Chapter Text
Alastor never particularly liked churches. Hah. He'd sooner believe in faeries than God. Despite this, he found himself sitting among the pews every Sunday with his maman.
Still, he listened as the pastor droned on, dropped a few coins into the offering plate as it was passed down the row, and waited for the service to end.
It was all remarkably predictable.
His attention wandered as the sounds blended together. The same verses recited with their practiced conviction, the same hymns sung in a slightly different key. The same promise that every hardship is simply another gear in some grand design. Every Sunday, the congregation nodded along as though they were hearing it again for the first time.
He watched the sunlight filter through stained glass, bathing those under them in brilliant color.
Mrs. Lambert mouthed each word of the hymn yet glanced at the clock between verses. The butcher in the third pew bowed his head deepest after a week of overcharging his customers. The children in the back row sang louder than anyone, blissfully unconcerned with staying on-key.
When the congregation stood for the final hymn, Alastor rose with them. Though he didn’t believe the words he sang, he did it with heart. He and his maman were the loudest, the clearest, their voices winding together until they filled the chapel and echoed against the vaulted ceilings.
Not long after the final note that lingered finally faded, the hum of conversation filled the chapel. One by one, the parishioners got to their feet, gathered their coats and hymnals, and traded polite smiles and promises to meet again next Sunday.
Alastor slipped his hands into his pockets while his maman was promptly swept into conversation. Mrs. Lambert wanted to compliment her singing, and Mr. Bernard asked after her health. Someone’s little girl hid behind her skirts before working up the courage to wave at Alastor.
He returned the gesture with a grin and settled in to wait.
✦ ── ❀ ── ✦
“Ready?” his maman asked.
Alastor glanced towards her. “Have been for the last 20 minutes.” She rolled her eyes. “You could’ve come to get me.”
He grinned, holding out an arm, “And interrupted Mrs. Lambert’s weekly assessment of your singing? Never.”
She laughed, slipping her arm through his as they made their way towards the doors. By the time they finally stepped out into the afternoon sun, the village began to stir in earnest. Market stalls reopened, the scent of fresh bread drifted from the bakery, carrying on a cool breeze. Kids chased after one another through the square, weaving between stalls and buildings.
A few raced past, their Sunday clothes already bearing the unmistakable evidence of being worn by children.
Alastor watched them for a moment.
“Don’t even think about it,” His maman said. He gave her an innocent look, and asked cheerily, “Think about what, Maman cheri mwen?”
She glanced sidelong at him in response. “You’re not bringing another stray home, mon cerf.” She clarified, her tone stern.
“I thought you enjoyed having Niffty around the house.” Alastor nudged her shoulder with his own as he spoke. “I love that girl like she’s my own. Doesn’t mean I want you to bring a new one home,” She nudged him back, with a bit more force.
He only stumbled slightly, and relented, “I wasn’t going to.”
“You were thinking about it.” It was Alastor's turn to side-eye her with a huff, “I am always thinking, Maman.”
“Yes,” she sighed “That’s the problem.” Alastor gave a small laugh, and they continued down the road.
The way home was a walk Alastor knew by heart.
Past the baker’s, where his maman stopped and bought a loaf of that aromatic bread. Past that old oak where someone had carved their initials into the trunk years ago. Past the blacksmith’s shop, where the familiar ring of hammer against metal could be heard— even in the wee hours of the morning. Past and over the stone bridge to cross the small river that wound through the farther edge of town.
He and his maman had split the fresh loaf of bread, and she had saved a small amount of the crust. She set it on the moss covered railing with great care, and Alastor raised an eyebrow. “For the birds?”
She started off again, pulling him with her. “If you’d like to believe that.” He looked down at her, “And if I don't?”
His maman only smiled.
They continued on, and the amount of houses soon began to thin, the road narrowed, and beyond the last few cottages, the forest waited.
Alastor had always loved living here.
His maman preferred to say they lived near the forest. Alastor preferred to say the forest lived near them. Either way, it was only a short walk from their back door. He glanced towards the trees. The afternoon sun struggled to reach beneath the canopy, leaving the spaces between the trunks dark and cool.
His maman noticed. “Don’t wander off, mon cerf.” she said softly. His gaze landed back on her. “I wasn’t planning to,” he responded, voice equally soft.
“You say that every time.”
“And every time, I return”
Her grip tightened on his arm slightly as she said, “Eventually.”
Alastor smiled but said nothing, and they reached the house a few minutes later. It was large by village standards, due to the fact that it had grown considerably since Alastor was a child.
What had once been a simple cottage had slowly acquired additions over the years— another bedroom here, a storage room there, and even eventually an entire workshop attached to the back.
The windows of the workshop were already catching the afternoon sun. Alastor's eyes immediately drifted toward them. His maman's eyes followed suit. “You have work waiting?”
“Always.” Alastor huffed, equal parts dreading and impatient to get back to work.
“Lunch first, young man,” Her tone left no room to argue. “Yes, Maman,” He sighed.
“And don’t forget to eat while you’re working.” She continued.
“I know.” He’d probably forget, but it was best to not let her worry.
“And—” If he didn’t stop her now, she'd go on for god knows how long. “Maman.”
She smiled. “Just making sure, Al.”
Alastor opened the door for her. The familiar smell of old books, woodsmoke, and something she’d been baking that morning greeted them from inside.
He stepped in after her, already thinking about the unfinished mechanism waiting on his workbench. He had been trying to solve the same problem for three days.
It was beginning to irritate him. Which, naturally, meant he was determined to solve it today.
✦ ── ❀ ── ✦
Lunch took longer than Alastor would have liked. His maman insisted on asking about his latest project. Alastor insisted that explaining it would take longer than simply finishing it. She pointed out that this was exactly why he ought to explain it.
Eventually, however, she let him escape.
Alastor disappeared through the back door and into his workshop. He had just crossed the threshold when something small shot past him, and skidded to a stop. “Alastor!”
He stopped.
A pair of bright eyes peered at him from underneath the workbench she had just scuttled under. “Niffty dear!” She popped out from underneath the workbench, clutching a dust cloth in one hand and what appeared to be a handful of brass screws in the other. “You weren’t supposed to be back yet!”
“…I live here.”
“I know.” She blinked at him.
“Then why are you surprised?” he questioned with a laugh.
“Because I wasn’t finished!” She whined, gesturing at his workshop. Alastor finally lifted his gaze from Niffty and glanced around.
His workshop appeared largely as he’d left it, save for the conspicuous lack of dust on several shelves, and the organized collection of tools along the far wall.
He looked back at her. “What, precisely, were you doing?” He finally stepped away from the door, walking across the space towards his workbench
“Cleaning!” She chirped, following closely behind. “So it seems.” He eyed the rack above his workbench, tools reorganized by type and size. “Thank you Niffty, but it wasn’t necessary.”
She waved the dust cloth. “I found so much dust.” she beamed. “I imagine it was quite devastated to be found.”
He carefully removed the cloth covering his current project. Niffty ignored him. Instead peering over the edge of his workbench, eyes immediately landing on the object sitting in pieces across the cloth. Alastor barely had time to turn before she was beside him.
“What’s that?” Niffty pointed at the scattered pieces. “A music box. Or it’s supposed to be, at least.” Alastor picked up the studded cylinder, holding it out between two fingers for her to see.
She leaned over the workbench to get a better look, nearly knocking over a tray of tiny screws in her enthusiasm. Alastor caught the tray before it tumbled to the floor, and sighed, “Careful, dear.”
Niffty froze, and slowly withdrew her hands. “Okay.”
Alastor ruffled her hair, “Promise?”
“Promise!” The reassurance was accompanied by a toothy grin.
She lasted approximately three seconds before asking, “Can I look?”
He gave her a cheeky grin as he flipped open the casing of the music box, and said, “You’re already looking dear.” Niffty tried again, “Can I help?”
The response was soft but swift; “No.”
Her shoulders dropped. “You never let me help,” She bemoaned. “Because last time you helped, you reorganized my drawers.” Alastor supplied. “They needed reorganizing!”
“I had a system,” He said, setting gears into the casing. “It was a terrible system Al,” she insisted. “It was an excellent system,” he grumbled. “It had three drawers labeled ‘miscellaneous’!”
He shrugged as he set the studded cylinder on top of its governor with practiced ease. “They were miscellaneous.”
Niffty huffed and crossed her arms. Alastor smiled despite himself. “Go find something else to clean dear.”
Her face brightened immediately, and with a cheery, “Okay!” she vanished toward the shelves. Alastor shook his head with that small smile, and the workshop fell quiet again.
Almost.
He was halfway through sliding the comb back into place when— “Alastor!” He finished sliding the comb in, and spun in his chair before he called back, “…Yes?”
“Why do you have a bone in this drawer?”
“Because it belongs there.”
A pause. “Can I clean it?” The hope in her voice was almost palpable.
“No.”
Another pause. Then, quieter this time, “Can I name it?”
Alastor’s smile tightened, “Niffty.”
“I’m putting it down…!” He heard her little huff, then the soft clunk of the bone being set down, the scrape of a drawer being closed, and her footsteps pattering into the other room, towards the shop part of his workshop.
Alastor once more turned his attention back to the music box. He had rescued it from a box of things his maman had been meaning to throw away. The wooden casing was worn smooth at the corners, its brass latch dulled with age. Someone had carved a little pattern around the lid— flowers perhaps; though time had softened the details.
The mechanism had been practically hopeless. This afternoon marked his fourth day of attempting to coax it back to life. The tiny cylinder sat beneath its metal comb, surrounded by a mess of gears and springs. He had already taken it apart several times, changed the mechanism, replaced the gears, and carefully straightened several of the teeth on the comb.
Still, it refused to play properly. Alastor shut the inner lid, slid the key into place, and wound it. Nothing. He tried again. A faint metallic click… Then silence.
He stared at it. “You’ve got to be joking.” He opened the casing once more and leaned closer. The spring had snapped at the very base, where one could easily miss the crack. Of course. He reached for his tools, and the next hour passed without incident. Mostly.
There was a brief moment in which the new spring escaped his fingers and vanished beneath the workbench. There was another in which Alastor remained perfectly still for several seconds after dropping a pair of tweezers. Another in which he spent almost 10 minutes looking for the little figurine meant to spin atop the mechanism.
From somewhere behind him came the faint sound of Niffty humming as she worked. Eventually, he shut the inner lid, fixed the little ballerina onto her disc, and wound the key. For a moment, nothing. Then—
Click.
Alastor stilled, then came the first delicate notes. Thin, slightly uneven at first, but unmistakably a melody. He’d have to clean the cylinder perhaps, or oil the governor, but it worked nonetheless.
He leaned back in his chair as he listened. The music was simple, a tune he didn’t recognize, but enjoyed. “There we are…”
The little melody filled the workshop, weaving between the ticking clocks and the faint creak of the wooden floor boards.
From behind him came an excited gasp, and Alastor lifted his head and turned. Niffty stood in the doorway, her dust cloth swapped out for a broom. “You fixed it!” She stared as the little dancer spun in circles. “I did,” Alastor's smile curled into something a bit smug. “It sounds pretty…”
She came closer, this time stopping at a respectable distance from the workbench. “Can I listen?”
Alastor gestured to the stool not far from the workbench. Niffty dragged it over, and plopped herself down on it. Neither spoke while the enchanting music played. For a while, the workshop felt almost peaceful.
Then the melody stopped as the gears wound down. Niffty frowned, “That's it?” Alastor shut the lid carefully with a chuckle. “That’s generally how music boxes work.”
A knock sounded against the workshop door. Alastor looked up as Niffty shot up to open the door, and his maman stood in the doorway. “You’ve been in here for two hours.”
He glanced toward the windows.
The afternoon had indeed begun to fade into evening. “So it seems. I suppose time passes quickly when one is accomplishing something.”
Her eyes moved to Niffty. “And when one has company, apparently.”
Niffty waved, “Hello!” She smiled down at Niffty, “Hello hun.”
Alastor looked between them, expression soft. “Am I supposed to be helping with dinner, Maman?” His gaze landed on his maman as he asked the question.
His maman met his eyes, and smiled. “You are, mon cerf.”
“I’ll be right in.” He stood from his chair.
“You too, Niffty dear,” His maman stepped back into the house.
“I can help!” Niffty offered.
“You can set the table.”
“I’ll set it beautifully!” She darted into the house after her, and Alastor watched her go.
Then he looked back at the music box. The little thing sat quietly on the workbench, its worn wooden casing caught the last of the afternoon light. He could polish it up and put it on display in his shop in the morning.
For now, Alastor was satisfied.
He closed the lid carefully, took one last look at the worn engraving on the wood, then turned to the doorway. “Not bad.” he murmured as he made his way back inside.