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“Do you remember the year of the Advent War?”
“Tell me again.”
Robert Lutece still looked terribly pale, but his eyes lit up with the memory. “You must remember.”
“I like the way you tell it.” As she watched her twin, Rosalind’s eyes glistened with something else entirely.
“That was the year all the cousins brought all their toy soldiers to Christmas, and I had mine—and all the girls were so cross that I let you be my colonel, when none of their brothers would share—”
While he launched into the story, she found herself distracted by memories of her own. She did remember the War, but in her recollection, she’d been sidelined with the rest of the female children, without a twin to be her advocate among the males. At nine, Rosalind Lutece had been too serious for the cousins her own age, and too young for the older girls to tolerate her presence. That year, like most others, she’d spent hiding in the library, taking the opportunity—with her governess distracted by the mob of cousins, and her mother by playing hostess—to sneak books that weren’t suitable for little girls. Her cherished Christmas memories were spent alone with Schopenhauer and Laplace; formative time, to be sure, but she might also have liked to play soldiers. If she’d had someone to play with.
“I was cross that I only got to be a colonel, with you a general.” She would have been, had it happened.
“Oh, terribly cross, but it took ages convincing the other boys of even that much. I think George was worried the two of us together would outsmart him. As, of course, we did.” He offered her a conspiratorial smirk. Even in this state, he knew what was most important—that together, they could outmatch the world.
A few short months ago, Robert had slipped the bonds of his own reality to join her in hers, and upon arrival had promptly swooned into her arms, in a blood-soaked scene worthy of Shakespeare. For that first month, he could hardly look at her without repeating the performance; the slightest hint that this world was not his own made his body revolt against his mind. To shield him from the truth, his brain fed him falsehoods—which, when corrected, only made him bleed again, like picking a scab too early from a wound. Even the gentlest attempt to enlighten him caused only confusion, distress, and violent haemorrhage. Much as it pained her to leave him in ignorance, she admitted at last that truth would do him no good if it killed him to learn it.
Left unchecked, his delusions formed a protective barrier around his psyche, an elaborate facade of false memories to explain his current circumstances. He asked no questions, and she bit her tongue on answers. Thus, as the weeks passed, he bled less often and spent more time out of bed; he emerged from the fog of confusion, bright-eyed and attentive, as the genius she knew him to be, and when he mentioned some fond remembrance she ought to share, she forced a smile, and lied.
Christmastime, apparently, made him nostalgic. “You must remember our triumph at the Battle of the Drawing Room.”
“Oh yes,” she lied again. “A magnificent victory.”
Robert knew her as his sister—his natural-born twin, as opposed to the unnatural facts of their relation. He remembered a lifetime side by side. She couldn’t help envying that.
Her ‘brother’ had spent most of the week waxing poetic about Yuletides past. “That was my first Christmas home from school, wasn’t it? I don’t think I let go of your hand the whole time.” Sharing his better presents with her, books and proper toys, when she received hair ribbons and delicate dolls; pulling one another about on their sled—mostly him pulling her, until he got tired, at which point he could make her switch places by betting she wasn’t strong enough; endless chess games by the fireside. Little Rosalind, alone, had been reduced to playing chess against herself. She’d spent many a snowy day indoors, pretending not to be jealous of children whose clothes weren’t too nice to get wet.
As soon as he was well enough, she’d insisted they play chess, to test his mental faculties and keep him sharp. Finally having a worthwhile opponent was only a bonus.
This evening, the chessboard had been put away after yet another hard-fought stalemate. Dinner had been eaten, wine drunk—though that she allowed only in moderation, as Robert was still somewhat anaemic, and a single glass went quickly to his head. He looked comfortably drowsy now, reclined on the settee with an after-dinner pipe, his slippered feet stretched out to warm by the fire. She’d used his illness to excuse them both from Columbia’s public celebrations, allowing them to remain in dressing gowns all day; it’d be indecent to be seen so, even among family, but theirs was a more intimate kinship than that.
Firelight played across his features, so very like her own. He appeared more relaxed than she herself ever was around another person, but likewise, she felt unusually at ease in his presence. Perhaps that should not be surprising. Being around him was as easy as being alone—though significantly more enjoyable.
She poured a second glass of wine for herself, and came to join him by the fire. His sprawling posture occupied the whole seat. “Budge up.” He did, but when she sat, he settled back into position reclined on her instead, letting his head and shoulder rest against hers. Half-consciously, she leaned into him in return, head turned so her cheek rested against his hair. A deep, slow breath immersed her in the smell of him, distinctly masculine yet just as distinctly her own.
Could he ever know the truth? Or would that knowledge cost him his life, or his sanity? Their victory belonged to both of them; it didn’t seem fair to let him think they were together through as simple an accident as birth. She shifted to drape an arm around his other shoulder. To be here—in the same world, in the same room, with nothing left between them but their separate skins—they’d battled the universe itself, and won.
He puffed gently on his pipe, embers glowing in its bowl. “It’s a shame we missed last Christmas at home.”
Here she had to tread carefully, not knowing how his brain had reimagined the past year. “I’m glad I got to spend it with you.” ‘We’ suggested he knew that much. And it was correct—they’d exchanged presents through a Tear, still a universe apart, but it had been the best Christmas of her life, until this one.
“I couldn’t leave you all alone in America.” So he thought he’d come to visit her before? Interesting. “Mother was livid—she didn’t see why I should go to you instead of you coming home—but she doesn’t understand the urgency of work like ours.” An even more delicate subject. How much did he remember of their work? When he first laid eyes on their contraption, which he’d helped design but had never seen, he’d fainted on the spot, leaking blood terrifyingly from his ears.
She steered towards the more mundane topic. “I hope my company was worth upsetting poor Mother.” Robert’s real mother, who never had a daughter, must be fretting over her only son; they’d planned this visit to last weeks, not months, and she’d doubtless expected him home long since. If she was anything like the mother Rosalind knew, though, Rosalind couldn’t bring herself to feel more than cursory remorse.
“I’ll admit, it was a wrench. She’s the second-most important woman in my life, after all.”
“Oh? You didn’t mention you were courting someone.”
He tutted. “You know the first is you.”
It ought not to please her so, that he had no one but Mother waiting at home for him, but she couldn’t deny the warm rush of satisfaction. How could she help feeling possessive? He was her flesh and blood, more so than any real twin. She theorised that the transfusions of biomatter originating in her universe helped inoculate him against its ill effects; by this point, how much of what pumped through his heart had come from her own marrow?
His hand found hers. At any other touch she’d flinch away, but his was no more an intrusion than touching herself. Their fingers laced. “I’m sorry for last year’s gift.”
“What for?”
“We got ourselves the same book.”
“Don’t be.” It had been a marvellous gift, though she couldn’t tell him why—couldn’t remind him how they’d excitedly compared editions, his copy native to her world, hers to his. “We have excellent taste.”
“And this year I haven’t got you anything at all.”
Impossibly cruel to let him think so, with how hard he’d worked and how much he’d gambled to give her this moment. “You’re here. That’s present enough.” She squeezed his fingers in hers. “And I’ve been so busy nursemaiding you, I’ve not got you anything either.”
“Keeping me alive is present enough.”
“I should hope so. Blood, sweat, and tears I’ve shed for you.”
“My sister.” He brought her hand to his lips, letting her feel his smile. “How shall I ever repay you?”
“Keep living. And perhaps change your own linens, now you’re up and about.”
“Consider it done.” Their folded hands rested in his lap. “But what about next Christmas?”
“Robert…”
“A bit of jewellery you’ve been coveting? Some new laboratory apparatus?” Finally, someone in her life who agreed that scientific equipment would be a suitable gift. “Though you’ll forgive me if a generator is too large to giftwrap.”
“I can think of no better way to spend an evening than browsing a supply catalogue with you.” If he was well enough for it in a year’s time, that would be worth more than anything she might purchase there.
For a while, they simply sat, warmed by the fire and by one another’s company. He stole a few generous sips from her wine glass, which she allowed, in exchange for a few pulls from his pipe. He’d been shocked at first by the readiness with which she smoked, before fabricating a memory of a teenage sister nicking his first pipe to try herself. It did sound like something she’d do. In reality—her reality—she more often smoked cigarettes, which led him to correct her technique, but true to form, she insisted he share.
She joined him reminiscing. “Do you remember Uncle Montgomery’s favourite ghost story?”
“How could I forget? It gave us nightmares.”
“Mother used to scold him for it, but I’d corner him and make him tell it anyway.”
“Every year. And when you couldn’t sleep that night, you’d crawl into bed with me.”
She remembered tucking her head under the blankets, and the cold pride of braving the night alone. “I’m sure you crawled in with me more often that I did with you.”
“Call it even?”
“Acceptable.” This game of make-believe had more intricate rules than in childhood, but still, it was pleasant.
“We’ve missed our Christmas clothes two years in a row, now. Mother will have them waiting. You’d best come home before summer, or we’ll both be wearing velvet in July.”
She snorted. “All the more reason to keep away.”
“Oh—I thought you liked them.” He sounded sincerely disappointed. “I do.”
“You never had to to wear a bustle.”
“You must admit, we looked darling when we matched.”
“Well. That’s not the part I object to.” Of course Rosalind’s mother would dress her twins in matching outfits. More embarrassingly, she’d had the same idea herself, contemplating a visit to the tailor once Robert could manage it. “Remember playing piano at the Christmas parties?” She could just see it—a pair of children like matched candlesticks, playing a duet, while beaming Mrs. Lutece and her guests looked on.
In his second’s hesitation, she realised she’d struck a discrepancy. “Did we?”
“I did.” But a well-bred young man wouldn’t be forced to drill scales for hours, like a well-bred young lady had been.
His brain hurriedly papered it over. “I was jealous you learned something without me, while I was off at school.”
“I’m jealous you went to school.” The present tense left a sour taste in her mouth. “I finally got sick of being shown off, and I kicked up a terrible fuss, do you remember?”
“How old were we then?”
“Twelve or so. Mother sent me to bed without dinner.”
“Sent us. I remember now, I tried to speak up for you, and got sentenced with you for my trouble.”
“You always did.” It soothed the real memory’s sting. Headstrong young Rosalind had borne her share of punishments alone and undaunted—but she might have liked an ally, all the same. “I refused to play for years after that. Which is a pity. I do enjoy it, when no one’s breathing down my neck.”
“I hope playing for me was not too much of an imposition.”
“Never.” Her thumb stroked the back of his hand; in these last weeks she’d played those same scales, ad nauseam, until Robert’s brain and breathing steadied enough to hum along. “If Mother’s parties had been medical necessity, I might have been more amenable.” Unable to resist probing the limits of his delusion, she tried: “Do you remember when the dog got at the Christmas goose?”
“No!” he laughed. “When was this!” So it wasn’t as simple as agreeing with everything she said. He wouldn’t invent memories from whole cloth; they had to root in something real. “Do you mean the groundskeeper’s dog? She’d never.”
“No, that’s right, I was visiting a friend.”
“Which friend?”
“I don’t believe you were there.”
“When have I ever let you go off without me at Christmas?”
His poor mind’s attempts to reconcile their existence made him more devoted than any real brother could be. No childhood squabbles? No twin’s chafing at being constantly equated, no longing for identities outside one another? She felt him squeeze her laced fingers in return. Perhaps he felt uprooted in a strange land, and clung by instinct to the one thing that felt familiar. Perhaps, in his solitary existence, his imagination turned her into the ideal companion. She could hardly fault him for that. Not when she was guilty of the same.
As he’d begun to nod, his head drooped from her shoulder onto her chest. Now he shifted to lie across her lap. She offered a cursory protest—“I hope you don’t expect to sleep on me”—but made no attempt to unseat him.
In response, he only settled in more firmly. “It’s practically tradition.”
“That you should squash the life out of me?”
“We fall asleep cuddled up by the hearth, and Father carries us up to bed.” As if it had happened that way every Christmas, all their lives, and it always would.
She intended to chide him—‘Father isn’t here to carry you now,’ or ‘If you expect me to do it, you’re sorely mistaken’—but something in her chest tripped up her inhale. She caught that breath, held it until it steadied, and cautiously eased it out. Trying again, she managed, “Well. Mustn’t upset tradition.”
“We’re a bit grown-up now for the same bed.”
His tone held not a trace of innuendo, making her feel even filthier when she had to look away. She didn’t—couldn’t say—
“But I don’t mind it, if you don’t.”
Again, as so often happened, their thoughts seemed to parallel—though not to match, this time, for obvious reasons. She held her tongue. With his eyes closed, he missed the way her ears went red.
“Did I ever tell you the talking-to Father gave me, that first Christmas home from school?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“The night before they sent me back, he sat me down—man to man, you know—and told me I was a young man now, and it was time for me to put away childish things. By which, of course, he meant I should stop whinging about how badly I missed you. Other boys have sisters, he said, and you don’t see them moping. I said of course not, their sisters were rubbish, but I had you.”
“Oh, Robert…” She felt grateful that he couldn’t see what was happening on her face.
“He said we couldn’t always be together, and I wanted to know why not? To which, by the way, he never gave a proper answer. He said I ought to have my own friends, and I said you were my friend, and if the other boys were any good they’d be your friends too. He said I ought to focus on my studies, and prepare for Cambridge, and by the time I graduated you might be married already—and oh, I was furious!” he chuckled. “I said I wished you’d been a boy, so we could go together.”
“I must have said the same.”
“You certainly did! We agreed, it all seemed terribly unfair.” His eyes opened, perfect mirrors of her own. “I have missed you dreadfully.”
“And I you.” Meeting those eyes made her ache—but after all their work to make this dream a reality, she could never look away. “You have no idea how grateful I am that you’re here.”
“The things I do for you.”
“You’ve no idea,” she whispered. All too true.
“Only my sister could drag me to America. Twice!” When he said it, his eyes unfocused just slightly, his brow starting to furrow. No doubt trying to square his memories again—last year he’d pulled Christmas crackers with his twin in Columbia, without leaving his own Cambridge laboratory. Impossible for anyone but R. Lutece.
Quickly, she lied, “You said last year that you were seasick on the voyage over, and hardly left your cabin the whole way here and back.”
“Yes.” He sounded doubtful, still frowning.
“And this year you went and contracted brain fever the minute you stepped off the boat. And I feel terribly guilty, since you’d be home and well if not for me, so if you die here I’ll never forgive you. Or myself.” Her flippant tone failed to mask her sincerity.
“Chin up, sister. Next Christmas we’ll both be home and well.”
That most unlikely of outcomes choked her up. “Can you forgive me if we’re not?”
At some point he’d return to his own reality, to a home and family that welcomed him. She might try to follow, but when her own family estate had no room for an errant daughter, she could expect no better hospitality in his. Her only place, in this world or any other, was the one she’d carved for herself in her city. It’d be supremely selfish to hope he’d give up his own home to stay in hers.
Though, at the moment, he didn’t even understand where he was. If he never recovered his mind, what then? She couldn’t send him home to her own England, to a mother who never had a son. She might be forced to keep him. Forced to keep lying, she reminded herself, in an effort to quell the guilty thrill provoked by the thought.
Her poor dear addled twin couldn’t know the import of his answer. “We’ll be together. The rest is negligible.”
Gazing down at her reflection, she felt so like Narcissus. A thought she’d had hundreds of times since she first laid eyes on him, but it was painfully apt, enough to make her fear a touch might dispel his sweet face into ripples on a pond. She dared to stroke his hair. He only smiled. Narcissus was never so blessed or cursed as this.
Which would be the greater torment, she had to wonder, the doomed Greek’s plight or her own? Narcissus would never know the touch of an illusion, but he at least saw his ardour requited in his mirror’s eyes. In hers she saw her features, but not her feelings, only the most innocent affection. Brotherly love. Nothing to match the need that she could no longer deny. When he was a world away, seen through a Tear like a face in the looking-glass, she could call it only vanity; now, here was no glass, but a living man—finally near enough to touch, to breathe his air, to feel his trusting weight in her lap. Near enough that she might bend to kiss him. Yet still, like poor Narcissus, her reflection might shatter with that kiss.
She’d been certain—fairly certain, based on their prior correspondence—that he shared those feelings which were in no way familial. Then the crossing scrambled his brain. Now, he thought she was his sister, and correcting the misconception might kill him; truth, and her selfish desires, were not worth that risk. When—if—he came to understanding on his own, she might circle back to this particular line of inquiry. Until then, sister she must be.
Using every bit of self-control she possessed, she bent and kissed only his forehead. Her lips lingered a moment longer than they should, as she again breathed the scent of his hair. If they were together, the rest was negligible.
“Sister…” he murmured.
“Yes?” But he said no more, only nestled against her, his drowsy eyelids slipping shut.
Should a brotherly embrace bring him so close? Not having real siblings of her own, these were uncharted waters for her. Perhaps childhood nights curled up together awaiting Father Christmas acclimated one to such intimacy. She now felt very aware of her state of undress—uncorseted, in only a wrapper over her chemise, with a man who was not her brother draped across her lap. After nursing him for months, she could touch him without hesitation, but being touched in return was quite new. As she lightly stroked his cheek, he leaned into her hand. She tried to ignore where his lips brushed the heel of her palm.
Eyes still closed, he began again, “Do you remember…” and she braced for another bittersweet revision of her own history. Another moment that need not have been lonely, another obstacle eased by a man on her side. But his thought’s completion gave her pause: “The year they did Pyramus and Thisbe as the Christmas pantomime?”
“I don’t.” Which was strange—if it was an experience they shared, she’d forgotten. “What an odd choice.”
“It was. But it made a nice change from Dick Whittington again.”
She didn’t know the story well, apart from its retelling in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, indeed rather panto-like in its simplistic comedy. The scene with the two lovers… whispering through a wall…
Rosalind went very still.
Robert went on, “The love scene through the wall must have been filled with innuendos now that I think about it, though of course they escaped me then. And I can’t recall the ending—but they must have given it some kind of happy-ever-after. For Christmas.”
“They must have,” she heard herself agree.
“You’ve really no memory of this? The fellow playing the lion had a great long beard, and…” He faltered. “There was a—a baby—? They can’t have had a live baby onstage. Am I thinking of something else?”
“Robert.” She recognised the way his brow furrowed, the tension around his eyes.
He squeezed them shut tighter, with a little groan. “It was—there was a light, and a hole in the wall—”
“Robert.”
“Why would they do a tragedy at Christmas?”
“Sit up.” She nudged him upright, supporting his head, as with the other hand she reached for a handkerchief. Swabbing his nose streaked the white linen with red. “Think of something else.” Though her heart kicked painfully into a too-familiar gallop—please don’t die, please don’t die, please don’t die—her words and hands stayed firm, steady through the fear after many long hours of practice.
Eyes still closed, he took the handkerchief and pressed it to his leaking nostrils—but R. Lutece was loath to let go of any idea. “They must have fixed it, but I—ah—”
“Shh, shh…” As he whimpered, she began to sing, “O holy night, the stars were brightly shining…” The words fell off from there, but she carried on the tune as she held him, only slightly off-key in desperation. Her fingers on his shoulder gripped too tight; his free hand reached to embrace her in return. Slowly, his breathing began to relax. “There we are,” she whispered. “There we are, now. Breathe.”
“They did fix it, didn’t they?” His voice was weak with pain and worry, and oddly small, like a sick child distressed over his bedtime story. His blood-stopped nose only added to the pitiful effect. She could almost envision him as the little boy she never knew. “You must remember.”
“I do! You’re right,” she lied, “I remember it now. Pyramus thinks Thisbe’s dead, when the audience tells him, ‘She’s behind you!’ And he says—”
He chorused with her, the classic pantomime call-and-response, “Oh no she isn’t!”
“And you say—”
“Oh yes she is!”
“And she throws her arms round him, and they live happy ever after. Highly unoriginal, but it’s a pantomime, isn’t it. And they couldn’t do a tragedy at Christmas.”
“Right, I remember. I remember.” Gingerly, he lowered the handkerchief, having stained it but saved his dressing gown. “Call it trite, but I like a happy ending, after all those tribulations. They’ve earned it. Otherwise there’s no point to all that suffering.”
She swallowed against a lump in her throat. “Life doesn’t give out happy endings to the most deserving.”
“Even more reason for fiction to indulge, when we’re not assured of them anywhere else.”
“Can’t argue that.” She could, but she wouldn’t. Not tonight.
Instead she let the conversation lapse, absorbed in the flicker of firelight on his face. His anxious grip on her arm relaxed, but she took his hand in hers as it fell away, enfolding his cold fingers in her palm. He was still too cold, too pale, but he squeezed her hand in return. His eyelids drooped, but only with sleep. He settled against her once more, blotting his nose for good measure, careful not to bleed on her as his head nestled into her shoulder. The arm still around him tightened as she wrapped him in a hug, letting her head drop to rest against his. Her eyes squeezed shut before they let slip something untoward. Slowly, carefully, so very deeply, she breathed him in again, and again.
His breath slowed in time with hers. She thought he’d drifted off to sleep after all, until he yawned, “You never did answer me.”
“Hm?” She realised she’d been close to dozing herself.
“Assuming I’m not laid low again. What can I get you next Christmas?”
“Only this, brother.” She pressed her lips to the top of his head once more, and murmured into his hair, “Only this.”
.
With the new year, Robert’s condition improved enough that he could be properly introduced to Columbia, and he was installed by his twin’s side at the Science Authority by spring. His episodes lessened in frequency and severity—until, without warning, he relapsed so badly it kept them both shut up at home for a full week. Oddly enough, instead of emerging pale and unsteady, he rejoined the city in rosy-cheeked good humour, seeming healthier than ever despite what became semi-frequent sick leave from work. Anytime he fell ill, his sister insisted she must stay by his side; only she could give him the care he so needed.
This was quite true—though not in the way they publicly implied. Occasional transfusions were still necessary, but for the most part, the bedrest she prescribed him involved little rest.
On Christmas Eve, Rosalind declared him too unwell even to think of going out the next day. Attending the city’s festivities was out of the question. Polite offers of home visits were made, and just as politely rebuffed; though the lady assured all her brother would be well, he was in no fit condition for company, and required complete seclusion for his health.
Morning found the patient tucked firmly into bed. “Such a shame to miss Comstock’s Christmas sermon. Again.” A smirk belied his words.
“I’ve already sent our regrets.” His twin stroked his bare chest beneath the sheets. Their entwined bodies’ heat kept the chill air at bay. “I simply cannot condone your leaving the house in this state.”
“Oh I agree. I’m delicate, you know.”
“And it’s frigid out! You’d catch your death.”
“How lucky, that I have you to warm me.” He nuzzled her, brushing the upturned tip of her nose with his own.
“Luck had nothing to do with it.” Her blue eyes gleamed with well-earned pride. She’d set herself an impossible goal, and against her brilliant mind and indomitable spirit, reality had yielded; he should not be here—in this world, alive, in her arms—yet she wanted him, and impossibly, here he was.
A stroke of luck could not compare to such an act of will. “True.”
Meeting those eyes still made him dizzy. If he saw her as merely a beautiful woman who happened to look quite like him, the sensation receded, but he refused to discredit her so. Denying her identity would be an insult to such genius. The world was full of beautiful women, but held only one—only two—R. Lutece.
He kissed himself. Knowing it was worth a twinge of pain at the thought. There could be no happier narcissist in any universe as his mirror kissed back.
She lay draped languidly across him, skin to skin, with only the blankets pulled up to their ears to hide their nakedness. When their lips parted, her head withdrew under the covers, nestled into his shoulder so that just the copper crown of her hair peeked out. He stroked her spine as he went on, “I will admit to some morbid curiosity. You make it sound like an all-day event.”
“It is. The one time I went, it lasted four hours, and that was before he had a city for a pulpit. Feel free to attend next year, if you’re so curious, but if you do, I plan to have a headache.”
“No, I suspect I’ll be ill next Christmas as well.”
“Mm. Very likely.”
He nestled down further into their warm cocoon. “What with the cold, and the thin air at this altitude, I’m afraid this time of year will be difficult for me.”
“I ought not to let you out at all.”
“It’d be irresponsible.”
He felt hands wandering down his body, as she kissed up his throat. “Confined to bed until spring. Poor man.”
“However shall I occupy myself the next three months?” His own hand found the curve of a buttock.
“I’ll find some way to make you useful.”
“I’m sure you will.”
Her head popped up to meet him with an arch expression, not quite suggesting a grin. “I’ll bring a blackboard up and put you to work.”
“Reviewing your figures?” He squeezed her to emphasise the pun. “Gladly.” It earned a roll of her eyes, but the wiggle of her hips against him as she snuggled closer only vindicated him.
Nosing into his shoulder under the blankets, she asked, “Do you expect you’ll be here next Christmas, then?” He noted her carefully casual tone. They hadn’t talked much of his return journey, except to put it off. Last they’d discussed it had been some months ago, on the one-year anniversary of his arrival; she’d said last year’s Christmas hardly counted, when he’d been so ill, and she owed him a proper one. Or he owed her. Or had he asked to see Columbia at Christmastime? Regardless, they’d agreed—not yet.
He rested his chin on the crown of her head. “That will depend, won’t it.”
“On?”
“Whether you want to go home to Mother.”
“Oh, no.”
“I do regret leaving her alone at Christmas yet again.”
“She has the family.”
“Yes, and no doubt she’s moaning to them all about how her only son neglects her.”
“You told her you were coming to America, didn’t you?”
“Over a year ago, without a word since. She’ll be beside herself.”
“No, brother, you are beside yourself.”
“Think you’re clever, do you?”
“Terribly.” He could hear her smirking.
“At any rate, Mother will simply have to bear it. I’m in no condition to cross realities when I can hardly leave the house.” He nuzzled into her hair. “You shall have to suffer your invalid brother a while longer, I’m afraid.”
She let out a theatrical sigh. “If I must.”
A year ago, when he stepped through the Tear, he hadn’t intended to give up his own world for good. But what waited for him there, compared to this? Here, his discoveries had been put to use on a monumental scale; returning from the Science Authority to his little university lab, he’d feel like Cinderella returning to her scullery after the ball. Presenting such a paltry thing to his twin would be unthinkable. Furthermore, she’d be harder to fit into his world—their resemblance was too close to be anything but family, and a long-lost twin story would hardly work on Mother—whereas he’d cut into hers without missing a step. Perhaps they’d try it if she expressed desire, but he couldn’t begrudge her attachment to Columbia, and wouldn’t argue it. If she preferred to stay, he’d stay.
Assuming, that is, that she didn’t mind a permanent houseguest. She’d not planned for it either. He knew her to be staunchly self-reliant, and wary of any who might encroach upon that, particularly the opposite sex. She preferred her own company above all others—which made him uniquely favoured, but still, he knew how sensitive she was to the presumptions of men. He would not impose without her permission.
If she shared his feelings, though—as she so often did—there’d be no question of it. Stay or go, in this world or any other, Robert and Rosalind Lutece would be together.
At the moment, he’d like to stay forever. In this world, this city, this house, this bed. In this bubble of warmth, with this woman. She may have been thinking the same when she said, “One of us will have to fetch breakfast. Eventually.”
“How kind of you to volunteer.”
“Me!”
“I’m ill.”
“Brother!”
“You wouldn’t turn an invalid out in the cold.” He met her glare with the most pathetic face he could manage. “As you just said, I’m apt to catch my death.”
She humphed, pouting prettily. He’d told her once how prettily she pouted, which made her even more cross, and thereby even prettier. “You are determined to test the limits of my hospitality.”
“‘Tis the season for charity.”
“I’ve given up my bed!”
“Point of order, you are very much still in your bed.”
“And I plan to stay there, thank you.” Decisively she nestled into place, her nose tucked snug against his neck. It had been a habit of hers since childhood, after coming in from the cold, hugging him only to press the chilled tip of her nose just there. She always giggled when it made him yelp.
When they were children, she’d leapt out of bed and raced him downstairs to open presents. “Do you remember—?”
She said nothing, but he felt her flinch, and instantly regretted the words. Remembrance was a sore subject between the two. His false memories had faded with the truth, until they felt like daydreams, but he could still recall them. Many a Christmas morning they never shared—a nursery with two beds, though they preferred to use only one, sleeping curled up together like a pair of puppies; two stockings hanging on the mantel, as identical as the two of them had been when they were small; throwing off the covers and shaking each other awake, eager to see the treats Father Christmas had brought. She’d told him she was jealous, since his false memories sounded pleasanter than her real ones—with that flippant affect she used to mask pain in a confession. He’d told her, truthfully, that the fanciful past paled in comparison to their shared present. The happiest Christmas he could recall was this one, right now.
He pivoted to a moment they’d both experienced. “Pyramus and Thisbe as a pantomime.”
It made her groan a laugh. “Good lord!”
“Can you imagine?”
“I had to, to keep your poor brain from melting all over me. I don’t even recall what nonsense I said, though thank goodness it must have done the job.”
“Your quick thinking is unparalleled.”
“You were so distressed!”
“Because it made no sense!” He shook his head. “Greek tragedy alongside Mother Goose.”
“And you were so certain it must have a happy ending.”
“Of course, at Christmas.” He hugged her to his chest like a favourite toy. “And it has, hasn’t it.”
“At what point did you think I was dead? Or am I Pyramus and you Thisbe in this rendition?”
“You needn’t deconstruct the metaphor, it’s Christmas. What matters is that they lived happy ever after, to the end of their days.” It earned another eyeroll, though she couldn’t hold back a smile. “Though perhaps you prefer the original ending? You do favour your tragedies.”
“A tragedy has gravitas. Comedies so often end in sentimental drivel—what narrative satisfaction is there in a wedding?”
“You have no heart, sister.”
“And you have no taste.” She met him again with that sardonic near-smile, but something more earnest tweaked the corners of her mouth. Before it could take hold, she glanced away, pillowing her head on him. “But I can forgive a little sentiment, at Christmas.”
“Good! I plan to indulge.” He kissed the top of her head. “Cooing and kissing, and gazing deeply into one another’s eyes. All that rot. And most importantly, of course, we live happy ever after, to the end of our days.” There he stayed, his face pressed into her hair, breathing the sweet warm smell of her, and wished again that this might be forever.
Then he felt the slightest tremor in her chest. Her arms wrapped him in a tight hug. Naturally, he hugged her back—at which, with another tremor, her embrace tightened near to suffocating. Her face burrowed into his breastbone.
“Rosalind…?” In answer, she could only manage a hitching breath. He held her tight. “Oh, Rosalind…”
One could hardly call it a cry—she would certainly not allow it called such—only a few more shuddering exhales. When her breath came steady again, she whispered, “Last year, I didn’t dare hope for this.” The eyes that turned up to his were damp with tears.
“Yes, in a proper tragedy, I’d have perished in your arms. My survival rather spoiled your narrative.”
She tried to glower through the much sweeter emotion on her face. Failed. “Don’t tease.”
“I can picture it. My bloodless corpse a lovely alabaster, with you weeping over me like the Virgin Mother over Christ. A positive Pietà.”
A soppy laugh bubbled out of her. “The thanks I get for keeping you alive.”
“Alas, I haven’t the good taste for that. Happy ever after for both of us, I’m afraid.” To silence his teasing, she drew herself up on top of him, and kissed him deep and fiercely. He riposted with every bit of her fervour. After a long bout, her lips relented, but neither relinquished the embrace, forehead-to-forehead and nose-to-nose. He nuzzled her. “So gauche.”
She sniffled sweetly, and nuzzled back. “Well. We can’t have a tragedy at Christmas, can we.”
“That’s right, we can’t.” He kissed her nose.
Teary lashes fluttered at him. “Wouldn’t it be a tragedy if I froze to death venturing out of bed?”
“Sister!”
“You’ll find me in the spring thaw, buried in a snowbank just steps from the kitchen. My hands and feet blackened with frostbite, the tea tray frozen to my fingers—”
“You are ghoulish.”
“It’s cold, Robert.”
“You’ll have to brave it. Else we won’t survive the winter.”
The hint of weepiness lingering in her voice made her sound even more piteous. “My nightgown is all the way over there.” Her eyes indicated where it hung off the back of a chair, on the far side of the room. “And I haven’t the faintest idea where my wrapper’s gone.”
“Downstairs, I think, where I unwrapped you.” In the spirit of opening a single gift on Christmas Eve.
“Downstairs!”
“When you return, you may put your poor frostbitten toes on me like a hot water bottle, and I won’t complain a bit.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
“Do you enjoy tormenting me?”
“Immensely.” There was that wicked little smirk he so loved.
“You were much sweeter to me when I was dying, you know. This time last year, you’d already be back and feeding me biscuits.”
“Don’t you dare try to haemorrhage for sympathy.”
“I thought you such an angel, but I see now, you keep me alive only to suffer for your entertainment.” She retorted with a scoff. “Very well. I’ll let you put your cold toes on me and I’ll make such a fuss. Will that please you, you sadist?”
“Masochist, surely.”
“Can one be both?”
“Whichever it is, brother, I’m sure you are as guilty as I.”
“Never,” he lied. The thought of her crossing the room wearing nothing at all was admittedly no small motivator, and her mewling protestations in the chill were essential to the image. He remembered again her cold nose under his chin. If they had shared a childhood, he likely would have plagued her as much as she plagued him—but grownups had more pleasant ways to make one another yelp.
“You are the one trying to evict me from my own bed,” she went on. “On Christmas Day, no less. Practically Dickensian.”
“I’m hardly the miser trying to steal your family fortune, now, am I? If anything I’m the poor sick relation, kept alive by the virtuous heroine.” Though this scene would better fit the pulps he pretended not to know she hid in the nightstand.
“I refuse to be Little Nell. We said no tragedies at Christmas, and a saccharine tragedy is the worst kind.”
He’d been about to respond when that derailed him. “Did you not like—?”
“Slop. Why?”
“Never mind.” He sidestepped an argument that would happily devour the full day. “I meant to say that if you’re a very good girl, I may have one more present for you when you get back.”
“Bribery’s no good. Nothing could tempt me more than you yourself.”
“That was rather my intent, yes.” His flirtatious smile felt at least half sheepish—he’d never been much of a flirt before, but her mere presence drew it out of him. Another advantage of knowing their desires aligned. His eyes flicked down, and back up, to make clear his intention.
“Ah.” Her smirk broadened, growing impossibly smug.
“Though it isn’t wrapped, I’m afraid.”
“Were you going to tie a bow round yourself?”
He could feel his ears going pink. “The thought had crossed my mind.”
“Maybe later, to be festive. With a bit of mistletoe.” His eyes went wide, though that might equally be due to her questing hand under the sheets. Either way, she provoked her desired response. “But you remember, at home, we always had presents before breakfast.”
“We did,” he managed, as his pulmonary system reallocated his bloodflow on her orders.
“And we mustn’t break tradition on our first proper Christmas.”
“You’re quite right.” Food could wait. Everything could wait. Her touch awakened a different appetite, and he felt suddenly ravenous.
She leaned in as if to kiss him again, but paused just a breath from his lips—and snorted a laugh, at a sudden thought. “Do you know the real tragedy of last year?”
“What’s that, sister?”
“You were my only present, and I couldn’t play with you.”
“Let’s remedy that.”