Author's note: Rossignol, get your blanket and your cup of cocoa before reading further.
Gracie paced the sitting room thoughtfully. She rearranged the small trinkets on the mantelpiece and then the scrolls on the coffee table. These were some new ones, she noticed. Louis must have brought them today. She shook her head ruefully. That morning, Papa had insisted on sitting up for Louis's visit and then they had spent more than an hour discussing one of their latest projects, although Louis had insisted on leaving several times. Papa had ensnared him into staying at least three times before Françoise had finally cast the architect out. Her intrusion had provoked a bout of ill humour in Papa, who firmly believed there was no need for Françoise and Gracie to mother him as much as they did.

Part of his protest had consisted in refusing to eat lunch when Gracie had brought him the tray. He had also refused to talk and even to look at her, staring instead into the fire, but his tantrum had not fooled her. She had noticed the slight tremor in his hands, the sheen of sweat that covered his forehead and silently she had offered him her arm. He had looked at her with a scathing stare, but after some time he had hesitantly accepted her support to give the few steps to the bed. He had collapsed onto it and had barely had time to mumble a vague apology before he fell asleep.

Gracie absently tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she sighed. He was like a small child. It didn't fit into his stubborn head that although he was feeling better that didn't mean he could work yet. And Louis. . . he was another child. He allowed Papa to trick him into working although he had been told that Papa would not resist working for over an hour.

Gracie sank into the couch wondering at how the adults in her life had started behaving like children. She felt strangely bereft, having to take decisions about the house and their economies and her life all by herself. Without her noticing, Papa had consistently been leaving more and more responsibilities into her hands in the course of the last six months. As soon as she finished school, he left all the household matters in her hands. Gracie decided what they were going to eat, went over the list of groceries and supplies with Françoise and took over all the accounts of the apartment.

It hadn't been bad, at the start. In fact, it had been exciting to be able to do some small repairs in the apartment that he had always forgotten about. She had hired workmen to repair the ceiling in the dining room, secure the railing of the balcony and paint the whole apartment. She had also bought a new carpet for her room and renovated the upholstering of the couch and Papa's armchairs. She had even contacted Papa's tailor and ordered a set of new shirts and two complete suits. She had chosen light fabrics in a creamy colour that she'd never seem him wear before and had bought a pair of shoes to match them. He had been utterly surprised when she had presented him with the suits, but had worn them during the whole summer, apparently pleased with the smoothness of the fabric.

A month later, he had called Uncle Nadir and his lawyer in, and had extended a power of attorney so she could manage his bank account. He had cheerfully downplayed her fears at his actions, stating that now that she was not studying anymore, it was fair enough that she took over the management of their money while he still looked after how to keep it coming in. Nadir deserved to retire from his long administrative career, at least partially. And no matter how much his decision had terrified her then, it had also proven practical. Now that he was ill, she had been able to pay all of the doctor's bills and the medicines without having to recur to third parties.

The straw that broke the camel's back had come two days ago. He had called Uncle Nadir to explain to her about the investments which Uncle Nadir still managed, including the books of Menand and Devaux. Then she had really panicked. With a hollow in her stomach, she had hurried to his room and demanded to know why he was passing all of his economic responsibilities on to her. He had only patted the side of his bed with a weary smile. When she had finally agreed to sit down, he had held her hand and told her she was old enough to know about these things. Although she hadn't found out yet what she wanted to become in her life, it didn't hurt to be able to administrate her belongings. When she had protested that they weren't her belongings but his, he had suddenly sobered and breached the subject they both had been avoiding since she was nine. Surely by then she knew he could go at any minute, he had said. He could as well live twenty years more or he could die the day after tomorrow. She had shaken her head in desperate denial and thrown herself against him to silence him. He had held her for a long time, shushing her and stroking her hair as he had done countless times in the past. But it hadn't prevented him from finishing his argument. It was a fact, he had said. Something they had to live with, and the more conscious they were about it, the better.

Gracie pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes. Talking about the possibility of him dying didn't make it any easier to accept. Just as it wasn't easy to keep him in bed when he obviously was bored to tears, or dismissing Louis when it was evident Papa wanted nothing else than to work with him. Or having to show, evening after evening, Mademoiselle Daaé into his room. Gracie rubbed her eyes furiously. In regard to Mademoiselle Daaé he behaved more childishly than in regard to anything else. Gracie couldn't stand the look of helpless welcome with which he received the former prima donna, although she reined her anger for his sake, and had even tried to be polite to the woman.

Speaking in earnest, Gracie couldn't state anymore that the woman really wanted to take advantage of him. During the last ten days Mademoiselle Daaé had been visiting every evening, but she was always careful not to stay too long, so as not to tire him. She always brought a story or an amusing anecdote, always made him laugh. And the way she talked to him and the way she now touched him. . . It seemed as if Mademoiselle Daaé's prudish reserves had all collapsed with Papa's illness. She greeted him with a kiss and she hugged him, and held his hand. . . Gracie could almost believe it was out of a genuine attachment to him.

And she kept clinging to her proud independence. Even after Papa had discovered her lowly occupation and meagre means, she kept on protesting that she was quite all right. She never complained about her long hours of work, never said she was hungry although she eyed the sandwiches and the petite gateaux with wide predatory eyes when she thought no one was watching. Moreover, she categorically refused to accept any help whatsoever. She had even grown infuriated once Papa had suggested he could give her a small stipend. Most astonishingly, her fury had silenced him. He hadn't broached the subject in her subsequent visits. It was the first time Gracie had seen Papa give up so fast. It was utterly disconcerting.

She absently unrolled one of the scrolls and looked at the design. The façade of a beautiful villa stared back at her. It was a lovely middle-size two-storey building. She wondered for whom were they building it, and idly opened the other scrolls. She had learnt enough architecture from Papa to understand the proportions and characteristics of the edifice. It would be an airy, well-lit house. Its orientation would make it cool during the summer but not too obscure during winter, and it had a lovely terrace on the back.

Gracie sighed. Papa had been insisting, in the last two years, that she decide herself on a trade, and that she found out something she wanted to dedicate herself to. She didn't need to earn any money, but it wouldn't do to sit at home and wait for a husband just like most of her schoolmates were wont to do. She was much too smart for that, and she would die of boredom if she only occupied herself with dresses and dinners. Gracie agreed with him, but she hadn't found out yet what he wanted to do.

She was no musician, although she enjoyed playing the piano immensely. She lacked the spark that she could clearly perceive in his compositions, the inner current of empathy with each and every sound he played. She didn't have the slightest intention to become an architect or an engineer, either. The profession entailed too much physics and mathematics and to tell the truth she had never been good with numbers. What she liked the best about Papa's trade was to watch the planes and designs, but more because of the proportions of the drawings themselves than for what they represented. She enjoyed even more looking at real paintings. She could spend hours in the galleries of the Louvre, and she had been thrilled by Monsieur Manet's last exhibitions. The artist she admired the most was some obscure man from the Netherlands, a certain Monsieur Van Gogh, whose paintings she had seen in a little second rate gallery some time ago. When she had seen the deep yellows and dark browns and the coarse figures of peasants and worn objects, something had stirred within her. And yet, she knew she was no painter herself. She could draw well enough, but the spark was also missing in her pictures.

A knock at the door stirred Gracie from her thoughts, and she wearily stood up from the couch. Françoise was baking biscuits, and she would not be able to open the door anytime soon. Gracie smirked in annoyance as she crossed the hall and noticed that a flour-covered Françoise had appeared by the door to the kitchen. Oh, it was so infuriating that Françoise would not trust her to allow Mademoiselle Daaé into Papa's room! With a little more force than necessary, Gracie unbolted and opened the door. Her annoyance vanished at the sight that met her eyes.

Mademoiselle Daaé was standing on the landing, with a furry, restless golden bundle in her arms. The bundle had a wet, black nose and brown eyes. It was a puppy.

"Good afternoon," Mademoiselle Daaé greeted.

"Is that for Papa?" asked Gracie with a frown.

"Do you think he will like it? I talked to doctor Albaret and he said it wouldn't do Erik any harm to have a pet around. And he likes dogs so. . ."

"Did he tell you about Sasha?"

Mademoiselle Daaé blinked.

"Excuse me?"

"Sasha," repeated Gracie as if the dog's name was enough information.

The woman's baffled countenance made it clear she had never known about Papa's childhood companion. The race of the dog was but a mere coincidence. Gracie shook herself.

"Please, come in," she mustered.

Mademoiselle Daaé stepped into the foyer, still eyeing Gracie with confusion. Gracie took the woman's cloak and held the dog while she took off her gloves and her bonnet. Gracie caressed the dog's head and it whined with pleasure. It surely was a dear little thing.

"You don't think he will like it?"

Gracie looked up, and she noticed how Mademoiselle Daaé recoiled ever so slightly. It was as if she believed Gracie would slap her. Mademoiselle Daaé was unusually timorous around Gracie, as if she was somewhat ashamed of herself. In the past few days, Gracie had almost enjoyed that. She had profited from the chance and made as many hidden remarks as she could about the former diva's betrayal of Papa's love. She had seen Mademoiselle Daaé cringe over and over in regret. But, strangely enough, Gracie's need to set the scores straight seemed to have vanished today. Instead of the long cherished resentment there was something close to. . . sympathy. Gracie smiled.

"I think he will love it," she said.

The worried lines on Mademoiselle Daaé's brow disappeared. Perhaps she should tell Mademoiselle Daaé about Sasha? Gacie slapped herself mentally immediately. No. The former diva could be acting humanely towards Papa, and perhaps her actions were due to a genuine care for him, but it didn't mean Gracie should start telling her about Papa's past. But perhaps it was time to start treating her with a little bit more courtesy.

"Come in. He's waiting for you."

She went down the hall, knocked and opened the door, but instead of closing it after Mademoiselle Daaé had entered, she lingered by the threshold. There was no way she was missing Papa seeing the dog for the first time.

He had been reading a book and he had evidently closed it as soon as he heard the knock at the door. He was putting it on the nightstand. He turned around, a warm glint in his eyes that immediately changed into wide-eyed surprise when he spotted the puppy.

"Christine, what. . . ?" he breathed. "Why. . .?"

Mademoiselle Daaé had walked to the side of his bed by then and bent to give him a kiss on his exposed cheek. With the same fluid movement, she left the dog on his lap. The dog faltered, trying to find its balance on Papa's long legs, and immediately one of Papa's hands came up to steady it. He looked down at the furry ball. His hand caressed the tiny head, his long fingers instinctively found the base of the dog's ears and he scratched. The dog whined in pleasure, and its pink tongue darted out, licking the fingers of Papa's other hand. Papa smiled an open, joyful smile.

"It's your Christmas present," Mademoiselle Daaé said sitting on the chair by the bed, a hand gently lying on Papa's forearm.

Her words resounded in Gracie's heart. She suddenly felt an irresistible urge to make amends, and for once she decided it was not worth it to hold on to her grievance.

"Then you shall bring it back on Christmas Eve, Mademoiselle," she said. "We'll be having dinner early, won't we, Papa?"

Papa and Mademoiselle Daaé stared at her in shock and disbelief. Gracie smiled wickedly and winked.

"Françoise makes a fabulous goose."

And before they could start stuttering, she turned around and made her way down the hall, chuckling to herself.

The end


Another note from the author: Well, that was it... I apologise for not updating sooner. I guess I didn't want to part from the story, so I managed to hold it back twenty-four hours.

Thank you all so much for all your comments, questions and kind words. It has really been a pleasure to relive the story through your eyes, as you read it. Please, tell me what you think about it as a whole.

My fondest greetings,

Stine.