Broken Tradition
A month and a half ago, Mycroft's battered copy of the Tao Te Ching fell apart at the bindings. Although he was annoyed, he was hardly surprised; the copy was nearly fifteen years old, and much-used. Finding a replacement had been another matter entirely. It was hardly a common book in England, after all.
"Fifty different versions of the Bible," he had grumbled on one particularly foul night after coming in from hours spent hunting. "And not a single copy of the Tao!"
Ann Marie knew he had a copy in the desk in his study, but she also knew it was too precious to him to risk damaging it. He had showed it to her once; his father had illustrated the black page around the lines with beautiful sketches and coloured pencil drawings.
She was not glad his book had broken, but she was overjoyed that she finally knew of something to give him for Christmas.
The girl was beaming when he opened the pocket-sized notebook filled with all eighty-one poems copied meticulously in her neat, feminine hand from the scraps she had rescued from the trash bin.
She could tell from his expression that he liked it. She could tell more from the private, stolen kiss in the kitchen, however. "Mycroft! There's not even any mistletoe…!"