allowed to accept gifts on this occasion, are you not?" She lifted the hatbox from where she had set it on a chair. Erik set her tea on a nearby table, watching with measured interest.

"That is true, yes, but you ought not to have—" The daroga paused. "Did that box just make a sound?"

She handed it to him. "Merry Christmas, Nadir."

He peered down at the parcel and then glanced back up at her nervously. "There are holes in this lid."

Clara shrugged in feigned innocence. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Erik sidle closer for a better view.

Nadir lifted the lid of the box. A white paw darted out, swatting at his hand, and he yelped and withdrew so quickly that he nearly dropped the whole thing. Then he looked up in mild horror, exclaiming, "There is a feline in here!"

As if on cue, the squat white face of a Persian cat popped up to survey the scene. It needed all of one second to determine that the drawing-room was preferable to the box, and it made an impressive leap to the loveseat from within, its sudden and powerful backspring startling the daroga so much that he really did drop the box this time.

Clara was mortified by Nadir's reaction. "I am so sorry," she said, reaching down to pick up the ball of snowy fur as it passed by. It sidestepped her grasp, trotting away and toward the fireplace. She straightened, palms out in appeal. "I would not normally spring an animal on someone, Nadir, but it needed a home after an acquaintance's mother died, and Erik had indicated that you were amenable to cats…" She trailed off, looking desperately to Erik for confirmation. He had his head down, turned aside so that she could not see his face, and his chest was shaking with silent laughter.

She narrowed her eyes at him and turned back to Nadir, cheeks aflame. "I see that I may have been misled. My apologies again, daroga."

He brought a hand to his chest, his face etched with gentle regret and sympathy. "Ah, my dear, I cannot fault you for such a kind gesture, nor for falling prey to the antics of a man who knows very well that felines and I shall never get along."

There was a soft clink from the direction of the fireplace, and they looked over to find a small cow from the nativity scene lying on its side in front of the hearth. Next to it, the cat blinked at them innocently, sitting motionless save for its tail swishing back and forth across the floor.

As Erik walked over to return the figurine to the crèche, Clara turned back to Nadir and said, "Thankfully, I got you something else."

"Really, Clara, this is too much."

"I ordered it before the cat came into the picture," she assured him. "It is a genuine Persian samovar, and it will be delivered to you in the coming week or two. I can only hope that it adequately replaces the one you loved so much."

"Aha, so you have grown tired of my subpar tea," he joked. He reached out to clasp her hands. "Thank you, Clara. Truly, thank you."

She pivoted to face Erik, who had returned to her side with pursed lips, clearly struggling to repress his amusement. "I must confess," he said, "that I did not actually expect you to follow through. And to obtain a Persian cat, no less!" A small giggle escaped his throat.

"At least it was not a kitten, you insufferable rogue," she retorted.

"Rogue," he repeated, turning the word over on his tongue. "I like that."

"You laugh now, but you have just acquired yourself a cat."

He stiffened. "I beg your pardon?"

"Well, I certainly cannot take her home."

Erik looked at the feline. The cat stared back, flicking its tail, clearly unimpressed. "It has white fur," he said dryly.

"So?" she asked, and he gestured broadly to his person, decked head-to-toe in black with few exceptions. She shrugged and said, "That is hardly my problem."

His lips parted in surprise. "You little minx," he murmured, sidling closer. His gaze smoldered at her, and she met it with beguiling doe eyes.

"And would you like your gift?" she asked sweetly.

"Mm. That depends," he replied. "Is it alive?"

"See for yourself." She handed him the small parcel, which fit within the palm of his hand. It was wrapped in plain brown paper and secured with a bow of wine-colored satin.

She watched his long fingers untie the ribbon, pick apart the wrapping, and delicately extract from its box a small figurine, no longer than a matchbox, made of lacquered boxwood of the same orangey-brown hue as her hair: a carved fawn, with spindly legs tucked under its body, its head curling inward toward its flank.

"It's called a netsuke," she said as he examined it. "A wood carving from Japan."

Now that Japonisme was all the rage among Céleste's circle of friends, she had dragged Clara to the gallery of a Japanese art dealer over in the rue de Rivoli, where they could examine his imported silks and folding screens and porcelain. Clara had been entranced by the objects, so beautiful in their simplicity and so extraordinarily tactile, but none had caught her attention as much as the tiny wood and ivory netsuke, carved to resemble rats and monkeys and warriors and women.

It had been with the utmost surprise and delight that she spotted the fawn. When she had reached out to touch it, an unfamiliar voice beside her made her start. "The netsuke simply beg to be touched, do they not?"

The speaker, a sharply dressed Jewish man in his forties, then introduced himself as the gallery owner. "The objects were originally used as toggles for purse-strings," he had told her and Céleste, "but they have come to be admired for their exquisite craftsmanship and for the fact that they are so portable, so tactile. Go ahead; pick it up."

And so Clara had, turning the tiny carving over in her fingers, marveling at how a thing made of hard wood could somehow be so soft, so soothing.

In the end, she had bought a dozen of the little netsuke, not wanting to call attention to the fawn in her aunt's presence. The others she had lined up on her dressing-table for the time being: an ivory sea crab, a wood carving of a mother and baby elephant, and perhaps the strangest, a girl wrapped in the various serpentine legs of an octopus.

Erik now rolled the fawn in his fingers just as she had. "I saw it and thought of you," she explained. "I thought that, if you wanted, you could carry it with you, as a memento. Of me. Netsuke are art, but they are also meant to...to be touched." The words spilled out before she had time to consider them, and she began to blush furiously as they reached her ears. He continued to examine the carving with a near-frown, making her second-guess her purchase.

"I know it's not much," she said, "and I wanted to get you something more, but then I fell ill and Aunt Céleste would not let me go out and—"

"Hush," he said. He ran the pad of his thumb over the deer's smooth flank, and she shivered. "I have not received a gift since…" He trailed off. Swallowed. "Since I was a child."

He closed the netsuke in his fist and tucked it into his pocket before leaning forward to press a kiss to her lips. "Thank you, my love. I could not have chosen something more perfect myself."

"I am sick," she protested. "You should not kiss me."

His irises flared defiantly and he leaned in again, his kiss more protracted this time. She felt her insides liquefying. She could practically hear Nadir rolling his eyes from across the room.

"I have a gift for you as well," Erik said. "But, my dear, you really must sit." He led her to a chair, his cool hand at the small of her back, and she was only too happy to oblige. Her head was beginning to swim, and there was a crushing fatigue threatening to take over her body.

It was a folded sheet of paper that he pressed into her hands. Clara glanced up at him, confused, but he only stepped back and crossed his arms to await her examination. She unfolded the paper and furrowed her eyebrows, trying to make sense of what she was looking at. "Attestation of ownership," she read aloud. "What does that—"

She stopped herself. It was all coming together now, the words on the page and her post-betrothal discussion with Erik. Her head shot up to look at him. "You bought a house?"

"I bought you a house," he said quietly, "though I hope that I may join you there eventually."

She stared at him, stunned, as Nadir made a small noise in the back of his throat. "I, ah...have I missed something?"

"Ah, daroga, my friend—you shall be the first to know." Even as Erik spoke to his friend, it was Clara he fixed his gaze on, his voice thick with pride. "I have asked Clara for her hand."

She reached into her collar and pulled out the ring on its gold chain to show the daroga. "And I accepted," she added.

Nadir's jaw went slack. His gaze flicked from the ring to Erik to Clara. Then he pursed his lips, his eyes misting over as he clasped his hands together. "How blessed we are," he said quietly, "to see this day. I can think of no union more worthy of celebrating." He stood and crossed over to Clara. "I offer you my sincerest congratulations," he said, kissing her on the cheek, and then he rounded to Erik, where his handshake transitioned into a combination of hug and hearty pat on the back.

Erik tensed within his friend's arms. "Come now, daroga, you are going to drown us in these excessive sentiments," he said, but she could tell that he was pleased.

Nadir returned to his seat, grinning. "May Allah bless you both," he said, but his smile faded quickly. "I must confess, though, that I worry about the unintended consequences of this arrangement."

"Yes," she said. "That was part of our aim in gathering here tonight, to discuss how to proceed. We would value your input, daroga."

"I might have suggested you leave the city altogether, for a time," he replied, "but...it appears you now have a local residence?" He glanced down at the paper in her hands, which startled her into remembering where they had left off.

"You bought me a house!" she said to Erik, more incredulously now, and he laughed softly, coming over to sit by her side.

"I believe that it will suit both of our needs," he replied, "and you may take up residence as soon as you are ready."

"Both of our needs," she repeated softly. "You would give up the safety of this place? This sanctuary that you have given such loving attention?"

"I have spent the better part of my time here in utter misery and loneliness, being shunned by everyone—save you, of course, daroga." He put a hand to Clara's knee and looked at her intently. "Perhaps the better question would be, what would I not sacrifice for my future wife?"

His words took her breath away, and all she could do was nod. Thankfully, Nadir had the presence of mind to ask the more practical questions about the house, such as location, and she sat quietly and listened to their discussion as her brain entertained thoughts of marriage and of sleep, blessed sleep, which tugged at her mind and body every few minutes with mounting impatience.

When the cat jumped up and moved to Erik's lap, he did not so much as flinch, instead smoothing his palm against the silky fur as he spoke with the daroga.

The three of them gradually moved into the dining room, and over a fine meal prepared by Erik, they discussed the best course of action for the newly engaged couple. The two of them wished to stay in the city, while Nadir dissented at first but gradually softened his stance.

"I have only one question," he said, "and it is rather important. Do you think, Clara, that your father will involve the police once he discovers what you've done?"

There came a weighty silence as she considered this. "No," she finally said. "No, I do not believe that he would go that far."

"Well, then. It is decided. In two weeks, Clara, you shall be a fugitive." He winked, and though she forced a smile at his quip, her stomach churned.


Nadir left after dessert. Clara was tempted to go with him, exhausted as she was, but as he donned his hat and coat Erik whispered into her ear, "I have one more surprise for you, my dear."

When they were alone, he unlatched his violin case and lifted the instrument from its lining. "I thought that we might play a carol or two," he said. "You will find the music already on the piano." She immediately brightened; after all of their time together, they still had yet to duet.

On the music stand were the pages for "Bring a Torch, Jeanette, Isabelle"—her favorite, though she had never told him as much.

"I wonder that you might decrease the tempo," he said, coming to stand beside the piano. "I have long thought that this is a melody aching to slow down."

She coaxed the opening chords from the keys. "Like this?"

He nodded. "Perfect." He tucked his instrument under his chin and set bow to string, layering the dulcet croon of the violin over her playing, and she smiled at how well they fit together, at their resulting loveliness.

And then he started singing.

His voice was, as always, silk and molten gold. But now it had a lilt, a pulse, an ethereal quality that curled around her and seeped into her skin until it seemed to reverberate in her very soul.

Paired with any other face, his was a voice that could have entranced the Paris Opera. Convinced a non-believer of heaven. Held the ear of a king.

She was so entranced that she unwittingly stopped playing altogether, caught up in the way that his low tenor made even the simplest of words transcend the alluring sway of the violin. His eyes were closed, but he could not have been unaware of the fact that she had stopped playing, of the effect that he had on her.

Bring a torch, Jeanette, Isabelle!
Bring a torch, to the stable call
Christ is born. Tell the folk of the village
Jesus is born and Mary's calling.
Ah! Ah! beautiful is the mother!
Ah! Ah! beautiful is her child.

Erik sang all four verses of the song, and when he opened his eyes, the violin and bow falling to his sides, she knew that they met a face streaked with tears. "Thank you," she whispered.

He nodded as he returned the violin to its enclosure. "And now you will always have a memento of me, my little fawn."

With one last burst of energy before illness rendered her incapable of coherent thought, she rose from the piano bench to wrap her arms around his waist. "Very soon," she said, "I will always have you. Period."

With one palm on either side of her face, he tilted her head up to kiss her, and for the briefest of moments she thought that she tasted music.


Wishing you all the happiest of holiday seasons! Thanks for sharing this one with me. :) Return to non-fluff in the next chapter.