A Royal Christmas Companion
The Genovian palace stood like a storybook illustration, its spires brushing the snow-heavy sky, glittering under the faint light of a December moon. Lights glimmered from its many windows, reflecting on the icy cobblestones of the courtyard. Inside, the air was warm, fragrant with evergreen, cinnamon, and the soft, clean scent of beeswax candles burning steadily in their sconces.
Yet, for all its splendor, the palace felt hollow. A hush hung over the halls, broken only by the distant crackle of a fire or the faint rustle of a maid's passing. Most of the staff had been sent home for the holidays, leaving only a few to tend to essential duties. It was what Clarisse had wanted—what she had told herself she needed—but now, surrounded by silence, she wasn't sure.
She had canceled the annual Christmas ball, citing practicality and the need for restraint in uncertain times. But deep down, she knew the real reason. The thought of standing beneath the towering chandeliers, smiling and hosting an endless parade of cheerful guests, had felt unbearable. In the past, she would have thrived in such a setting, her laughter as much a part of the celebration as the twinkling lights. But this year was different. She didn't feel like the queen they expected her to be—the queen she used to be.
Her eldest son had passed away years ago, a loss that had reshaped her world in ways she still struggled to understand. And her youngest son, while alive and well, had chosen a life of devotion in the church, far removed from the palace and its demands. Once, these halls had been filled with the chaos of family—children's laughter, arguments over decorations, the shared joy of stolen moments. Now, the stillness echoed back at her, magnifying the emptiness.
Clarisse stood in the grand ballroom, gazing up at the Christmas tree. It was a magnificent sight, towering nearly to the vaulted ceiling, its branches adorned with ornaments that oozed luxury and beauty. She reached out, her gloved hand brushing the edge of a ribbon. Somewhere deep inside, she longed to feel the magic of it all, the wonder and warmth that once came so easily. But the spark eluded her, like a distant memory she couldn't quite grasp.
The thought of companionship crossed her mind, fleeting and unbidden. She dismissed it almost as quickly as it came. She had insisted that everyone go home, including Joseph. He had protested, of course, but she'd been firm. It wasn't just about letting others have their holiday—she had wanted the space, the time to herself. Solitude had always been her solace, but tonight, it felt like a burden.
She adjusted an ornament absently, its delicate glass catching the soft glow of the lights. In the quiet, her thoughts wandered to Joseph, uninvited but persistent. Over the years, his presence had become more than just a comfort. It was steady, grounding—a constant in a world that seemed to shift around her. He was the one person who could read her silences, who knew when to step in and when to step back. His absence tonight should have been a relief, but instead, it left an unfamiliar ache.
Clarisse shook her head slightly, dismissing the thought. She was being foolish, sentimental. Joseph deserved his time away, and she had no right to wish otherwise. Pulling her shawl closer around her shoulders, she turned toward the doors, ready to retreat to her suite.
The heavy double doors groaned softly as she reached them. Before she could open them, they swung inward. A draft of cold air swept in, carrying the crisp scent of snow. Standing in the doorway was a tall man, his coat dusted with white, gloves still on. He closed the door behind him with a quiet click, his steady gaze meeting hers.
She swallowed. Joseph.
"Joseph," she said softly, her surprise carefully masked. "What are you doing here? I thought you—"
"Oh, I was halfway there," he interrupted, shrugging out of his coat. Snow dusted his shoulders and clung to the edges of his scarf. "And I thought… well, I've seen enough snow for a lifetime. Roads were terrible, and my nephew's house? Packed with noisy kids and pies. Not exactly restful." His tone was light, but his eyes held something more. "Figured I'd check on the palace, make sure everything was still standing."
His tone was light, but his eyes held something more. It was a look she'd come to recognize over the years—steady, searching, as though he saw far more than she intended to show.
Clarisse tilted her head slightly, studying him with a mix of curiosity and wariness. "You drove all the way back just to check on the palace?" she asked, her voice carefully neutral.
Joseph's lips quirked in a faint smile, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Well, someone has to make sure you haven't been climbing the Christmas tree out of boredom."
She chuckled softly, shaking her head. "How very gallant of you."
His gaze shifted to the tree, watching the lights twinkle against the glass ornaments. "You'd be surprised how fragile those baubles are," he said lightly. "It wouldn't take much to send the whole thing crashing down."
Clarisse's smile lingered, but her mind raced behind it. She had known Joseph long enough to recognize his deflection for what it was. He was dodging her question, turning it into a joke, as he so often did when he didn't want to say too much. But why? What could he possibly be holding back from her?
"I assure you, I've managed to keep the palace intact," she said, her tone equally light. "Though I did almost burn my fingers lighting one of the candles."
Joseph glanced at her then, his eyes softening. "Can't have that. I might be out of a job."
"You'd manage," she replied with a slight wave of her hand. "You always do."
His smile deepened, but he said nothing, and for a moment, the silence stretched between them again. The crackle of the fire filled the space, warm and steady, as the lights from the tree cast shifting patterns on the walls.
"Joseph…" Her voice was quieter now, hesitant, but she pressed on. "You didn't really come all this way just to check on the palace, did you?"
He turned his head to look at her fully, and for a moment, his expression was unreadable. Then, slowly, he shrugged, as if conceding something without really answering. "The roads were bad," he said finally. "Didn't feel like pushing through all that snow."
She raised an eyebrow. "So you decided to come back here instead? Somehow, that doesn't quite add up."
His gaze flickered, not away from hers but into some middle distance, as though he were weighing what to say. Then he sighed, a soft, almost imperceptible sound. "You know me, Clarisse. I don't like leaving things unfinished."
She frowned slightly, puzzled. "What does that mean?"
He didn't answer directly. Instead, he turned back to the tree, his hands sliding into his pockets. "It means I like to be thorough. That's all."
The words were simple, but the way he said them—the low timbre of his voice, the way his shoulders seemed just a little tighter—hinted at something else. Clarisse opened her mouth to press further but stopped herself. What was she hoping to uncover? And would she really be ready for it if he told her?
"Thorough," she echoed softly, letting the word hang in the air. "Well, I suppose I can't fault you for that."
His lips twitched again, this time closer to a genuine smile. "No, you can't."
For a moment, they stood together in companionable silence, the weight of unspoken truths lingering but unbroken. Then, finally, Clarisse gestured toward the nearby sitting room.
"Come in," she said, her voice warmer now, if still tentative. "It's far too cold to stand here debating your reasons by the tree."
Joseph inclined his head, following her into the sitting room. As she poured two glasses of mulled wine, Clarisse found herself wondering, not for the first time, what had really brought him back tonight—and whether she truly wanted to know the answer.
As the fire crackled in the hearth, the warmth of the sitting room felt almost suffocating to Clarisse. She stared into her glass of mulled wine, watching the amber liquid swirl lazily as her fingers grazed the rim. Across from her, Joseph sat with a casual ease, his body leaned back in the chair, his fingers drumming idly on the armrest. How could he seem so at home, while her thoughts were a storm she couldn't quite quiet?
Normally, the two of them could talk about anything. The palace gossip, a report from the security team, a funny anecdote about his nieces and nephews. But tonight, the air felt heavier, as though the quiet itself demanded something of her. The silence between them stretched longer than it should, and though the fire warmed the room, it didn't reach the chill tightening in her chest.
Clarisse took a sip of her wine, stealing a glance at Joseph. His eyes were fixed on the fire, the flickering light catching the planes of his face. She wondered if he was thinking about the same things she was, or if he even realized how disjointed she felt.
"You're awfully quiet tonight," Joseph said suddenly, his voice low and casual. The barest hint of amusement tugged at his tone, but his words felt deliberate, as if meant to pull her out of her thoughts.
Clarisse blinked, caught off guard. "Am I?" She forced a soft chuckle, swirling the wine again. "I suppose I'm just not used to... having company. The palace feels different this year."
Joseph tilted his head slightly, his lips quirking in a faint smile. "You always seem to find somewhere else to be. So what does the Queen do when she's actually free?"
The question hung in the air, and Clarisse found herself unsure of how to answer. What did she do when she was free? Did she even know how to be free anymore? Her fingers traced the rim of her glass, a nervous habit she hadn't noticed until now.
"I don't know," she admitted finally. "Usually, I keep busy. Read, take a walk in the gardens, maybe organize something that doesn't need organizing." She gave a self-conscious laugh, shaking her head. "But tonight feels… different. I thought I wanted time to reflect, but now…" She trailed off, her gaze drifting to the fire.
Joseph shifted in his chair, leaning forward just enough to catch her eye. His tone was light, but there was an undercurrent of something steadier in his words. "But now you're wondering what to do with me here?"
The corners of her mouth twitched in a faint smile, despite herself. "Something like that. I'm used to the palace being empty, but not... you."
Joseph chuckled softly, his posture relaxing further as if to prove a point. "I promise, I'm not here to disturb the peace. Just keeping an eye on things." He paused, the humor softening slightly. "And you."
The words settled between them, unexpected but not unwelcome. Clarisse felt a flicker of warmth at the admission, though she quickly pushed it aside. "I never thought you'd be one for stillness," she said, her voice light, even as she felt the weight of her own words.
He gave a small shrug, leaning back again. "Stillness is underrated. Sometimes, it's the only way to figure out what's worth holding on to."
Clarisse's smile faltered, and her eyes flicked away. Was he implying something? Was he seeing through her in ways she hadn't realized? The tension in her chest tightened again, and she set her glass down with a quiet clink, folding her hands in her lap. "Stillness is... a luxury I'm not sure I've earned."
"Maybe that's the point," Joseph said, his voice softer now. "It's not about earning it. It's about letting yourself have it."
She looked at him then, really looked at him, and for a moment, she saw past the humor and the easy charm to something steadier, something waiting. Her instinct was to push back, to deflect, but tonight, she couldn't quite muster the energy.
"Well," she said finally, her voice quieter, "if anyone's earned stillness, it's you. After all, you're the one keeping the palace standing."
Joseph smiled at that, the warmth returning to his eyes. "And here I thought it was you doing all the hard work."
They shared a quiet laugh, the tension easing slightly. But Clarisse still felt that undercurrent, the questions she didn't dare ask. Why had he really come back tonight? And what did it mean that he was here, now, when she wasn't even sure she wanted to be alone?
As the silence settled between them again, it felt a little less heavy, a little more bearable.
The fire crackled softly in the sitting room, its warm glow casting flickering patterns on the richly paneled walls. Joseph sat back in the armchair, one hand loosely gripping his glass of mulled wine, the other resting on the armrest with a practiced ease. Clarisse sat opposite him, her posture straight but softened by the casual intimacy of the moment.
For a time, neither spoke. The silence wasn't uncomfortable, but it wasn't familiar either. It carried the weight of unspoken thoughts.
"Your nephew," Clarisse said finally, breaking the quiet. "He lives in... Monte Carlo, is that right?"
Joseph's brow lifted slightly, but his expression stayed neutral. "Close. Nice."
"Ah," she said, nodding. "How did he end up there? I always thought your family was rooted in Puerto Rico."
Joseph chuckled faintly, taking a sip of the warm wine. "They are. But my brother moved to Europe years ago for work—got into shipping logistics. My nephew followed when he was old enough. Studied at some fancy French school. And then…" He made a vague motion with his free hand. "Well, you know how it is. People settle where life takes them."
Clarisse tilted her head slightly, studying him. "And you? Life brought you here, to Genovia. But how?"
The question hung in the air, simple but pointed. Joseph leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees as he regarded the fire. "The army," he said, his voice steady but distant. "It took me all over. Europe, Africa, the Middle East. I was stationed here during a peacekeeping mission in the '80s. Got to know the country. Liked it." He paused, a faint smile touching his lips. "And then someone convinced me to stick around."
Clarisse returned the smile, her gaze warm. "I'm glad you did. Genovia wouldn't be the same without you."
Joseph shrugged lightly, his tone wry. "Not sure about that. But it's been… good, staying here. Different."
Clarisse sipped her wine, her curiosity unsatisfied. "What about Christmases? Surely you had a few in Puerto Rico before the army swept you away."
His expression softened, and for a moment, he looked younger, the weight of his usual stoicism lifting. "A few. When I was a kid, Christmas was loud—food, music, neighbors popping in and out. My mother made the best pasteles, and we'd have coquito, though she'd always water it down for us kids." He chuckled softly. "I remember sitting on the balcony with my brother on Christmas Eve, trying to spot the Three Wise Men. We thought we'd see them in the sky if we stayed up late enough."
Clarisse smiled at the image, the warmth in her chest growing. "And did you?"
"Once," Joseph said with mock seriousness, "but I think it was just a plane." His smile faded slightly. "After my mother passed, things… changed. My brother and I didn't keep up with the traditions. By the time I was old enough to leave, Christmas was just another day."
The quiet that followed wasn't uncomfortable, but it carried an undeniable weight. Clarisse looked at him, her expression softening. "I'm sorry," she said gently. "That must have been difficult."
Joseph waved it off, but his tone was genuine. "It was a long time ago."
Clarisse hesitated, then said, "When the boys were young, Christmas was always the highlight of the year. We'd have a big dinner on Christmas Eve, and then I'd let them stay up just long enough to open one present before bed. They'd always try to negotiate for more. Philippe—he was the better negotiator." Her smile dimmed, and her gaze dropped to her lap. "I used to tease him that he should have gone into law instead of politics."
The silence that followed wasn't heavy, but it was poignant. Joseph's eyes softened as he watched her. "He'd be proud of you," he said quietly.
Clarisse blinked, looking up at him, her composure slipping just slightly. "I'm proud of him," she said, her voice just above a whisper. "But there are days when that doesn't make it easier."
Joseph didn't reply immediately. Instead, he leaned back, his expression thoughtful. "I've found that the things that matter most never get easier. You just… learn to carry them differently."
Clarisse met his gaze, her chest tightening at the quiet understanding she saw there. "And you? What do you carry, Joseph?"
The question was bold, and she knew it, but the warmth of the fire and the intimacy of the moment emboldened her.
Joseph smiled faintly, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Enough," he said simply. Then, after a beat, he added, "But not too much. Not anymore."
Clarisse nodded, sensing the boundary he'd drawn. "Still," she said softly, "I think you've carried it well."
Joseph looked at her for a long moment, his gaze steady but unreadable. "So have you," he said finally, his voice quiet but firm.
The tension in the room shifted, warm and electric, as if the space between them had suddenly shrunk. Clarisse looked away first, her cheeks tinged with the faintest hint of color. She reached for her glass, raising it slightly. "To carrying on, then."
Joseph raised his glass as well, his smile returning, softer now. "To carrying on."
The clink of crystal echoed softly, a quiet acknowledgment of all that had been left unsaid.