Chapter 14

The late autumn breeze played with loose strands of Duck's hair peeking out from under her hat as she and Fakir approached "Freya's Flowers". Stepping inside the florist shop, autumn suddenly gave way to spring as their eyes were greeted by bursts of bright, warm colors. Crimson roses, blushing lilies, and lively dahlias were joined by an array of other cut flowers in a display by the door, while whole plants and more exotic varieties of flowers were displayed further back.

Freya, the blonde proprietress of the store, looked up when she heard the door open and set down her tin watering can to greet Duck.

"Hello, Duck! How are you? Let me guess, you're here for the pink anemones?"

"Good, and yes," Duck smiled as Freya wiped her hands on her apron. "Were you able to get them?"

Here the blond florist tilted her head and gave Duck an apologetic smile. "Well… not exactly. My supplier wasn't able to source any pink ones, but he was able to give me a small batch of white anemones."

"Um, how 'small' is 'small'?" Duck wondered apprehensively.

"I can go check for you, but I think only around 4 or 5 flowers."

When Freya into a back room to retrieve the flowers, Duck sighed. Drats… I was really hoping to have pink ones, this being the last time I'll see Ma for a while…

Dejected, Duck didn't notice Fakir's gaze on her. As Freya walked back towards them, a small vase of white anemones in hand, the detective asked, "Could we add another type of flower and combine it with the anemones?"

At this, Freya's expression perked up. "Of course! What would you like? All of the ones you see here are available," she said, gesturing to the display of multi-colored flowers in the center of the shop.

Fakir looked to Duck. "See any that you like?"

"Hmm…" Duck scanned the bewildering selection before her, but her mind could not settle on any one of the myriads of choices. To her fiancé, she said, "I don't know… Fakir, do you have any ideas of what I might get?"

"Me?" Fakir raised his brows. Just as lost as his companion, the dark-haired man instead turned to the store's proprietor, who was watching them patiently. "Um, do you have any suggestions?"

"Certainly! For whom are the flowers for, if I may ask? I can suggest something based on the occasion," Freya offered.

Duck glanced awkwardly at Fakir, who thought about this for a moment before answering, "…We're going to see Duck's mother. The two of us recently became engaged." Though his cheeks could not help but warm as he spoke, Fakir's voice remained steady and sure as he continued, "So you could say this is for an introduction."

"Ah! In that case, I know just the thing!" Her long hair swaying from side to side, Freya strode to the other side of the display and returned with a bunch of bright red carnations and pale pink roses.

Deftly arranging the red, pink, and white flowers together, the florist explained, "Red carnations represent a mother's love, while light pink roses symbolize joy and happiness, but also grace and elegance." Placing the final stem of anemone among the finished bouquet, she took a matching pink ribbon and tied it together.

Freya presented the flowers to Duck and smiled. "White anemones have many meanings.* In this instance, they stand for sincerity, hope, and new beginnings. Congratulations on your engagement, Duck, and I hope your mother will enjoy these."

Gently accepting the now hefty bundle of flowers, Duck breathed in and was struck by the heady scent of roses and the fainter but noticeably sweet smell of the carnations. With a grateful smile, she looked to Fakir, and found him smiling as well.

To Freya, Duck nodded. "I'm sure she will. Thank you!"

Fakir followed Duck through the ornate wrought iron and carved stone entrance of Woodlawn Cemetery.* Past stately mausoleums and bronze and marble sculptures, the couple turned away from the grand burials onto a small gravel lane with modest gravestones. The somber mood was occasionally interrupted by birdsong and by the light rustling of tree branches swaying in the autumn breeze.

Stepping off the path, Duck eventually stopped in front of a flat gray headstone, half hidden amongst the leaf litter and grass. Kneeling down, the red-head brushed the dried leaves aside, revealing the words:

Elsa Stannus, née Drosselmeyer

August 25, 1880*

October 24, 1919

Standing behind Duck, Fakir watched as she carefully laid the bouquet over the headstone.

"Hi, Ma," Duck began, her voice light and conversational, as though she expected to hear her mother's voice respond in kind. "I went to Miss Freya's flower shop to pick up some pink anemones, but she only had white ones today. I know pink anemones are your favorite, but Miss Freya was so nice and helped us add some carnations and roses to the anemone to make a nice bouquet. I think it's really pretty, and I hope you'll like the flowers, too!"

As she stood up, when Duck spoke again her cheerful voice had sobered, and she added, "Also, I uh, I haven't told you this yet. But Mr. Kotin… he's decided to move the shop to Manhattan. He had to let two of us go as a result of the move. Pique left on her own. That left Lillie and me. I don't think it was an easy decision for Mr. Kotin, but he ended up choosing Lillie. It's sad… leaving the shop after all these years. I'm sorry, I would've told you sooner, but a lot of things happened around that time, and I… I just didn't have the heart to…"

Duck bit her lip. She turned sharply when a rustling noise reached her ears and found Fakir now standing beside her, his hand gently holding hers. Startled, the former shop girl blinked, but with the reassuring pressure from his fingers, the tension in her body eased. Though her brow remained furrowed, when Duck faced her mother's grave once again, she wore a small smile on her lips.

"There's something else I want to tell you today, Ma. I brought someone to see you! This is Fakir. I've told you about him before… though things have changed quite a bit between us since then," the red-head confided sheepishly. "We uh… we like each other. A lot. I know this probably sounds really strange, especially given how he and I initially met, but Fakir is really sweet, and caring! I really love him. So when he asked me to marry him, I said yes!"

Duck paused to take a deep breath, both to compose herself as well as to organize her thoughts before she continued. "Fakir accepted a transfer to Rochester, and I'll be going with him. It's a little hectic, and a little scary, to be moving away after living here for so long. I won't be able to see you as often from now on… but I'll always have your pictures with me. I will never forget you, Ma, and I'll come visit… every chance I get!"

Her voice trembling now, Duck stopped and wiped at her eyes. Fakir gave her hand a light squeeze, to which Duck nodded as she sniffled and collected herself.

Seeing that Duck had no more words to say for now, Fakir turned his gaze to the gravestone at their feet.

"H-hello… ma'am," he began haltingly, but swallowed when his nervous mind drew a blank.

Don't just stand here! Say something! He told himself, as though he was facing a living, breathing person who was watching him expectantly.

In that moment Fakir couldn't help but remember all the jaded jokes about awkward first meetings with one's future in-laws. Never did he think he'd find himself in such a position, and in a graveyard no less.

Glancing awkwardly at Duck, who smiled back with encouragement, Fakir cleared his throat and straightened his back.

"Um, this is the first time we've met, but your daughter has told me a lot about you. She's told me about you… your grace, your talent, and above all, your love for her."

His voice steadying, Fakir said earnestly, "I wish I had the opportunity to meet you in person, Mrs. Stannus, as you must have been an incredible woman, and a wonderful mother. As Duck said, we'll be moving to Rochester, but I wanted to take this opportunity," he said as his fingers tightened around Duck's hand, "to tell you that I will cherish and protect her, and I promise you I will do everything in my power to make her happy."

Duck blushed and turned her gaze to the grass. Fakir, his hand still holding Duck's, continued. "Though we may be far away, we will never forget you, and I hope you will give us your blessings as we begin our future together."

The white anemones at their feet nodded in the breeze. Feeling a rush of cold air brush past her, Duck shivered. Fakir drew her close, wrapping his arm across her back as the breeze drifted up into the clear blue sky above.

At the 53rd precinct, Fakir flipped through the volume of "New York Civil Practice Law and Rules" in his hands. Beside the stack of law books, his desk was now bare save for the light coat of dust that had gathered around the unoccupied surface where stacks of paper used to reside.

As Fakir debated whether he ought to take the tomes with him or bequeath them to the office, Alex walked up to him.

"Say, Sarg," the brunet began, scratching his neck awkwardly, "Did you have a chance to review the final report for the Corioli case? I know Captain has already reviewed it, but it would be great if you could give it a once over before I hand it to the DA tomorrow."

"I did already," Fakir answered, meeting his soon-to-be former partner's nervous brown eyes. "I left the annotated copy on your desk. It might've gotten buried amongst all of the other paperwork, though."

"Oh! I see!" Alex let out an embarrassed laugh. But the forced humor didn't last. His shoulders drooping, Alex heaved a tired sigh. "The piles of paper just seem to keep growing the last few days. I really don't know how you managed all of this on your own. I'm going to have some big shoes to fill once you're gone."

Fakir's hands paused. Placing the book back on the table, Fakir gave a reassuring pat on the brunet's arm. "No one is born a detective, Alex. But you have what it takes to be one. You'll be fine."

Alex nodded slowly. "All things come with time, right? I have got you to thank for that, Sarg." Returning Fakir's gesture, Alex gave a hearty pat to Fakir's shoulder. "If you are ever in the area, be sure to drop me a line, and we can catch up. I'd love to know how things are in Rochester. Hopefully I won't be such a greenhorn at this by then!"

The casual offer took Fakir by surprise. Despite having worked with Alex for almost a year now, Fakir had never thought of their relationship beyond the scope of colleagues, or at most, mentor and mentee. But it seemed so many of the relationships around him had evolved and grown without Fakir ever realizing it. Now, as the thought of leaving and bidding Alex and everyone he'd known during his time at the 53rd precinct farewell finally sank in, Fakir felt a sharp a pang of sadness through his chest.

With his brow furrowed, Fakir nevertheless managed a smile and responded, "Yes, I'll be sure to do that."

Seeing they were in agreement, Alex carried on and headed back towards his desk. Fakir, too, went back to his task of cleaning out his desk. Pushing the pile of books aside (Maybe these might be useful for Alex sometime down the road, Fakir thought to himself), he pulled open the desk drawer to sort through the bits of odds and ends inside.

As the desk drawer squeaked open, a shiny ebony and gold pen rolled forward, catching Fakir's eyes. Picking it up, he recognized it as Charon's favorite Waterman fountain pen.

How did it end up here? Fakir wondered, thinking back to the last time he had been in the Captain's office. Did I accidentally take with me when I had him sign that pile of documents two days ago?

Still mystified, Fakir decided no matter how the pen got to his desk, he ought to return it to its rightful owner. Trekking over to Charon's office, Fakir rapped lightly on the door.

"Come in," Charon's familiar voice answered, and Fakir let himself in.

Handing the pen to Charon, Fakir asked, "I think this is yours, Charon?"

"Ah, I had been wondering where that pen went!" Charon's face lit up and he accepted the errant writing instrument from Fakir. "Where did you find it?"

"I found it while I was cleaning out my desk drawer," Fakir answered honestly, "I might've accidentally taken it when I had you review the statements on Tuesday."

"I see," Charon smiled, rolling the smooth pen between his fingers. To Fakir, he said, "How is it going? Has Alex gotten all the documents from you?"

Fakir nodded. "I think he's a bit overwhelmed right now. It is a lot to take on all at once. If you could give him some pointers, I think it would help him a lot, and build his confidence further."

"Of course. But goodness, it's hard to believe that tomorrow will be your last day here." The gray-haired captain sighed. "It's amazing how time flies by. You had joined the force scarcely, what was it? I think just five years ago?"

"Yeah," Fakir answered softly. "A lot has happened in that time… and I've learned a lot during my time here." Finding Charon's gaze, Fakir continued sincerely, "And I have you to thank, Charon, for giving me the chance to work on the Corvo case, and many others, in this time."

Charon unexpectedly frowned. Quietly, he said, "…But not everything that happened were good things. I would've much preferred for the Corvos to have never gotten their hands on you, Mr. Brahms or Miss Stannus."

Fakir's hands clenched uneasily for a moment. Taking a deep breath, he sighed, "That might be the case, but…"

Charon studied the young man before him. Unlike the intense, stormy green eyes he had known for the majority of his time working with the dark-haired detective, these eyes were now solemn but clear.

"…Looking back at everything, I don't regret it. I learned a lot of things and met a lot of people. And none of it would've happened had you not let me be the lead on the case. For that, you have my gratitude, Charon."

Across the room, Charon sat quietly as he stared contemplatively down at the pen in his hands. Seeing the captain preoccupied, Fakir did not want to disturb him and turned to leave. As his hand touched the door frame, Fakir froze when he heard a faint voice behind him.

"Fakir… I'm sorry."

Bewildered, Fakir turned back. With his eyes still on the pen in his lap, Charon took a deep breath then looked up. Seeing the grimace on his supervisor's face only further confused Fakir. Wordlessly, Charon motioned for Fakir to close the door, which Fakir hesitantly did so before taking a seat across from the captain in the silent office.

"For… what? What are you talking about?" Fakir queried tentatively.

The corners of Charon's lips tightened. After a long moment, he began, "I started working Homicide almost twenty years ago. You never forget your first homicide case, and for me, it was a double homicide case involving a young couple… and the attempted murder of their 8-year-old son, who had survived, but was left with horrific injuries."

At this, Fakir's nervous gaze snapped to Charon. He stared wide-eyed at the older man, and though a glut of questions flooded his mind, a lump in his throat blocked any words from getting through.

The senior policeman did not immediately notice Fakir's reaction as he continued to study the simple black and gold pen in his hand. From behind his graying brows, Charon's dark eyes recalled the terrible scene he had found.

Closing his eyes briefly, the captain said, "I remembered telling myself, I cannot let my first case go unsolved. For the sake of the victims, especially for the child who had survived that night, I needed to find those responsible and bring them to justice. But… that was not to be. We spoke to anyone who was willing to talk, but save for snatches of rumors and hearsays about the Corvo gang being behind it, no credible leads ever surfaced. The case went cold, and as the years passed, the knowledge that I had failed that boy, failed his parents, haunted me. In the same measure, it also motivated me to keep trying, to keep doing what I could to give people the justice they deserved.

"Then one day, five years ago, I was notified of a young man applying to join my precinct. When my then secretary first informed me of this applicant, I thought it was odd that a university-educated man would want to engage in our trade, where the pay was low and the hours were long. Then I saw the name on the application…"

Here, Charon's hands stilled, and he slowly looked up and met the expression of shock and disbelief on Fakir's face.

Taking a shallow breath, Fakir's lips parted, and he asked incredulously, "You knew all along, then, Charon? But why did you never say anything?" After he glanced down at the clenched hands on his lap, Fakir's eyes shot back up, and he whispered, "Why did you let me take the lead on the Corvo case if you knew I was personally connected to it? If the Corvos found out, it would've put the entire case at risk!"

Charon answered with a wan smile. "To be honest, I did have reservations at first. To have the boy from my first case show up at my office as a newly minted police officer, seeking to join the Homicide division in my precinct… to say I was shocked doesn't even begin to describe it."

Setting the pen aside, Charon rested his clasped hands on the table, and said quietly to Fakir, "It had crossed my mind that by giving you the Corvo case, it would—in some way—act as penance for my own failure from all those years ago. But while that might've assuaged some of my own personal guilt, it would not have been fair, not to you, nor to other victims of Corvo brutality," the captain slowly shook his head.

"I first wanted to see what you were capable of as a police officer, Fakir, and it became apparent to me right away that you were an incredibly intelligent, driven, and hardworking individual. You had moments of being hard-headed and stubborn, but above all else, I could see that you put your case above everything else, that upholding justice was of the utmost importance to you. Once I saw that you were truly qualified for handling a case as complex and demanding as that of the Corvos, only then did I hand the case to you. I trusted that when the time came, you would stay focused on the main objective, and not let your emotions cloud your better judgement."

Charon leaned back into this chair and neither he nor Fakir looked at each other for a long moment. "I had not planned on ever revealing this to you," the older man finally said with a somber tone. "I felt that this revelation would've only interfered with our relationship and could very well have disrupted the dynamics around the precinct. But seeing you at the door today… once you stepped outside of this office, I knew I might never again have the chance to give you this long overdue apology…"

Silence fell across the room again. The tension was only broken when Fakir's hands unclenched. "When I first started working the Corioli case, I made a promise to Eddie that I would catch his father's killer," he began slowly while Charon looked on. "But in the end, I couldn't. When I went to notify the Corioli family about Worm Tongue's death, I ran into Eddie as he was delivering telegrams, and I apologized to him for failing to live up to my promise."

Fakir lifted his chin, and with understanding and forgiveness in his eyes, met Charon's gaze. "And you know what he said? That I tried, and sometimes, that's all any of us can do."

Charon shut his eyes while Fakir continued, "As detectives, we have to accept that we can't solve every single case that crosses our desk. It eats you up from the inside when you can't close a case, but Charon—"

At his name, the captain opened his misty eyes, and found Fakir now standing in front of him. "—to me, you will always be my captain, my mentor. My respect for you will never change, irrespective of what you felt you could or could not accomplish twenty years ago."

He thought back to Eddie, and at the mental image of the grin the boy had given him before he rode off on his bike, Fakir smiled. "I've wanted to thank you for all the help and guidance over these years, even if I don't always listen. And I'm glad you told me this before I left, so I can thank you for saving me, and for trying as hard as you did all those years ago."

"And for me as well," the gray-haired captain rose from his chair. Charon extended his hand to Fakir, who returned the gesture.

"It has been an honor to have worked with you, Fakir. And I say this not as a supervisor, but as a fellow police officer." As he placed his hand over the younger man's and clasped it firmly, a bright, sunlit smile appeared on the captain's lips. "I wish you happiness in the promising future before you."

The heavy tan-colored suitcase in Duck's hand touched down on the hard concrete platform with a "thunk" as a nearby train whistled its imminent departure. Looking around her at the busy Penn Station platform, Duck spotted Fakir through the crowd as he maneuvered two suitcases from the baggage trolley to stand next to her.

Sweating despite the cool autumn temperature, Fakir lifted his hat and wiped his damp brow with the back of his gloved hand before reaching for the two leather suitcases by his feet.

"Let me help," Duck offered, walking toward her fiancé, but Fakir shook his head as he bent over the suitcases.

"It's alright, I can manage…" he grunted.

"How chivalrous of you," An unexpected voice behind him made the detective look up sharply. "But if you hurt your back in the process, you'll end up becoming baggage yourself. Best to let the missus help you," Autor commented flatly as he emerged from the crowd.

"Autor!" Fakir exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"

"I called your old precinct and the captain told me when you would be departing today. I came just to make sure, is all."

As Fakir found himself wondering once again if the satisfaction of punching Autor would be worth the public commotion, a tug on his sleeve gave Fakir pause, and he saw Duck staring inquisitively at their unexpected visitor.

"Fakir, who is he?"

Fakir scowled. "This is Autor Brahms… he's the one who wrote the Corvo exposé," he explained grudgingly while Autor stood with his hands in his coat pockets, smiling smugly.

To Fakir's chagrin, Duck's face lit up at this information and she beamed, "Oh, I see!"

Walking up to Autor, Duck extended her hand, which Autor politely shook. "It's nice to finally meet you, Mr. Brahms! Fakir had spoken about you before." Duck's smile grew wistful. Clasping her hands in front of her, she said softly, "You're really brave for taking on such a dangerous project. And you helped Fakir a lot when I was in trouble. Thank you so much for that!"

Autor's eyes widened a fraction, and the smugness in his expression softened into a sincere and humble smile.

"You are too kind, Miss Stannus. I am sure Fakir would agree with me on this, but you are without a doubt the bravest person involved in that matter. And I also owe you thanks for getting both of us out of a rather messy situation. Were it not for your courage and sacrifice, neither Fakir nor I would be here today. For that, you have my deepest gratitude," the bespectacled journalist bowed his head.

"Oh!" Duck blushed, embarrassed by the effusive thanks from this stranger. "I-I was just doing what I can! In any case, it's so nice to finally meet one of Fakir's friends—"

"Hold on!" Fakir interjected, eyebrows pinched together. "I never said he was my friend!"

"Agreed. We are… collaborators," Autor quipped lightly, earning him an annoyed glare from the glowering detective.

Duck covered her lips as she tried—rather unsuccessfully—to held back a burst of laughter. Luckily, Duck caught sight of Edel and Zurab in the distance, and she took a step towards them. "Miss Edel is here! I'll go say hi!"

Leaving the two men to themselves, Fakir watched as Duck disappeared into the crowd. Beside him, Autor studied Fakir with a bemused smile. When Fakir noticed Autor's gaze, he shifted and turned gruffly to face the newsman.

"So, what's the real reason you're here?" he demanded, his mind already dreading whatever news the journalist carried with him.

Autor, however, rolled his eyes. "Why must you always be so averse and suspicious of my motives? Very well, if you must have one: it's to make sure you don't trip over yourself because you're too distracted by your bride-to-be!" he declared, which predictably only made Fakir fume.

"I am not! And that's only because you always want something in turn—!" a red-faced Fakir snapped, but Autor was not listening and took out from his pocket a small slip of paper folded into a square, which he then passed to Fakir, cutting the detective off mid-tirade.

Vexed, Fakir opened the folded piece of paper to reveal a short list of names and phone numbers, and the anger he felt was swiftly displaced by curiosity and confusion.

"These are the names of some people I know in Upstate New York. Gannet is a fellow I know who works for the Rochester Times-Union. He's the chatty type that knows someone on every block, and hardly anything newsworthy slips by his nose. Melville was a former AP fellow who's now working freelance in Albany, but he has a lot of good connections, both here in New York and across the country.* The last one is my cousin, Robert."

Just as Fakir was beginning to wonder if Autor was setting him up for some sort of information network with his fellow journalists, at this last sentence, his eyes darted up and he looked quizzingly at the bespectacled man before him.

But the journalist continued matter-of-factly, "He's Aunt Judith's eldest son and runs a grocery store in Buffalo. I've spoken to him about you, so if you need anything in a pinch, you can give him a ring. The other two are probably more useful for business-related matters, but I've talked with them before and found them to be approachable and helpful."

The detective pursed his lips. "You… I knew you were a busybody, but I didn't expect you to be a mother hen as well," he grumbled as he slipped the paper into an inner pocket of his jacket where it wouldn't get lost.

Autor tsked, folding his arms over his chest. "Oh, is that right? I should've known better than to waste my time—"

"Thank you, Autor. For this… and for saving Duck's life, not once, but twice."

This time it was the journalist's turn to be taken aback, and he stood blinking at Fakir for a moment until Fakir awkwardly extended his hand to him. For a moment, Autor stubbornly held his arms to his chest, then with a deep heaving sigh, he unlocked his arms and took Fakir's proffered hand.

"You really are a dolt, you know that?" the bespectacled man muttered as he exchanged a firm shake with the detective. Releasing Fakir's hand, Autor pushed up his glasses, his eyes adverted but solemn. "Though I suppose I also owe you a 'thank you'. For distracting the Nitti brothers that day. Had you not done so, we would probably not be having this conversation."

"That makes us even, then," Fakir remarked, all the belligerence in his voice scarcely moments earlier now vanished.

"Hmph!" Autor huffed. "You still owe me that cup of water, you know. From last year."

At this, Fakir grinned gamely. "Still haven't forgotten about that, have you? Then you'll just have to come all the way to Rochester to get it, then."

"I will take you up on that invitation one day," Autor smiled back.

Behind them, Edel stood with Zurab in her arms, and Duck emerged from the crowd. Zurab's eyes grew wide at the sight of the massive shiny black train. Squirming out of Edel's arms, he took Duck's hand and bounced on his feet, pointing at the locomotive parked behind them.

"Zug, zura! Train, zura!" the little boy repeated excitedly. To Duck, Zurab said, "Deida said we'll also take da zug to see Dede, zura!"

"Yes, that's exciting, isn't it?" Duck smiled back.

"Zurab wants to see Dede, but Zurab will also miss Duck, zura," the little boy frowned, holding tight to Duck' hand. "Deida is teaching Zurab to write. Can Zurab write a letter to Duck and Fakir?"

"Of course! That would be wonderful!" Duck cupped Zurab's cheeks and pressed a light kiss to his forehead. "And we'll write to you as well, Zurab. We might not live in the same city, but we're still in the same state. You can come visit us in the future, with your Dede too, when she is well enough."

Turning to Edel, Duck's smile deepened. "And of course you will always be welcome, Miss Edel! I'm going to miss you so much…" the red-head's voice quivered slightly, and she sniffled when Edel gently patted her on her shoulder.

"Not all farewells are forever, Duck. I am sure we will see you again in the future. In the meantime, I have a small gift for you," she reached into her purse and took out a small jewelry box, one that looked faintly familiar to the former shop girl, before handing it to Duck.

When Duck opened it, she found the interlocked ruby and diamond gems that Edel had called "Courage" nestled within the box.

Duck's eyes snapped up even as she snapped the box closed. "Miss Edel, this is too much!" she began, thrusting the jewel back into Edel's hands, but the mint-haired woman gently pushed Duck's hand back, briefly placing her hand over Duck's.

"Courage is a gem made of two. You have always had a part of this gem within you, Duck," Edel stroked Duck's cheeks, and her finger lightly traced the carnelian pendant hanging by the girl's heart, "but it became complete when you found the other half that complemented you."

My other half… Duck looked down at the crimson pendant and a smile returned to her face. It's true… Even though other people say I'm brave, I don't think I would've been able to find the courage through all this had it not been for Fakir, who was always there to support and protect me. He has always made me stronger… and helped me find hope when I was lost.

With one hand cupping her pendant and the other cradling the jewel of "Courage", Duck nodded. "I understand now. Thank you, Miss Edel. I will treasure this, always."

As the young woman tucked the gift into her bag, the train behind them whistled, and the conductor cried out, "All aboard!"

"Oh no, the luggage!" Duck exclaimed and rushed to help Fakir carry their suitcases up to the train, where a conductor helped hoist them into the carriage. Standing at the top of the steps, Duck turned back and waved at the small party that had gathered to send them off.

"Bye, Miss Edel, Zurab, and Mr. Brahms! We'll see you again!"

Edel picked up Zurab, and the child waved exuberantly as they stood watching from the platform. "Bye-bye, zura!"

Fakir followed closely behind Duck. Before setting foot on the carriage steps, he turned back, and meeting Autor and Edel's eyes, gave a light tip of his hat and was rewarded with a smile from Edel and a faint nod of acknowledgement from Autor.

Under the watch of their friends, the young couple disappeared inside the train, and before long, the train pulled out of the station. Duck popped her head out the window and waved one last time at the diminishing figures down the platform.

With the train picking up speed, Duck and Fakir settled into their seats as the rhythmic "click-clack" of the train wheels carried them away from the home they once knew and into another place where they would make their new home.

Fakir sat by the window with Duck nestled beside him, her hand resting on his shoulder. They watched as the landscape transitioned from the familiar crowded gray buildings of the city to the open spaces of the countryside. With each turn of the train, foreign sights and vistas were revealed, and as the gentle rocking of the carriage gradually lulled Duck to sleep, she recalled her grandpa's words…

"…You, and you alone, can write the ending of your own story. It is up to you to decide what sort of story it will ultimately be…"

A chapter of her life was coming to a close, Duck thought drowsily, closing her blue eyes as she leaned her head against the warm, reassuring presence next to her. But she would continue to write the story of her life, for the next chapter had just begun.

FIN

A/N

*The meaning of white anemone flowers varies depending on the culture. In East Asian culture their white color links them with death, illness, and funerals, as the color white is the traditional funerary color. In Western culture the white anemones' delicate appearance can represent sincerity, while the flower's rhythm of closing at night and opening in the morning represents anticipation and new beginnings.

*Woodlawn Cemetery is a historic burial ground in Bronx, New York, and is the final resting place of many famous, as well as ordinary, people. The cemetery opened in 1863, during the American Civil War, and is still in use to this day.

*August 25th is also the birthday of Ikuko Itoh, the original creator of Princess Tutu.

*The two journalist contacts Autor gives to Fakir are named after Frank Gannett and Melville Elijah Stone. Gannett was the owner of a number of newspapers in the Rochester area, including the Democrat and Chronicle and the now defunct Times-Union. Melville Elijah Stone was a newspaper publisher who became the General Manager of the Associated Press in 1893 and contributed greatly to the organization's expansion up until his retirement in 1921.

And with that, "An Uncommon Proposal" has come to a close! Compared to "An Uncommon Witness", which took seven years to write, this story took less than two. I guess this is the power of having a complete story outline before you start writing. XD;; Joking aside, I couldn't have done it without my friend, Tomoyo Ichijouji, for her feedback and beta work, and I certainly wouldn't have been able to keep up this pace without all of my reader's encouragement.

As for any potential sequels, I do have ideas brewing in my head. It'll be a more straightforward rom-com style story than either AUW or AUP and may end up with a higher maturity rating as well. ;) But we'll see where things go. In the meantime, thank you again for reading, and I hope you've enjoyed this chapter of my little 1920's Princess Tutu AU.