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Where was everyone? Cogsworth wondered. It was Christmas Eve, so preparations for tomorrow’s holiday ball (which was to be a most glorious, grand affair- it was, after all, to be the first one held at Chateau de Villeneuve in over a decade!) should have been in full swing. But the majordomo appeared to be the only one about.
Presently, he entered the library. There was a very good chance that Belle was in there. Perhaps she knew where the others had gone.
“Your high-“ the words caught in his throat. The Queen WAS in the library- but for once, books seemed to be the last things on her mind. She was standing beneath a sprig of mistletoe, her husband’s arms around her and their lips joined.
Cogsworth left in a hurry, barely remembering to close the door behind him. Now, where else could he look for his wayward fellow staff? Ah, of course! The ballroom- Garderobe and Cadenza surely must have started rehearsing.
Sure enough, he hears the distinct sound of a harpsichord. But something seems rather… off about it. Then again, he’s no musician!
He enters the most elegant room in the castle- and is greeted by the sight of the musical duo atop the aforementioned instrument, locked in a passionate embrace (and it is now all too clear that the sour notes were caused by feet slipping and hitting keys). Mistletoe hangs directly above them.
FrouFrou runs around barking, clearly unhappy that he is being ignored. His parents take no notice of him- or of the majordomo who is now darting back into the hallway.
I may as well see if anyone is laying the table in the dining room. Cogsworth thinks, trying to forget everything he’s just seen in the last five minutes.
As it turns out, the table is NOT being layed. But someone is lying ON it: A certain lovesick, troublesome maître d'. A grinning, dark-skinned maid straddles him, giggling delightedly. Again and again, Lumière makes his desire clear. And again and again, Plumette happily responds to him.
Not that Cogsworth sticks around long enough to see any of it. He races out of the room so quickly that he almost misses the suspiciously familiar greenery.
On to the kitchen- if nothing else, he ought to be able to find some nice bleach for his eyes here.
“Merry Christmas, Henri.”
Almost before he knows what is happening, Beatrice Potts has pressed a kiss to his cheek. At this point he doesn’t even need to look. He knows full well what is hanging over the doorway.