FIC: The Need of Comrades [chapter 17/17] Part two of two

[splix]

"Do you know one of the smaller, but significant benefits of being a priest?"

"No. Do tell." Struggling with his white tie, Viggo glanced in the cheval mirror at Michael, sprawled across Viggo's bed in a most un-clerical fashion.

"Not having to fuss with deciding what to wear every day. I tell you, Viggo, it's a decided blessing."

"What rot. You're just lazy about getting dressed. I remember you trying to get away with coming to breakfast in your underwear, and now you're trying to parade your sloth as a virtue. It's a deadly sin, you know."

"Call it what you like, it's true," Michael replied calmly. "Look at you, all polished and starched and pomaded. What for, I ask you?"

"Well, for one thing, so Mother doesn't have an apoplectic fit."

"True."

"And for another, I don't mind getting dressed up. I quite like it once in a great while, in fact. There's nothing wrong with a sense of occasion. Why, you wear somber or festive vestments as the holy day demands, don't you?"

"Also true," Michael acknowledged. "My, aren't you full of wisdom tonight."

Viggo snorted and went to the bureau. "Ha. And for another thing, you always manage to look like a peacock in a room full of pigeons, even in a cassock. A much wrinkled cassock, if you don't get up soon."

"Hm." Michael propped himself up on his elbows and regarded his reflection in the mirror. "I don't know about that," he said modestly.

"Vanity and sloth," Viggo said. "I'm telling the Bishop." He turned and strode to the bed, holding out the cufflinks Sean had given him. "Will you help me with these?"

"Surely, surely. My penance for mocking you."

"And vanity and sloth," Viggo reminded him.

"Now, now…." Michael held the loose cuff together and slipped the link through the holes. "These are quite smart."

Viggo smiled. "A gift."

"They don't quite match your studs." Michael nodded at the pearl studs on Viggo's shirtfront.

"I don't care."

"Well, don't let Mother notice. She might send you up to change." Michael finished his task and leaned back. "She is awfully happy to see you, you know."

"Yes. She almost smiled this morning at breakfast."

Michael sighed. "She worries about you."

"I know what she's worried about. She thinks I'm going to take up with one of the footmen in the corridors."

"Viggo!"

"It's true!" Viggo turned away. He worked one foot, then the other, into glossy patent leather evening shoes. "Am I such a terrible person, Michael? Do I seem that depraved?"

"Certainly not. Confused, perhaps."

Viggo wheeled. "Confused? I assure you I'm the least confused man you know."

"Calm down."

"Don't tell me to calm down. In fact, maybe you'd better –"

"Viggo." Michael's voice carried the unmistakable weight of authority. "Sit down."

Unwillingly, Viggo sat, glaring mutinously at Michael. "What?"

"You listen to me. For three days you've been storming about this place with a chip on your shoulder – no, not a chip. A plank. You've been glowering at everyone, daring them to contradict you, spoiling for a fight. You snapped at Grace at luncheon. That's not like you at all. Why do you suppose Mother hasn't smiled much? Why do you think Father's been so quiet and withdrawn? For the love of God, Christmas is supposed to be a season of joy, but you're draining the joy from everybody."

"I thought you said Mother was glad to see me." Viggo's response was more sullen than he'd intended.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! You know Mother. She'd do anything to defy what you'd actually expect of her. Of course she's glad to see you. I think she's afraid that you'll explode in a rage, though."

"Well, they can just chloroform me or club me over the head before I get to the door and pack me off to the asylum again."

Michael shook his head. "They were wrong to do that."

"I'm glad you think so, at least."

"I argued with them for weeks about it. I defended you, I defended Sean – they were intractable."

Viggo peered curiously at his brother. "You defended Sean?"

"Why, naturally. I'm fond of him."

"Even if you know that he – that he and I –"

Michael sighed deeply. "May I confide in you?"

"Of course."

"I told Sean, and I'm telling you – this is a problem for me, Viggo. In fact, I might go so far as to say it's a crisis of faith. Before I…well, before, if a man confessed that he was engaging in intimate congress with another man, I'd chide him soundly and issue a strict penance. It's a mortal sin, you see, because sexual union is meant for marriage, and for procreation. The Church tells us that quite clearly. And yet…."

"And yet?" Viggo's face was hot. He couldn't quite believe he was having this conversation.

"And yet I find it difficult to condemn my own brother. You see the dilemma? I've been praying for a solution, but have yet to receive an answer. I wonder sometimes if God is even listening."

"Do you think I'm going to hell? And Sean, too?"

"Do I think you're going to hell?" Michael bit his lower lip. "I couldn't make that guess, Viggo. It's not my place to do so, no matter what some priests would have you think. I will tell you my most fervent hope. I hope that God, in His infinite mercy, will see the good man that I know you are, and the good man that Sean is. I hope that he'll see your kindness, and your gentle nature, and your compassion for the less fortunate. I can't help but hope that those virtues will outshine whatever sins you've committed." He grinned wryly. "Besides, heaven would be very lonely if you weren't there to argue with me."

Viggo was silent for a moment. "I wish you'd tell Mother and Father that."

"I might, some day. They're frightened, Viggo. And now, with this new anger of yours –"

"I didn't mean to be so cross," Viggo said, humble in the face of Michael's tenderness. "Truly, I didn't. But when I arrived, and they were so stiff and pompous, I – well, I conducted myself poorly."

"Father seems to think you only came for your bankbook."

"If that were true, I would have retrieved it, turned around, and left."

"That's what I told him." Michael seemed pleased with himself. "But I think you should say something conciliatory to poor Grace. She was in tears after luncheon."

"I will." He couldn't tell Michael that he'd snapped at Grace because Charlotte sat beside her, blithely, arrogantly, and that they were both secure in the knowledge that no one would ever possibly guess that they were together. He couldn't begrudge her that security, and it was terribly unfair to be angry about it. But it was a difficult weight to bear nonetheless.

"That's fine." The lively strains of a waltz filtered through the closed door, and Michael rose from the bed with a groan. "Well, I believe we've managed to avoid the receiving line. With any luck, Mother won't have noticed. Shall we go downstairs and mix with Philadelphia's finest?"

Viggo nodded and turned for a final inspection in the mirror. "Michael…what if I told you I saw Sean a few days ago? Would that change what you just told me?"

Michael started. "I thought he'd been deported."

"Not so, as it happens. He gave me these." Viggo indicated his cufflinks.

"I'd think you'd be much happier, then. Did you have a quarrel?"

"No."

"I see." Michael tilted his head to one side, scrutinizing Viggo. "Yes, I think I see. Well then. No, it wouldn't change anything I said." He paused. "Have you come back to say good-bye? Is that it?"

Viggo drew on his gloves, fitting them tightly over each finger. "I don't know. I'd been saving for a ticket to England. Now I find I don't need to. But I don't know what's going to happen. I'm not sure of anything."

"I'll pray for you, then."

"Do that," Viggo said. "I think I need prayers now."

Michael smiled. "Do you know Sean said almost the same thing to me?"

"When?"

"Right before he went looking for you in the mine. Maybe my prayers are answered after all."

Viggo found himself smiling back at Michael. "Maybe. Maybe they are."

*

Forty-five minutes into the evening, Viggo was starting to feel like some exotic circus animal. Dozens of people clustered round him, offering good wishes, tidings of the season, sympathy for his recent plight, and pleasure that he'd decided to join society once more, but the light of speculation shone in too many eyes, and there was a disagreeable note of avid curiosity in the silkily solicitous voices around him. He did his best to answer the questions with courtesy. Yes, it had been a frightening experience, but it was in the past, thank heavens. Yes, he had been quite ill for some time afterward, but all was well now, fortunately. Yes, he still lived in Wilkes-Barre; he quite liked it there. No, he didn't find it frightening. No, his nerves were just fine, thank you very much for asking, though. About that young man who had rescued him? He was a friend, and Viggo was very grateful to him, naturally. No, he wasn't sure where he was living now. They'd lost touch. Yes, it was a shame.

The beginnings of a headache needled into his temples. He escaped a small knot of oddly ardent and forward young ladies – new debutantes, he was given to understand – and slipped into a corner behind a table of refreshments. He accepted a cup of eggnog served from a holly-bedecked silver bowl almost big enough to bathe in, and rested his forehead against the window, soothed by the chill.

The heat of the room and its some six hundred occupants had melted all the frost from the window. Viggo breathed on it, watching fog form on the glass. Absently, he traced a spiral in the condensation with his gloved fingertip and watched it melt away. He breathed on it again – a childish game, he knew, but one he'd never quite outgrown – and sketched Sean across the pane. Beneath it, he traced his own name. He stepped back a pace to look at it, then boldly drew a heart around the two names. Shocking, shocking. He beamed, and then wiped it all away.

There would be a faint imprint left on the window, though, even beneath the broad swipe. That pleased him in an obscure fashion.

"There you are!"

Viggo turned and suppressed a groan. Coming toward him at a near gallop was Archie Lockwood, followed by his mother, Rebecca, and his sister Charity. Rebecca appeared to have Charity in a death-grip as she all but dragged her toward the punch table.

"Viggo, old man! Just when I was beginning to believe I'd never see you again." Archie wrung Viggo's hand with painful enthusiasm and clapped him on the shoulder. "Oh, I say. Sorry, your hands are in a bad state, I'd heard." He dropped Viggo's hand as if he'd discovered he was holding a dead fish.

"No, they're fine. How are you, Archie?"

"How am I? I'm right as rain, but never mind me! I haven't seen you for six months or more, and I'm itching to hear about everything. You've had quite the adventure. I'm damned near jealous."

Trust Archie to treat everything like a lark. He was thick-headed, snobbish, heedless of anyone else's sensibilities, and behaved as if the world had been created for his amusement, but he also had a sturdy cheerfulness that made it impossible to despise him. "I wouldn't quite call it an adventure, Archie. It's good to see you again, though." He bowed to the ladies. "Mrs. Lockwood – Charity – you're both looking delightful this evening."

Rebecca Lockwood, in a rose-colored gown, dragged Charity a little closer. "How kind of you to say so! You're looking wonderful as well, Viggo. Goodness, we fretted about you for months. We only read the accounts of your misfortune in the newspapers. Your mother was quite uncommunicative. Well, that is understandable. Of course she must have been prostrate with agony."

Viggo wondered if it was his circumstances that occasioned Mrs. Lockwood's interest in his mother, or the papers' mention of the Mortensen fortune. "That's very kind of you to say so."

"Charity kept a scrapbook of the whole thing," Archie said. "Damned silly, but that's a girl for you, eh?" Behind him, Charity turned white, then bright red. Her flushed skin clashed with her peach dress. Clearly mortified and still rooted to the spot by her mother's hand, she lowered her head and swallowed.

A scrapbook? "It's terribly kind of you to be so concerned about me, Charity." Viggo stepped forward, took Charity's gloved hand, and raised it to his lips. "Thank you." He leaned close and kissed her cheek as well.

Charity gazed at him with eyes full of veneration and yearning. "It's always lovely to see you, Viggo."

"I understand you're coming out next year. Your mother will have a job on her hands then, beating back platoons of handsome young fellows."

"Oh, I'll beat them back myself," Archie said blithely. "But really, Vig, I think she's hoping for –"

"I'm sure she'll be a great success," Viggo interrupted, giving Mrs. Lockwood a strained smile. His headache grew worse. Dear God, he wanted to be with Sean. What was he doing here, with these people?

"Well, never mind all that. What I want to know is, when are you coming back to Philadelphia? You can't possibly enjoy living in that backwater up north. And I hear you're a bank teller? Now tell me that's not true, old man. Got to be a rumor, eh?"

"Not at all," Viggo replied coolly. "It's true. I work at First National Bank."

"Why, for God's sake?"

"I'm enjoying my independence."

Archie turned to his mother and sister. "Vig and I are going to have a chat. Excuse us." He put an arm around Viggo's shoulder and steered him away from the table. "Now look here, old man. We're both men of the world, aren't we?"

"Why, I suppose so, depending upon your definition of the term."

"All right, then. I'll speak plainly. I've heard a whisper or two about your, er, proclivities. I know it took a while for you to become friendly with our group in college, but you should know that sort of thing was more common than you might think."

Viggo folded his arms. "Whatever do you mean?"

"Don't play games, Vig. You know what I mean. It's the sort of thing that happens in youth, though, and usually accompanied by a fifth of gin, if you know what I mean. What I'm telling you is that you've got it out of your system now, and it needn't be a barrier among the right sort of people, as long as you stay on the straight and narrow from now on."

"And I suppose the straight and narrow includes the not-so-occasional visit to a brothel. I hear you're squiring Millicent Rutherford around. Suppose you marry her, Archie? How will she feel if you give her a dose of something you picked up from a prostitute?"

Archie lifted his eyes to heaven. "For God's sake, don't try to confuse the situation, old man. Look, I'm not going to tell you what to do, but may I strongly suggest you at least move out of the wilds of Scranton and –"

"Wilkes-Barre."

"Fine. Wilkes-Barre. Move out of the wilds of Wilkes-Barre and come to live amongst civilized people again, will you? Charity's longing to see more of you, and even if she's not your sort of girl, Millie's out this year, and has plenty of beauteous friends, tu comprends?"

Viggo regarded Archie carefully, taking in his perfect evening clothes, his fairness, his height, his carelessly aristocratic bearing, every aspect of what constituted taste and breeding in Philadelphia. Archie had always been kind to Viggo, even in his early days as an arriviste, and he would always be casually confident of his place in society. He had an old name, the weight of tradition in his family, and there were always upstarts like the Rutherfords, who manufactured bathtubs, who would be delighted to sacrifice a daughter to an Old Philadelphia scion along with an infusion of ready capital. Archie Lockwood had Philadelphia at his feet, and probably always would.

Viggo thought of Sean standing on South Main Street in the snow, the wind turning his cheeks red. He thought of Sean's sweet, lavish smile, his bright green eyes, the graceful economy of his body. He thought of his steadfast devotion, his shy affection, his boundless courage. Archie might have Philadelphia; Viggo had Sean. Or would, he hoped, with some persuasion.

He smiled at Archie. "I'll give it due consideration, Archie. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to speak to my sister."

Archie nodded, clearly satisfied he'd resolved the matter satisfactorily. "You should ask Charity for a dance," he called after Viggo's retreating figure.

Viggo made a beeline to the far end of the room, where his parents stood talking with Charlotte's parents, who had come up from Wilkes-Barre for the occasion. Mr. and Mrs. Welles greeted him effusively, clearly forgetting, or choosing to forget, the unpleasant confrontation that had occurred at their house on Independence Day.

"Good to see you, young fellow. My word, what a time you've had," Chester Welles fog-horned, clapping Viggo on the back.

"It's wonderful to see you looking so well," Mrs. Welles said, drawing Charlotte close to her. "We were ever so worried about you. Weren't we, Charlotte?"

"Oh, yes," Charlotte said.

Viggo hid a smile and bowed politely to them. Mr. and Mrs. Welles were evidently used to Charlotte's perpetual indifference. He turned to his parents. "Mother, Father – I was going to steal Grace away for a dance."

Grace lifted her pale eyebrows and stared at him coldly. "Really? I'll check my dance card."

"It's the Emperor Waltz," he wheedled. "Your favorite. Come on, it's only just started."

She thawed a little. "All right."

Viggo nodded to his parents. They looked pathetically eager, and he felt a tide of remorse. Sean was right; Michael was right. They did love him, even if they had strange ways of demonstrating it. Sometimes it was easier to love from a distance, though. He held out his arm to Grace. "Mademoiselle."

"Monsieur." Grace tucked her gloved arm through Viggo's, caught up the train of her silvery dress, and they swept into the whirling crowd of dancers. Grace scowled at him. "You've been very cross with me."

"Gracie, I'm sorry. I truly am. I…I've been desperately unhappy the past few days."

"I know. And don't think I don't know why. I've got Charlotte here, and –" She shrugged, flushing. "I know what you must be thinking. It isn't fair. I know it isn't fair. But please –"

"No. I've been terrible. Grudging, jealous, ugly. I'm sorry for it."

Grace sighed, and held the train of her gown a little higher. "Charlotte even asked if she should leave."

Viggo tried to imagine the stony Charlotte unbending enough to offer such a thing. "Did she? That was generous. But she needn't. Please tell her that. I'm sure she wouldn't want to hear such a thing from me."

"Probably not."

"So you forgive me?"

"Yes. Idiot." They both laughed. "Now what about Mother and Father? They're positively terrified of you right now."

"Oh, Gracie. If they could only understand that I'm not trying to wound them, or ruin their social position –"

"I think they do. At least, they realize you're not being – I don't know. Malicious, I suppose."

"Good God. I hope they don't think I took up with Sean to spite them? That's ridiculous."

Grace shrugged. Her delicate earrings, like snowflakes laced with diamonds, twinkled under the lights. "I know. Oh, Viggo, I wish you could find him. Well, now that you've got your money, you can go to England quickly."

"I've already found him."

Grace stopped in her tracks, causing a near collision with two other dancers. She stared at him. "You have?"

Viggo nodded, unable to suppress a wide grin. "He's in Wilkes-Barre. He's been in the northeast the whole time. He's been looking for me. Imagine it!"

"Well, I never – what on earth are you doing here, then?"

He prodded her back into motion. "Keep dancing. Well, I came for my money, for one thing. Also, I wanted to see you, and Michael, and the others. Yes, Mother and Father too. It may be some time before I see any of you again."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because I want to persuade Sean to go away with me."

"Come to Boston!"

"Well, maybe," Viggo said hesitantly. "It's a pity. I'd really rather not leave Wilkes-Barre. I've grown fond of it."

"Despite everything?"

"Yes, despite all of it."

"What a sentimental old thing you are," Grace said. "You'll give him my best?"

"Naturally." The dance ended, and the orchestra slipped into a slower tune. Viggo escorted Grace back to where Charlotte stood watching with narrow eyes. She would have to be careful of her obvious jealousy, Viggo reflected; someday someone might make a connection. "Dance, Charlotte?"

"No, thank you."

Viggo smiled. Perhaps Chilly Charlotte wasn't an inappropriate sobriquet.

"Sir?" Pearce slipped close to Viggo, outfitted in butler's togs. He was assisting guests, helping with coats, hats, escorting the ladies up the carefully salted steps. "Could I have a word?"

"Certainly, Pearce." Viggo followed Pearce out to the main hall, now empty but for a few guests arriving late, laughing and chattering loudly. "Is there something wrong?"

Pearce sniffed. "Well, that depends, so. There's a gentleman wants to speak with you." He pointed to a shadowed niche and marched off.

Viggo walked toward the niche, straining to see who wanted to speak with him. "Good evening. Who's that?"

"It's me." Sean stepped halfway out of the shadows. He took off his hat, revealing tousled gold hair.

"Sean!" Viggo glanced over his shoulder at the now-empty hall, rushed forward, and pressed Sean against the marble wall, kissing him.

Sean's hand slid down Viggo's shoulder to his hip, then slipped around to caress Viggo's backside before he pulled away, panting. "Christ, Viggo. We'll get caught."

"I don't care. I'm overwhelmed to see you – you're frozen, poor man! Let me take your coat." He tugged at Sean's plaid scarf, all the while admiring the high color in his cheeks, his sparkling eyes.

"Nay, nay – I'm not staying. Your mam and dad are here, aren't they?"

"Yes, but that doesn't matter."

"It does. I don't want to spoil their Christmas." Sean gently pried his scarf out of Viggo's hand. "I only came to have a word with you."

Viggo couldn't resist kissing Sean's cold cheek again. "What is it? My God, you came all this way just to have a word? At least come into the kitchen and get warm for a bit."

Sean shook his head. "Nay. I just want to speak my piece, then I'll be off."

A spark of fear kindled in Viggo's heart. "What? What's wrong?"

"I were thinking about what you said to me the other day, in the hotel." Sean's words came out in a low rush. "About wanting to be together, like."

"Yes?"

"Well. I…I want that too."

Pure joy extinguished the ember of fright. "You do?"

"Aye, I do that. If you still do, that is."

"Of course. Of course I do."

"I had an idea. I don't know if you'll like it. Mr. Halloran gave me some money, you see, and I know you said you were going to lay your hands on your own whilst you were here –"

"Yes. I got my bankbook at last," Viggo said. "I don't know if I want to stop working, though. The thought of simply being idle isn't really appealing to me."

"Me either. I thought that – well, Mr. Halloran hasn't sold those mines yet, and maybe you and I could – I don't know. Be partners, like."

"Partners?"

"Aye. It wouldn't be as if you'd compete with your dad, since he's not got mines in Hazleton." Sean bit his lower lip. "And we could pay them a decent wage, maybe a pension, and make it safer for them…I understand if you don't want to, though. If it's – if the memories are too bad for you."

"We could be reformers."

"Only if you want to."

"What a splendid idea."

"And there are some pretty houses out that way," Sean said. "Or we could build one, or maybe two little houses if you thought it wouldn't look right. Whatever you thought were best."

"You're brilliant, my dear man." Viggo grinned, then sobered. "And you'd do that? You'd stay with me?"

Sean nodded. "I still don't think your mam were wrong, Viggo. But…." He shrugged helplessly. "I can't live without you now."

Viggo touched Sean's cheek. "I'm so glad to hear that."

"Aye, well, I weren't doing owt else today, and I were thinking that since you didn't get me a Christmas gift, it might be quite nice to hear you say it."

"I can't think of a better gift," Viggo said softly. "Sean, I want to spend every moment of the rest my life with you." The familiar blush tinted Sean's face and ears. An irrepressible smile tugged at his mouth. Viggo kissed Sean's lips, a quick, soft brush that excited him nonetheless.

"I've got a cab waiting outside," Sean said apologetically. "I'd best be off."

"But you've only just arrived," Viggo protested.

"Aye, but I can't stay." Sean caught Viggo's hand in his and kissed his gloved palm. He beamed as he noticed the mother-of-pearl cufflinks. "You look right dashing."

"Thank you." Viggo vacillated between wanting to hide Sean in his bedroom and wanting to drag him into the ballroom, but neither was a possibility. He wrung his hands unhappily, and then brightened. "Can you wait here for just a few moments? No more than five minutes, I promise."

"Oh, aye. I guess so."

"Good. Don't move. Or rather – maybe you should sit here." Viggo led Sean to a striped bench beneath a bust of Apollo. "Sorry it's so damned drafty."

Sean gazed around with frank wonder. "It's like a railway station, or an opera house. I didn't look at it proper last time."

"Apt. I'll be right back." He kissed Sean's nose and dashed upstairs to his room. Hastily, he threw his things in his suitcases, heedless of order, and closed them. He grabbed his overcoat, snatched up the suitcases, and pounded downstairs, then made his way back into the ballroom.

His parents were still at the far end, talking to Mr. and Mrs. Welles. Grace and Charlotte were nearby, their heads bent together. Viggo felt a pang of envy. He hoped that Grace would be able to keep her secret forever, but how pleasant to be so casually intimate, so open. He would never have that, never.

He squared his shoulders and walked toward his parents. "Mother, Father –" He took each of them by the arm and drew them away, nodding to Mr. and Mrs. Welles. "Please excuse us for a moment."

Mr. Welles nodded genially. "Dance, dear?" They sailed away.

"Well, lad? What's on your mind?" Harald was bluff, hearty as ever, but his eyes were apprehensive. Katherine merely watched Viggo.

"I'm sorry I was snappish and cross. It was wrong of me."

"Well," Harald hedged. "Maybe we all did things that were wrong."

Viggo struggled to suppress a surge of irritation. His father was trying, in an oblique way, to apologize. "Perhaps. At any rate, I'm sorry. I wanted to let you know that I'm leaving."

Katherine grew white and rigid. "Leaving?" She grasped part of her beaded dress in one hand. A few seed pearls pattered onto the floor in a sudden pocket of silence.

"Yes. I think it would be better if I left quickly and quietly."

"Are you going to England?" she asked through a clenched jaw.

"No. There's no need for that."

"No need," Harald echoed.

"Sean's in Pennsylvania. His immigration problems were repaired."

Katherine exhaled. "I see. Then I suppose there's nothing more to discuss."

Pain lodged in Viggo's chest. "Mother…isn't there any way you could love me, even if you don't approve of me?"

She stared at him, sagging a little, her eyes filming over with tears. Then she straightened, her spine like iron. "I loved you from the first moment I clapped eyes on you. I have always loved you. I will always love you, even when you break my heart and act in this utterly, utterly foolish –" She broke off angrily. "I can't discuss this any longer." She swept up her skirts, turned on her heel, and walked across the room.

Viggo covered his eyes with a hand and felt a gentle touch on his shoulder.

"Give her time, lad."

"But you don't approve either, do you?" Viggo took out his handkerchief and wiped his eyes.

"How can I, son? It's not natural."

Viggo remained silent. There was nothing more natural, to his mind.

"Write to us." Harald awkwardly patted Viggo's arm. He stood uncertain for a moment, then nodded in farewell and went to join Katherine, who was already chatting with other guests.

Viggo stood alone. Grace and Charlotte had slipped away. In a far corner, Michael was holding court, fascinating a group of elderly bejeweled ladies. All around him, people were dancing, drinking, and eating, brilliant in dark formal clothes, butterfly-bright gowns, diamonds, emeralds, sapphires, rubies, and pearls flashing and glowing in the light of the blazing chandeliers. Music and laughter soared to the high ceiling.

He turned and shouldered through the crowd, forging a path to the deserted hall.

No, not deserted. He shrugged into his coat, picked up his suitcases, and hurried to the little alcove.

Sean got to his feet, eyeing Viggo's suitcases. "Viggo?"

An extraordinary, wondering peace filtered into Viggo's soul. "I'm ready, if you are."

"Aye. Aye, I'm ready."

Outside, the world was cold, white, frosted with stars like a casual scattering of diamonds across a bolt of jeweler's black velvet. They climbed into the waiting cab, and Viggo slipped his hand into Sean's.

"Let's go home," he said.




End.


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