"There was one who got a bellyful of shrapnel," Émile's voice is enthusiastic, far too enthusiastic to be talking about such horrific things but Émile has always been fascinated by wounds. The time Guillaume broke his leg in a riding accident Émile spent hours probing his cousin with questions, though he could not have been more than eight at the time and Guillaume was half-dozing thanks to the morphine. "…how he survived."

A cracking yawn and a sigh draw Christine's attention away from her knitting to her son. His eyes are drooping, arm slack where he's thrown it over the arm of the divan, and now it is her turn to sigh. "Go up to bed, sweetheart," she says softly, her lips twitching as she struggles to contain a smile. Any moment now he'll shake his head and deny that he's tired, the same way he's been doing since he was three years old, despite every ounce of evidence to the contrary. He's after working a sixteen-hour shift, of course the boy is tired.

Émile shakes his head, and there it is, the inevitable moment of defiance. The chuckle catches in Christine's throat as he whispers, "I'm fine. I just—just need to close my eyes a min…"

As the word trails off, Raoul looks at Christine over the top of his newspaper, and smiles knowingly. "Don't worry, darling. I'll bring him up." He sets his newspaper down on the table, and takes off his glasses, laying them carefully on top of it. His back creaks as he pushes himself to his feet, and leans over, brushes his lips gently against Christine's forehead. "I'll be back in a minute."

She smiles up at him, and he winks at her, then walks to the divan, and takes Émile by the hand. "Come on, son."

Émile grumbles as he's pulled to his feet, sways. At fifteen he is almost as tall as his father, and Raoul wraps an arm around his waist to support him as he guides him out of the room. It is not the first night like this of late, and Christine listens to their steps as they climb the stairs, Raoul's steady and Émile's stumbling, then goes back to her knitting, the clicking of the needles muffled by the wool. The scarf is red, a nice wine-red, with a checked golden pattern, or, it will be. It is a gift for Konstin, something to bring a bit of brightness to him when he is back behind the lines, though she doubts if he will wear it at all until he is home on leave again, whenever that may be.

Well, if he wears it or not it does not matter. The wool has been there for years. It needed to be used.

Konstin will probably pass the scarf onto Antoine after he wears it once or twice, and Antoine will look very dashing in it. It will bring out the red tinge to his hair, and Konstin will sit and sketch him, his hand moving fast over the page and that thoughtful look on his face, and Antoine will laugh over how ridiculous he thinks he will look in the portrait, though he will not look ridiculous at all.

Pain stabs briefly in Christine's heart. There was a time, more than thirty-five years ago, when Erik sat and sketched her, and her eyes sting for a moment at the memory, but the tears don't come, not this time. They come so rarely now, though she still thinks of him every day. How can she not, when Konstin can remind her so much of him without even realising it?

No. No. She will not think of the similarities between them now. If she does she will never get this scarf finished.

She swallows against the fluttering of her heart, and sighs, and turns her attention back to the wool still in her hands. Erik only wore darker reds than this (except for that one time at the masquerade and it made him seem so much taller and so much thinner), but they did suit him so well. And red suits Konstin too, though he never admits that, favours his dark blues and his blacks. The gold in the scarf will draw out his eyes, give them that ethereal glow. She might mention that in the letter she'll send with the scarf. Maybe it will encourage him to wear it, if he thinks it make him look ethereal.

A letter. There were no letters today. She would have liked a letter, even just one, regardless of which of them sent it. A letter from Konstin would, of course, be particularly loved. A letter from Marguerite is always one to be treasured, though Christine knows she's holding back from all she could say, and Sorelli has confirmed as much with that worried pinch to her face. A letter from either Antoine or Guillaume or both, come from different directions. They usually write to Raoul moreso than to her, deferring to their uncle with matters of the Army and Navy, but they always include a note for Christine. Sorelli has often laughed at the way her boys, and Marguerite too, insist on keeping in such close touch with their aunt and uncle, nevermind that any letter from either of them to Raoul and Christine contains much the same content as the letter that will arrive the same day for Sorelli and Philippe, though Antoine will always include some specific lines for Christine about Konstin. He knows she likes to have his perspective on things. He always tells her the little things that Konstin will neglect to mention, about shells and casualties. Konstin would not want to worry her more by mentioning them, but Antoine knows that she prefers to know exactly how much danger they are in.

The door creaking open disturbs her from her thoughts, and she looks up in time to see Raoul resume his seat. "He dropped right off," he says softly, and it takes Christine a moment to remember that he went up with Émile. Considering how exhausted he was, it is no surprise that he dropped right off.

"I thought he might." She lifts the scarf to inspect its length. It's further on than she thought. Another foot and a half or so and it should be finished. Raoul slips his glasses back on, and nods at her.

"It looks well."

"I hope he likes it." Even if he does not like it, Konstin is far too polite to tell her that, and she bites her lip, tilts her head to regard it again. He will still wear it for her, but he should not feel compelled to wear it just to please her. What is the point in that? Oh, she should have used black instead of red! The red wool would have done for something for Anja.

Raoul sighs, and frowns at her. "You know he will. Now, don't fret over it." He reaches over, and wraps his fingers gently around her wrist, lowers her arm down and the scarf with it. A faint smile flickers around the edges of his lips, and in spite of the twisting anxiety in her chest she smiles at him. Dear Raoul. Dear, sweet Raoul. He always knows what to say to make her feel better.

That is why she has always loved him, really, even some little part of her when Erik was still alive.

But no. Erik has no part here tonight, not when Raoul is looking at her so softly. Tonight, there is only Raoul, and it would be so easy to just sit here for hours with him looking at her like that, the silver threads in his hair shining to match the rims of his glasses. If she had any sketching ability herself, she would sketch him just like that, sweet and soft and half-smiling, his eyes crinkled. Her husband. The title fits him perfectly.

(He once whispered to her, with a rush of love, that it is the only title he cares about, being her husband. And her heart fluttered, and she kissed his cheek, and said she felt the same way).

"What are you thinking about?" he asks, his voice low as it pulls her back from her thoughts.

She smiles at him, and does not ask how he knew her distraction. "You."

His eyes twinkle back at her, still so blue and lovely after all of this time. "Would you," his fingers tap her wrist lightly, "like to take those thoughts upstairs?" His voice is light, almost teasing with one eyebrow cocked, and she feels that old familiar bubbling beneath her navel, her cheeks suddenly too warm.

"I rather think I would."

They lie awake in the darkness afterwards, Raoul's arm warm around Christine's waist, and she nuzzles into his chest. They do not say much of anything. What is there to say that they haven't said before, a hundred, a thousand times? But the world is still, the city hushed for the night, and Émile is asleep down the hall, and a little while ago they heard the front door click closed with Anja arriving home from her shift. The house lies still except for their breathing, and this is enough, for her and Raoul just to hold each other close in the darkness, their children safely home. What more could they ever need?

Almost enough. All that would complete it is Konstin, knowing that Konstin is home and safe. But he is not home, and far from safe, a dark voice whispers in the back of her mind, intruding on the peace. Konstin. Fear flickers for him, deep in her chest, and as if he senses it, Raoul pulls her closer to him, and kisses her hair. "He'll be all right," he murmurs, his voice soft and low, "he'll be all right." She wishes she could believe him, wishes that the conviction in his voice were enough to protect Konstin, but he has said it so many times in the last three years, so many times and if Raoul's conviction were enough then surely the war would be over and Konstin would be here, sleeping down the hall, or else safe on the Rue de Rivoli in the house that is his. If he were only in Paris, and then she would know, then she could be certain.

"I just wish he were home," she whispers, her voice muffled by Raoul's chest. He sighs, his lips soft against her forehead.

"I know, darling. I know." And he does know. Of course he knows. But just to hear him say it makes her feel a little easier.

A/N: Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed so far! I'm a little surprised at the level of response this has gotten, and I can't wait for you all to see what's going to happen!

Coming up next week: Back to Antoine and Konstin behind the lines.