For new readers, this story is a continuation of one of my previous stories and is tied into several others. If you're not sure where to start, I'd suggest reading Bioshock Infinite: Unbroken, as well as its prequel Unbroken: Song of Sorrow. Thanks for checking it out.

There is now a timeline of sorts for the various chapters on my profile page, just an attempt to make it a little easier to see what happens when in relation to other chapters. It will be updated from time to time to add the new chapters.

Foreword: This chapter took far longer to finish than it should have. Anyway, as with the previous chapter, dialogue in italics are for someone speaking French, rather than me trying to string together words into probably unintelligible gibberish. I'm also taking some liberties with how long an activity that occurs in the latter half of the chapter would take, and it's hard enough to figure out how people in the 1890s spoke in New York, much less in France, so speech and mannerisms may seem off (especially in regards to one character.) This chapter also bookends the third chapter of The Absent Twin.

December 23, 1897, 8:40 AM

"Hey, Anna. What are-?"

Anna answers with a quiet giggle, the gleeful sound partially muffled by the giant snowball she's latched onto. Even so, the giggle seems to ring out across the snowy, nearly silent street and off the corner of their boarding house. And Elizabeth puts her gloved hands on her hips, frowning in mock annoyance at her little sister.

What started as a light dusting of snow after dinner had continued through the night, and Elizabeth woke to find Paris coated in a layer of soft, powdery white. While snow is hardly something new to Elizabeth, she still felt a powerful need to play in the gentle snowfall. Needless to say, Anna was right behind her, followed by Booker with their winter coats and gloves.

"Didn't you want to build a snowman?" Elizabeth's frown falters as she asks, a hint of a lopsided grin peeking through; her little sister has her arms around and body pressed against the near three-foot tall snowball, Anna's hold on the packed snow firm enough that as Elizabeth pushes, she rolls right along with the ball. "Alright, but you know what will happen if I keep going, right?"

Elizabeth resumes pushing, slowly now, though this is as much due to the weight of the snowball as to humor Anna. Her little sister giggles again, Anna's delight plain to hear as the child rolls to the top of the snowball. Only when she's about to start the descent on the far side does Anna let go and slip off. Elizabeth peers around the snowball as her little sister rolls through the snow with a goofy grin, clumps of white powder clinging to her navy-blue winter coat.

Quiet laughter escapes Elizabeth, and she takes a deep breath of the cool, crisp air as she dusts some snow from her light gray winter coat and blue velvet skirt. The snow shines in the morning sun, and the falling snowflakes that dance in the gentle breeze sparkle brilliantly whenever they catch the light. To see Paris glittering like a jewel in the morning light fills Elizabeth with a sense of wonderment, and a delighted grin touches her lips.

"Monsieur?"

A man's voice in the distance interrupts Elizabeth's musings and draws her back to the here and now. She glances back to find the proprietor of the boarding house speaking with Booker by the front door; although he's a fair distance away, Elizabeth spies the blank look on her father's face as the other, rail-thin man speaks, at least at first. She also spots a pair of long branches in Booker's right hand, as well as what appears to be several rocks in the other.

"Snowman accoutrements… Booker! Did you find everything?" After briefly murmuring to herself, Elizabeth cups her hands around her mouth and calls out, then waves when her father looks.

"Almost done!" Booker calls back, the elder DeWitt holding the branches up for Elizabeth to see, "Just need something for a nose!" Elizabeth nods and turns back to the snowman, only to find that Anna is rolling a second snowball on her own, the little girl already to the street corner and turning around to come back.

A quiet chuckle parts Elizabeth's lips as Anna gets closer and the snowball grows, the ball rapidly becoming too cumbersome for the little girl to handle. Anna's pace drops to a crawl as she draws close, and her forehead creases as she visibly exerts herself to push the snowball. "Okay, Anna, that's large enough, sweetheart. Let's put it on the first, alright?"

"Phew… okay, big sister." Anna heaves a loud sigh and steps back as Elizabeth walks over, the little girl a touch out of breath. Elizabeth reaches down to pick up the large snowball, the thought of how adorable her little sister is bringing a smile to her lips.

"Oof! There we g-ooh, hell!" The snowball is heavy, heavier than Elizabeth expects, and she nearly slips backwards as the smile disappears from her lips. Tiny hands grab her by the hem of her light gray coat, and Elizabeth gets her feet under her after a few seconds. "Whew… thanks, Anna."

Elizabeth trudges back to the first snowball and drops the second on top of it. And now it's her turn to breathe hard, Elizabeth resting her right arm atop the half-formed snowman and nearly doubled over as she pants.

"You alright?"

"Booker? Yeah… I'm fine." Elizabeth looks up to Booker, her father a few steps away and closing the distance steadily. "Did you find a nose?"

He nods and sets down the sticks, stones and a pinecone beside the snowman. Then he looks at Elizabeth and Anna's work so far, and scratches his head. "Uh, how big are you planning on making this fella?"

"What do y-oh." Elizabeth turns to the snowman, and gets Booker's meaning right away; even without a head, the snowman is nearly as tall as Elizabeth, and will likely be Booker's height in the end. Anna peers up at Elizabeth before looking to their father, and Elizabeth grins as she follows suit, "I… suppose we're making you."

Booker stares blankly back at Elizabeth, then at Anna, and finally at the unfinished snowman. "Heh." A chuckle escapes him, and Booker shakes his head while muttering dryly, "If that's the case, suppose a bottle would better serve than a pinecone…"

Elizabeth and Anna share a grin, and the sisters busy themselves with finishing the snowman. The head comes together quickly between the two of them, but Elizabeth needs Booker's help to set it atop the first two snowballs. Decorations take only a minute after that, and just as a bell somewhere tolls out the changing of the hour, Booker, Elizabeth and Anna step back to admire their handiwork.

"Well, it's a snowman." Booker remarks first, and he rubs his chin slowly. Elizabeth nods in agreement as she gazes upon their six-foot, somewhat lumpy creation; the snowman's midsection is a touch too large now that she looks at it, and one of the arms is a little too short. Even so, something about the snowman brings a smile to her lips, and Elizabeth's eyes keep coming back to the four stones arranged in a line for a mouth.

"Not a half bad likeness." She glances sideways at her father, the mild scowl that crosses Booker's face only widening her own grin.

"I like our snowman." Anna walks over to pat the snowman on its chest, the four-year old still all smiles. "So, what are we going to do now?" Booker shrugs, and Anna turns her gaze to Elizabeth.

"Hmm… we could go sightseeing. Or-"

"Shopping!" Anna suddenly jumps and answers, despite the question being her own. Her grin takes on an impish aspect, though only for a second.

"Shopping in Paris?" The mere thought stokes Elizabeth's imagination, and she's beaming before she knows it. "That's perfect… there must be something wonderful to find, even so close to Christmas!" She looks to Booker, and her grin turns sly as another idea comes to mind, "Maybe even something for you, Booker? Say… a hat?"

"Oh, no, no hat… I'll stay and…" But Booker's objections go ignored, Elizabeth and Anna each taking him by the hand and pulling him away from the snowman and boarding house.

"It'll be fun, I promise! And we can see what a Christmas meal is like in Paris when we're done."

12:15 PM

"Mmm… that was delicious."

Snow still gently falls from the heavens when Elizabeth emerges from a small corner bouillon. The warmth and aroma of the restaurant, a mixture of roasted chicken and garlic, follows her through the open doorway and out onto the quiet side street. The smell brings a smile to her lips, and Elizabeth leisurely pulls on her blue bolero jacket as she gazes out over the Seine River.

"Merry Christmas!" A waiter in the bouillon calls out.

"Way-you-noel? The hell does…?"

"Uh, Merry Christmas to you, too!" Elizabeth quickly turns to interject before hurrying down the short walkway between the restaurant and the street. Booker and Anna join her a moment later, a questioning look on the elder DeWitt's face and a couple of shopping bags hanging from his right hand. "The waiter said 'Merry Christmas', Booker."

"Oh." Booker glances back at the restaurant and shrugs, "Suppose that makes sense. Can't say I've ever thought of garlic soup as Christmas food. Ain't no complaints from me, though."

"I loved it; I've never tasted roasted chicken quite like that, and the soup was delicious". Elizabeth breathes a contented sigh as the family strolls across the street, where only a knee-high stone wall separates the sidewalk from the calmly flowing waters of the Seine. "I wonder if anywhere back home serves something similar?"

Booker shrugs, and the DeWitts turn to follow the river north. Anna walks between her father and big sister, the little girl looking a little tired after building the snowman and shopping the rest of the morning, but she hums a quiet tune as they go. The Luteces have disappeared yet again, but that's hardly surprising.

As the DeWitts stroll along the Seine, the street gets busier and busier as they continue north. Even dampened as they are by the snow, the clip-clop of hooves, the rattle of carriages and the buzz of overlapping conversations quickly rise above the tranquil lapping of the river against its stone embankment. The din has little effect on Elizabeth, for the young brunette is too enamored by the sight of Paris bedecked in Christmas decorations and wreathed in rime to care.

The DeWitts only stop their wandering when the Eiffel Tower stands on the opposite bank, and Anna quickly finds a small stone bench to rest upon. Elizabeth grins as she watches her sister go, but her eyes are quickly drawn to the towering spire across the Seine, and she steps over to the short wall at the river's edge, "How about we go up the Tower before heading back?"

"You sure about this, Elizabeth? I'd imagine you've had your fill of towers by now."

"I think I can make an exception." Elizabeth glances back at Booker, and she gives him a lopsided grin as she takes a seat on the knee-high stone wall, "There's plenty to see, but I couldn't forgive myself if I didn't visit the Eiffel Tower before we left Paris." With that, Elizabeth turns to gaze across the river, several romantic fantasies and notions from her youth filling her thoughts as she rests her feet.

How long she sits there, Elizabeth can't be sure, but an unfamiliar voice snaps her out of her reverie. "Excuse me, mademoiselle?"

Startled, Elizabeth blinks and looks around quickly, and she finds herself looking up at an older, bearded man in a black coat. His white beard is full while his hair is cut short, and his dark brown eyebrows and mustache stand out against the rest of his snowy hair. A trio of younger men stand several steps past him. "Can I help you?"

"My apologies for intruding. My name is Claude, and if I may ask, I would like to paint you." Elizabeth's eyebrow shoots up as the man makes his request, and from the corner of her eye she notices Booker slowly standing. Claude notices as well, "Ah, an acquaintance of yours?"

"My father." Elizabeth focuses on Claude, sizing him up for a moment, "Why me?"

"I see something in you, something… unique. It would be my pleasure to attempt to capture it on canvas. If I could have some of your time, Ms. …?"

"Elizabeth, you alright?" Booker interrupts Claude, his voice suspicious and body tense.

"Yes, I'm fine, Booker." Elizabeth looks over to her father, "He wants to paint me, and… and I must admit, I'm curious. Do you think…?"

"Well, that's up to you." Booker grins and sits back down, "How long?"

Elizabeth turns back to Claude, "My name is Elizabeth DeWitt. How much time would your painting require? My family and I won't be in Paris for long."

"A pleasure, Elizabeth." Claude strokes his bushy beard for a few seconds before continuing. "As much time as you can spare. I take it you are visiting from America, yes? If so, then I would request your presence at least until sunset. A few hours are hardly sufficient, but I can make do; of course, I would see to your family's comfort, as well."

"Four to five hours, Booker, and he'd do something for you and Anna, too." Elizabeth stands up slowly and stretches her back, her body tensing just from the thought of posing for so long. Even so, Elizabeth's curiosity gets the better of her, and when Booker nods, she takes a deep breath and smiles, "I would be delighted, Claude."

"Excellent!" Claude clasps his hands together and returns the smile, then turns to the young men behind him and speaks quickly. Elizabeth can't make out most of what he says, but she catches the words oils, grays and blues.

The next ten minutes are a flurry of activity; the assistants sprint away only to return with armloads of supplies, Claude instructs Elizabeth to take multiple poses until he is satisfied, and more than a few passersby stop to observe curiously. One of the assistants arrives with a parasol, but Claude shakes his head and waves the man away.

In the end, Elizabeth finds herself standing before the short wall at an angle, so that her body is partly turned left towards the river while still facing away from it. Her left arm hangs at her side, and Elizabeth holds her right hand up as if she just tucked stray hairs behind her ear. And as Claude begins to paint, Elizabeth wonders what her curiosity has gotten her into.

The minutes drag on, and the number of onlookers grows steadily. From her place by the Seine, Elizabeth is acutely aware of how many eyes are on her, and she can't help but blush. "Never would've imagined this is how today would go…" At the very least, most of the scrutiny is on Claude rather than her. At least Booker and Anna don't attract much attention, and they never seem to be without a hot beverage or some sort of diversion.

Unfortunately, there's little to help Elizabeth's situation. Her blue bolero jacket, skirt and white blouse kept her comfortable at midday, but as the afternoon drags on, the chill in the air begins to seep through Elizabeth's clothing. To make matters worse, Elizabeth's arm tires before the three o'clock bell, and she must grit her teeth and concentrate to keep still.

The ordeal comes to a close as suddenly as it began, when sunset draws near and the light begins to fade. Claude steps away from the easel and, after sternly gazing at the canvas for several seconds, nods and waves for Elizabeth to join him. Elizabeth's right arm drops as she heaves a deep, heartfelt sigh of relief, and she holds her sore limb while she hurries away from the Seine. Tired, sore and chilled to the bone, Elizabeth only notices after several steps that the crowd of onlookers are clapping politely.

"Applause? For a street painting?" Elizabeth's eyebrow quirks slightly at the odd turn of events, but she can't commit much interest to the minor mystery. "… doesn't matter. I just want to see it, then find a nice, hot bath."

"Elizabeth, thank you for your patience." Claude bows his head as she approaches, then motions for her to take a look. "For the time allowed, I am quite pleased. If you were able, I would ask for you to model for a series of paintings."

"I don't think modelling is for me, even if I did have the time…" Stepping around the easel, Elizabeth's voice trails off as she lays eyes on the painting; with a shadowy Eiffel Tower and the clear, placid waters of the Seine in the background, the painted Elizabeth stands out vibrantly against the muted background. Her likeness is not perfectly detailed, but Elizabeth can still easily recognize herself, and the effect of sunlight is beautifully portrayed on both the figure and the snow that drifts playfully about.

"It's amazing…"

"And it is for you, Elizabeth, for humoring an old man. Merry Christmas." With that, Claude picks up the canvas and hands it to Elizabeth, then turns to depart. His assistants quickly clean up, and the crowd disperses once it is clear that Claude is leaving. Elizabeth is left standing on the side of the street with the oil painting and no small measure of confusion.

"Well, that was odd."

A tiny yawn follows on the heels of Booker's comment, and Elizabeth turns as her father and sister approach, Anna practically asleep on her feet. "It was. But I think it turned out well." She turns the canvas so Booker can see, and he gives it a small nod.

"Huh, fella signed his name in the corner."

"Did he?" Looking back at the painting, Elizabeth spots the signature after a moment's scrutiny, a pair of words and the date written in the corner with the same blue as was most used in her dress. "Huh, Claude-" Elizabeth falls silent, her eyes going wide.

"Indeed, the man does make quite an impression."

Robert's voice coming from nowhere makes Elizabeth jump, and she nearly yelps in surprise. She and Booker turn to find the twins standing a couple feet away with a carriage pulling up to the sidewalk behind them, and Rosalind continues as if she were simply commenting on the weather, "Quite right. The painting should make for a lovely souvenir."

"I…" Elizabeth closes her eyes and rests them in the palm of her hand, a deep, exasperated sigh parting her lips, "Can we go back now? I think I need to lie down."

Author's Note: There are a few hints in the chapter and the title, so can you guess who the painter is? While a callback of sorts to the Paris dream in Burial at Sea (George Seurat, one of the artists at the very beginning of the dream,) Elizabeth's encounter with this artist in 1897 Paris is entirely within the realm of possibility. It's been something I've wanted to write for a long time, and although the logistics of it turned into kind of a headache, it was fun to do. Still took a lot of liberties on how quickly one can paint with oils, though, or how long the artist would usually take.

I'll look over the chapter at a later date for errors and inconsistencies, and while I think I've caught most of them by now, feel free to let me know if something doesn't make sense or the like. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed the chapter.