My nails dug into his shoulders, squeezing tight.
He leaned down, his lips skating across mine. “Do you want me to let go this time?”
I let out a quick, nervous huff of laughter, side-eyeing the semi-circular balcony edge.
He hooked his free hand around my waist, the other one removed from my neck, and took my hand in his. The neck ribbon from his hand fluttered into the air when a small breeze blew forward, sending it out into the air and getting smaller as it descended toward the street below.
“You wouldn’t let me go, even if I asked you to,” I finally replied, my breath hitching when the cold air hit my face.
His slow smirk grew at my words. “Escaping me would never be as easy as a request, my dearest fixation.”
“Then where do we go from here?” I hummed.
The music from the main parlor room traveled lightly with the wind. It was quieter being at the top floor of a building, so all we had was the music traveling from the cracked window, and the smell of crisp winter to wake the spirits.
He held me close, and then a small sway along with the music, my hand in his, his hand on my waist. “We will go wherever you please.”
I laughed again, leaning against him. “And if I say I’d like to go beyond the clouds?”
“I will find a way.”
“Even if it is impossible?”
“I think we have shown each other enough of the impossible already.” He lifted my hand, giving me a slow spin before dipping me. “Everything worth something has a place.”
“And where is yours?” I asked. “Your place?”
“Wrapped around the fourth finger of your left hand.”
I rolled my eyes as he pulled me up straight, and a bell chimed sharply in the distance, within the main rooms.
We stood, nearly nose to nose. Every breath was impossible to hide when the frozen posture gave away how much or how little we did so in each other’s presence. I leaned up on my toes again, my lips against his cheek and then his ear. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Forbes.”
With that, I left him for the warmth of the festivities. He did not join us for the feast that night.
40
THE FIXER
The communion should feel good. Gathering with loved ones, the celebration of thoughtfulness, or even just to get drunk on someone else’s dime. For me, it was invasive. Like a mirage from long ago, tempting desires never acted upon. As if I touched anything in the scene before me, the illusion would crumble before my eyes.
A real tree, with real gifts under it. Real people who may actually, truly care for one another. All strangers to me, almost as strange as the concept to me.
Holidays were never my favorite, no matter the tradition. For those privileged enough, it was a time of joy. For others, it is a reminder of what was absent, or what god didn’t bother to give them.
Celebrations in the orphanage were sterile, bleak. Once upon a few centuries, this was all I dreamed about. And it was only dreams that would feel real.
Here I was, a trespasser in yet another unfamiliar home, with someone else’s family.
Yet, in my lap, a firm grip on a gift. Forme, which was a moresurprising detail than the former. My knuckles were white, a pulsing grip of disbelief.
I sat alone for a while, I do not know how long I contemplated for.
Edith had gotten up to give something to another. Which made it dawn on me that I wasn’t part of their little white elephant swap to begin with. She did that on her own.
How pitiful.
It wasn’t hard to slip away from the celebration. It was exciting and shiny, enough to where I could leave without the party missing a beat.
