"Ill?" Alek repeats, incredulous. For a moment he wonders if he hasn't misheard; but his French is not as poor as that. "How can an airship be ill?"

The ticket agent sniffs and says, "I am sure I do not know, monsieur. I am not a fabricator."

A bubble of sick panic rises in Alek's chest. No. It can't end like this – their mad dash across half of Europe, dodging bad weather and worse politics. He's in Calais. He has an entire day left in which to reach London.

And Deryn.

Midnight, Christmas Eve. Just you and me and some mistletoe, aye?

We shall hardly need the excuse, Liebe. But - I promise to be home.

He forces the panic down and straightens to his full height, assuming what he hopes is an air of implacable calm. "When will it be well again?"

"That is for the captain to judge," the man says, as if Alek has insulted him by asking. "Perhaps… a week, I should think."

Two months ago, Alek would have spoken sharply at this juncture. He would have, perhaps, borrowed a phrase or two from Deryn and roundly told the ticket agent exactly what he thought of such incompetence and insolence and sodding inconvenience.

But now the weight of his new title lies stiffly across his shoulders. He says only, "Then I shall need to exchange tickets for another flight."

The ticket agent says, without a trace of regret, "I am so sorry, monsieur, but there are no other flights today."

Title or not, Alek's composure shatters. "It's Christmas Eve!" he exclaims, furious. "Why aren't –"

Count Volger puts a hand on his shoulder. "Your Highness," he says. Warning. To the ticket agent, he says crisply, "See to it that our luggage is returned."

"Of course, sir," the ticket agent says, gives a slight incline of the head that might be considered a bow if one was being very generous, and unhurriedly leaves the counter.

"I'm beginning to hate France," Alek says in German, glaring at the man's back.

Volger harrumphs. "Melodrama does not befit a duke of Austria."

"Neither does breaking promises," Alek snaps. He turns and strides away, towards the doors of the airship terminal. "Come on. There must be another way to get home before midnight."

There isn't.

There are no other scheduled flights, and there are no other airships whose beasts are not ill, whose electrikal engines are not being repaired, whose captains are not inexperienced with overflying the Channel, whose crews are not several cups deep into their Christmas celebration. The ferries aren't running; it's Christmas Eve. By the time Alek begins enquiring into hiring a boat, the day is largely gone, and he won't have time to reach London from the coast.

Volger, who has spent the day deriding his efforts (when he hasn't disappeared for decidedly long coffee breaks), stands beside Alek on the pier as the daylight begins to fade.

"This trip was a terrible idea," Alek says softly, staring across the gray chop: Britain is over there. Britain, London, Deryn, home. "I know it would have been foolish to refuse Karl's invitation. But – Deryn could have come."

Volger says nothing.

Alek sighs. "And I ought to have brought Bovril."

"Yes," Volger says with more than a touch of scorn. "The new Emperor of Austria-Hungary would have greatly enjoyed a Darwinist creature – or two – running about his court."

The darkening sky, the frustrating day, the sickness in his heart, all combine into a bleakness that leaves Alek hollow and cold. He turns away from the British shore and begins walking. "Well, we most certainly should have left Vienna earlier."

"Difficult to walk out on one's host, when he insists on restoring one's family estates and elevating one's rank."

"I was happy as 'Mr. Hohenberg'," Alek says shortly.

God's wounds; it's the truth. And after three years as a commoner, he shall hardly know what do as Duke Aleksandar. Deryn will tease him mercilessly, he is sure of that.

And don't be late, Dummkopf!

Oh? And why not?

You won't get to unwrap your gift.

I'll have to be home early, then.

"If it pleases Your Highness, I took the liberty earlier of making the necessary arrangements," the count says, ignoring Alek's words and oblivious to his inner musings. "There is a hotel room waiting, as well as alternate transportation for the morning."

"Thank you, Count," Alek says, though he hardly means it.

In his mind he imagines firelight, the scent of pine boughs and cinnamon, the soft brush of Deryn's mouth against his.

This may be the worst Christmas yet.

.

.

.

Midnight. Christmas Eve.

Alek leans his forehead against the cold glass of the hotel room window, listening to distant church bells tolling the beginning of Christmas Day. He's still being melodramatic, according to Volger, who has disappeared again.

Perhaps it's the truth. It's such a small thing, after all. Such an inconsequential promise to break, such a ridiculous stroke of bad luck. And yet the ache in Alek's chest isn't small. Or inconsequential. Or ridiculous.

He thinks of the gift he'd found for Deryn in Vienna – a new knife, finely honed, perfectly balanced, and meant for practical use. He'd had her initials engraved on the ricasso.

The last echoing bell-ring fades into the night.

"Happy Christmas, Deryn," he says softly. His breath clouds on the glass, obscuring the nighttime city beyond.

He closes his eyes.

"Oh, good God," Volger says behind him.

Alek starts and straightens up, turning. His fencing tutor is standing in the open door, looking every bit as disdainful as he sounds: "If you're through indulging your misery, Your Highness -?"

"What is it?" Alek says, irritated.

Volger smirks and steps aside without another word.

And Deryn enters the room.

Her airman's clothes are travel-stained, her hair mussed, her eyes exhausted, and she is the most beautiful, impossible, perfect thing Alek has ever seen.

She laughs when he pulls her into a fierce hug, even as she returns the embrace wholeheartedly. "Aye, I missed you too, daftie."

God's wounds, she smells perfect, too. He has to force himself to step back – though he can't bring himself to let go of her hands. "How -?" he says, bewildered and delighted all at once.

She grins. "Dr. Barlow and Volger, how else? Barking plotters. He sent a message this morning, and the lady boffin pulled all sorts of strings to get me on an airbeast and fetch you home."

" 'The necessary arrangements,' " Alek says, glancing over at Volger, who is feigning indifference. "So I see."

"Merry Christmas, Your Highness," Volger says in German, bowing.

"Merry Christmas, Count," Alek says. He lets go of Deryn's hands long enough to give the man a proper bow in return. "And thank you."

Volger harrumphs. "We are leaving at precisely seven o'clock tomorrow morning. Be in the lobby on time. No dallying," he orders, then leaves, shutting the door behind him.

Alek turns back to Deryn. Joy is a bright, sharp thing in his chest. He brushes a finger along her jaw, not quite certain she's truly here, and she smiles at him.

"Here - I brought you a gift," she says, reaching into her heavy airman's jacket. "Two, actually."

One of the gifts is Bovril, who chatters happily before taking up its usual position on Alek's shoulder. "Fetch you home. Daftie," it concludes, as Alek scratches behind its ears.

"Aye," Deryn says softly, not looking at Bovril at all. "Home."

She kisses him then. Curls her fingers into his shirtfront and pulls him close and kisses him. Her mouth is warm and she tastes rather strongly of coffee. Not as appropriate as pine boughs and cinnamon, perhaps, but he doesn't care; she is a miracle, and miracles are quite appropriate today.

Something sharp jabs him in the shoulder. He steps back, swearing, and Deryn looks down at her jacket in surprise, then grins.

"That's the other gift," she says, pulling out a sprig of mistletoe from one pocket. She holds it up between them and twirls it between her fingers, leaves and berries spinning, mischief on her face.

"I told you we wouldn't need it," he says, taking it from her and letting it fall to the floor – where it will not cause any further interruptions.

Bovril cackles. Alek and Deryn both ignore it in favor of another, longer, deeper kiss.

"Happy Christmas, Alek," she says against his lips.

And it is.

.

.

.

Note: In 1917, Emperor Karl reshuffled the House of Hohenberg, making Prince Maximilian (by then the head of the family) into Duke Maximilian. Karl seems to have been a pretty nice guy where Franz and Sophie's real kids were concerned, so I figured he'd be cool to Alek, too, even with the whole, you know, "I want your job" thing. Mostly - I just wanted a reason to strand Alek on Christmas Eve. :D