Chapter Text
The village market was in full midday bloom. Stalls lined the edges of the cobblestone streets: Elena’s bread cart steaming with fresh loaves, old Mr. Tomas’s apple crates with last of his large, red fruits from his bountiful harvest, Theodosia and her husband James’ exotic spices, coffee, tea, and tobacco. The scent of roasted chestnuts mingled with woodsmoke from someone’s chimney, somewhere a dog barked in lazy protest. Joseph breathed it in, letting the ordinary clamor fill his chest with a warmth he missed. It didn’t fill the space Mary had left, but it reminded him the world still turned.
“Papa, look!” Abel pointed with the hand he still had clutched around his pastry, crumbs scattering for birds to pick off later. “Elena’s got cinnamon rolls!”
Elena spotted them before they were even halfway across the square. She waved a flour-dusted hand in their direction, her apron smudged with much the same. Her round face split into a smile, the same one that had coaxed Joseph through the worst nights after the funeral. She waved them over, “Father Joseph! And my favorite little man! Come here, dove, let me see how much you’ve grown since Sunday.”
Joseph slowed, smiling despite himself. “Elena, you’ll make him vain.”
“Too late for that,” she laughed, already tearing a warm cinnamon roll from the tray and pressing it into Abel’s free hand. “For the road. And this one,” she wrapped a small piece of grain bread in waxed paper and tucked it into Joseph’s coat pocket beside Sister Miriam’s bun. “—is for you. No arguments. You’re skin and bones, Father.”
Joseph ducked his head, guilt swarming in his gut. “You’re too kind, Elena.”
“Not kind,” Elena said, softer now. “Just looking out for you and him,” she gestured at Abel, who now had that cinnamon roll stuffed in his mouth. “Mary would box my ears if I didn’t.” She reached up and brushed a stray curl from Abel’s forehead. “You take care of your papa, alright? He needs reminding to eat.”
Abel nodded solemnly, talking through his mouthful. “I will.”
They moved on, Abel licking cinnamon from his fingers. Joseph felt eyes follow them: kind ones, familiar ones. A woman from the rosary group called out a blessing; Henry, the blacksmith’s son, tipped his cap and asked about the church roof (still leaking after last month’s storm). Joseph answered each with the same gentle courtesy he always had, grateful for the rhythm of it. These were his people. They had carried him when he couldn’t carry himself. The square felt safer for their presence.
Tomas stopped them on their way, holding out a perfect red apple with a gap-toothed grin. “For the little dove,” he said, voice rough from years of forge smoke.
Joseph reached for it first. “He’s got sticky fingers from Elena’s roll,” he explained, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I’ll hold it for him.”
Tomas chuckled. “Wise man. Don’t want him turning the whole square into a jam pot.”
They walked on, Abel craning his neck to eye the apple in Joseph’s hand. A few steps later the boy started whining, small hand stretching toward it. “I want a bite! Pleeeease.”
Those eyes—Mary’s eyes—tilted up at him, hopeful and impossible to refuse. Joseph bit his lip, then lifted the apple to Abel’s mouth. “Okay, dove. One bite.”
Abel sank his teeth in with a happy hum. “Mm, Mr. Tomas has the best apples.” Juice glistened on his chin; he wiped it with the back of his wrist, then grabbed Joseph’s hand, pushing the apple toward his father’s mouth. “Your turn, Papa. Bite.”
Joseph’s stomach twisted—full already. Or, not exactly full, but he’d eaten more today than he had the past few days. He pushed the feeling down. Abel was watching, expectant, a mixture of juice and crumbs still clinging to his lips. He had an idea.
Joseph took an exaggerated bite, growling low in his throat. “Grrr, I’m a monster.” He snickered, “this apple is all mine.”
Abel giggled, high and bright. “No, Papa, that’s my apple!”
Joseph gasped theatrically. “What? Your apple?” He shifted Abel higher on his hip, using his free arm to tickle the boy’s side. Abel shrieked with laughter, kicking his legs in the air. “Yes! My apple!”
“Fine,” Joseph snickered, voice lighter than it had been all morning. “But you know what monsters love the most?” Abel gave him a wide-eyed, confused look. Joseph caught the boy’s sticky wrist gently, brought it to his mouth, and pretended to nibble—teeth pressing softly against the sweet-smeared skin. “Fingers!”
Abel squealed, grinning huge. “No, Papa! You can’t eat that!”
Joseph laughed, quiet. He was surprised by the sound but he kept up the game for a moment longer, growling playfully while Abel tugged his hand away, giggling so hard his shoulders shook. Finally Abel wrestled his hand back, before taking the apple, teeth sinking in with another triumphant bite.
“We can share the apple,” he announced, as if it were the most reasonable solution in the world.
Joseph kissed his forehead. “It’s all right, sweetheart. I’m not hungry.”
Abel kept eating as they walked, humming contentedly. He tugged at Joseph’s collar with sticky fingers, leaving a small smear of juice on the black fabric. Joseph sighed, fond rather than exasperated.
“Music boxes now?”
Ah, right. Joseph found himself resigned to his fate, shutting his eyes. “All right, dove. Music boxes.”
They walked along more stalls, greeting the fellow townspeople as they went by. Abel pointed out the birds he saw, giggling in excitement each time he found one. At first, they were quite sparse, but the closer they got, the more birds they seemed to see.
Joseph squinted at each, unable to find cardinals, doves, bluebirds, or woodpeckers. Each was a crow or raven. He frowned. They should’ve disappeared by this time of year.
Abel tugged at his sleeve, pointing excitedly. “Look, look! There, the music boxes!”
The wagon stood at the far edge of the square, away from the main press of stalls. Bolts of deep wool in midnight blue and forest green were stacked neatly beside small wooden crates and glass vials of ink. And there, on a folded velvet cloth, sat a few of the music boxes. They were made of walnut and rosewood, inlaid with mother-of-pearl and silver filigree, each one small enough to fit in a child’s palm. Each had its own intricate patterns, some random, some flowers, some rivers, but every single one was crafted with a professional fondness.
The man behind the cart was watching them before they reached it.
He was taller than Joseph had remembered from the brief glimpse last week, coat open despite the chill, brown hair falling across his brow in a careless wave. His hands, long and pale, rested lightly on the wagon, unmoving. When Joseph and Abel approached, those pale eyes lifted and settled first on Abel, then on Joseph. They were a nice shade of light blue, but they looked almost white when they caught the Sun’s light.
Abel wriggled to be set down, Joseph lowered him carefully keeping one hand on the boys shoulder. He’d since finished the pastries he’d been given, his face and hands wiped down so they weren’t sticky any longer, though his clothes still held crumbs.
The stranger inclined his head. “Good afternoon, Father Joseph.” His voice was low, unhurried, carrying a faint accent Joseph couldn’t place. “And you..” he hummed, rubbing his chin as he thought about Abel’s name, “the dove.”
Abel beamed, “my name is Abel!”
Joseph dipped his head, “ah, so you have heard my name.” He reached his hand out, shaking hands with the man. His fingers were so cold Joseph almost jumped, but he was able to keep a polite smile. “And you, what’s your name?”
“Nathan. And it’s hard to not hear of you, Father. Small town, big church” The man’s mouth curved, not quite a smile, but close. He selected a small walnut box, one of the ones Abel had been staring at, its lid carved with delicate vines and small flowers. He wound the key on the side with deliberate care, and a quiet, soothing melody drifted out.
Abel gasped, eyes wide. Joseph watched the man watch Abel—gentle, attentive, but there was something else in the stillness of his posture, the way his gaze flicked back to Joseph as if testing something.
“It’s beautiful.” Abel breathed.
“It is,” the stranger agreed. His eyes met Joseph’s over Abel’s head. “Would you like to keep it, little dove? A gift, from a traveler to a boy from a small town.”
Joseph tensed. “We couldn’t possibly-”
“Please, Papa?” Abel turned those hopeful eyes upward, the same eyes Mary used to turn on him when she wanted him to say yes to something. Joseph’s breath caught in his throat, Abel looked so much like her. The same eyes, the same pouting lips, the same way she breathed.
He covered his mouth and looked away, heat pricking at the corners of his eyes. When he blinked the tears back and lifted his gaze again, the merchant was still watching—Nathan, right, that’s his name. Nathan's expression was polite as Joseph gave in, stretching his hand to meet. The pale man dropped the box into his hand carefully, fingers brushing against his wrist.
Cold. Unnaturally so.
Joseph drew his hand back slowly, “thank you.” He said, voice croaking out despite his best efforts. “That’s very generous.” Nathan inclined his head again. “Abel is a good kid, he should have nice things.” His gaze lingered on Joseph a moment longer before dropping to the aforementioned boy. “Take good care of it, alright?”
Abel took the box from Joseph, clutching it to his chest like treasure. “Yes, sir.” Joseph murmured thanks again, took Abel’s hand, and steered them away.
They walked in silence for a few paces. The first flakes of snow began to drift down, small and blending in with the gray of the concrete around. They caught on clothing, on skin, and especially in Abel’s curls. The boy wound the key every few steps, enjoying the melancholic tune that drifted from the box.
“Papa?” Abel hummed, “he’s nice, isn’t he?”
Joseph glances back once. The cart is still there—he doesn’t know why that came as a surprise. Nathan, in fact, is still watching them go, pale eyes matching the flakes falling around them.
“Yes, dove.” Joseph nodded, despite the hair on the back of his neck pricking. “He seems… nice.” Though the chill where Nathan had touched him lingered long after they left the square behind.
Halfway home, Abel’s steps began to drag, eyelids heavy from the excitement. Joseph knelt without a word, turned so Abel could climb onto his back. Small arms wrapped around his neck, Joseph hooking his arms under Abel’s knees. Abel’s cheek settled warm against Joseph’s shoulder, breath soft and even against his neck, the music box still clutched in one sticky hand.
Joseph walked steadily, Abel’s weight familiar and grounding. He leaned his head onto Abel’s, looking down the dirt path ahead. Each step carried them farther from the square, but the faint melody from the box pressed against his side never quieted. In fact, it sounded a bit louder now. Snow fell thicker, though caught in the canopy above them.
Abel stirred, humming the tune sleepily. It was off-tune. His fingers toyed with the collar of Joseph’s coat. “Papa?” He murmured, barely audible over the music box.
“Yes, dove?”
“I like the music.”
Joseph nodded, “yes, it is. Make sure to take care of it, okay?”
Abel nodded against his shoulder, already drifting. “Mmhmmm, okay, Papa.”
He carried Abel the rest of the way home, snow dusting the path and their shoulders. He looked at his wrist. He still felt Nathan’s touch lingering on his skin.
Hm.