Chapter II: Fireside Reflections

Christian shivered and drew his coat closer. The November wind was starting to pick up, and he wanted to get home from the post office as soon as he could.

Thank you, he said impatiently to the comfortably plump woman who handed him the manila envelope. Goodbye, Madam. The woman nodded and gave him a bright smile as he hurried out the door. Christian glanced up at the dark grey sky and began running, his envelope tucked beneath his coat. The bitter wind tugged impatiently at his hat, and he finally gave up the battle and took it off. The house is too far away, he thought grumpily to himself as he rounded the curve and dashed up the walk.

Once inside, his annoyance subsided as the warmth of the house sank into him. He could smell dinner cooking and hear Satine's voice as she talked with Margaret-- probably in the parlor, he decided as he shrugged out of his coat and headed in that direction. The soft, silvery tones of his wife's voice rang through the rooms like a delicate bell.

Oh! Monsieur! It was Anne, who held a barely awake Celeste in her arms. The baby's up, she explained, shifting the little girl. Madam asked to bring her in as soon as she was stirring.

I'll take her, Christian said, exchanging the envelope for his daughter. Hello, sweetheart. Celeste yawned in response and settled her head against his shoulder. How are you? he whispered, shaking a little, dimpled hand. Celeste's eyes fluttered open and shut and Christian laughed a little. The blue ribbon that contained her dark, silky curls lay pasted against her head. Shaking it loose, he pocketed it and fluffed up her hair. Have a good nap?

As they neared the half-open parlor door, Christian peered inside to see Satine and Margaret sitting by the fire. Margaret was absorbed in her embroidery while Satine sat with her hand clasped over her knee, daydreaming. The firelight danced on her dark red hair, throwing flickers of gold over it. Christian stood still for a moment. He still couldn't believe that she was really here. Safe. In their home, in their love. He still looked at her with the same adoring eyes of the young Bohemian poet.

Almost. Christian closed his eyes as he remembered the horrible month he'd spent estranged from Satine last year. Alone, so alone and afraid that she'd never forgive him for letting his jealous nature get the better of him. For that was what had happened. Christian had looked that reality squarely in the face time and time again. And it had changed everything. The naive idealism that love could conquer all was gone. But wouldn't that have happened eventually? Christian let out a soft hissing breath. He couldn't know. The time for that had passed long ago. . .

Celeste raised her head and placed a hand on his cheek. He smiled at her, at the tiny creature they had created together, he and Satine both. Celeste gave him a sleepy smile in return and let out a tiny cry.

Satine's voice came from inside the room. Is that you? Is Celeste awake?

It's me, Christian answered, coming in with the baby. I intercepted her and stole this little elf. He made a face at Celeste, who ignored him and started playing with his collar. Satine laughed as they sat down.

It's a pretty vicious wind outside, isn't it, Christian? she asked as he set Celeste down. Christian rolled his eyes and Satine giggled.

That good? Oh, honey, what are you doing? this was directed at Celeste, who was crawling around on the rug.

Christian answered for his daughter, whose gabbles were a tad difficult to understand. Margaret laughed softly as he climbed down to join Celeste in her activities.

It was strange how different life was in this house, she reflected as Satine laughed and politely refused any invitation to come down onto the floor. There was an ease and warmth that pervaded the whole house that Margaret had never felt before. At home, she felt-- suppressed-- almost. Here, things were so very different. Her brother's obvious love for his wife and daughter coloured everything he did, and Satine. . .

Satine shrieked at that moment. I'm not coming down-- Christian! Leaving Celeste to her pursuits for a moment, Christian sat down next to Satine and kissed her forehead as she laughed. Margaret smiled shyly at the two of them and looked back down at her embroidery.

Would she ever have what they had?

Satine didn't miss Margaret's timid glance. As Christian wrapped his arms around her, she watched the girl out of the corner of her eye. Margaret reminded Satine a little of herself, for some strange reason. Longing to escape the life she led. . . Satine's focus drifted inward for a moment. As a young girl in the Moulin Rouge, she'd watched dreams shatter as people betrayed and lied to get what they wanted. . . and she'd learned one thing. Never, ever fall in love. It will only break you.

And then a poet with the gentlest eyes she'd ever seen had stumbled into her life. And he'd brought her here, to this enchanted home where she would always be loved. Would Margaret meet someone like that?

Her musings were interrupted by Celeste's raising voice.

Satine asked, tilting her head to look at the small girl. Celeste threw an energetic arm around the room and continued to babble.

Christian said supportively. I agree. It's an awful room. I understand why you hate it. Margaret tried to swallow her giggles, but she was as unsuccessful as Satine. Celeste seemed pleased with the commotion she had caused, while Christian leaned against the wall and watched the scene with contented eyes.

And so, Christian finished that night as he read Cinderella to Celeste while Satine sat nearby. They lived happily ever after. Celeste sighed a little and closed her eyes as Satine stood and put her hands on Christian's shoulders. He twisted to look up at her and she kissed his hair.

Love you, she said quietly. Christian covered one of her hands with his own and gave her a soft look.

How wonderful life is, he replied softly. Now you're in the world.

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Author's Note: I don't own Christian or Satine. I do, however, own pretty much everyone else. Reviews and constructive criticism will be welcomed with fanfare. Flames will be accepted only from big, ugly dragons. (I've always wanted to say that)