Work Text:
Soft peels of laughter break into Victor’s otherwise impenetrable reverie from within his study. He blinks, first at the tinkling sound of giggling down the hall, then again at the sharpness of sunlight glaring through the curtains. The kind of light that helps him keep time - once at sunrise, and once at sunset. The clock would also help him keep time, but sparing a moment to glance at its weathered old face would be a moment taken away from his sketches, and he simply doesn’t have it to spare.
Victor sets his brushes away and slowly stands with bones creaking and snapping in a way that makes him feel much older than he really is. The low groan as he rubs an especially tender place low on the back is lost to another burst of giggles, this one accompanied by a girlish shriek of delight. No longer intent or desiring to resist the siren’s call any longer, he sets his brushes to soak, washes his hands clean, and puts away his paints before navigating the soft corners of his home. Large windows and open doors in various rooms along the way allow the bright gold of a setting sun to paint the walls a lovely shade of chocolate and warm the halls as if a good fire were burning in the hearth.
An excited yip announces Crumpets’ arrival just before the fluffy little dog trots around the corner and greets Victor with a wag of her tail and a theatrical little hop that makes Victor smile and, back pain and cramped muscles aside, crouch down to collect Crumpets in his arms to carry her the rest of the journey.
Not two seconds before he rounds the corner, a second shriek of delight, this one sounding a bit like a war cry, precedes a well-aimed swipe of Emily’s fingers to Victoria’s cheek. The former lets out a victorious burst of laughter while the latter staggers away, batter smeared nearly to her nose and bent over in laughter. Disinclined to break the beauty of this moment, and with Crumpets apparently content to join him without incident, Victor leans against the doorframe and watches as Emily, breathless and nearly in tears, grabs a damp cloth and gently cleans the batter away. Victoria, never one to miss an opportune moment, presses a kiss to the delicate skin of Emily’s wrist, brushing her nose to the intricate web of blue veins beneath white skin.
The setting sun paints them more radiantly than it could ever hope to with the rest of the house. Victoria, her charcoal hair loosely tied back with rose-colored silk, black eyes shining with the sun and with her laughter, the joy painting her cheeks a lovely flush. And Emily…Emily who was not lost to them, as once was feared when vows were spoken together in the quiet intimacy of an empty church, with naught but the moon to bear witness to a promise to have, to hold, and to cherish as long as they might have. Mercy has been shown, for what reason, Victor cares not to examine too closely, and time has reversed itself on her flesh and bones. Death and decay given way to porcelain skin, the smooth muscle of a dancer’s body on her arms and legs, and the right amount of softness from the swell of her breast to the lowest curve of her belly. Her eyes are blue, blue as a clear summer sky and the jaunty little birds who perch outside the kitchen window, and sparkle with her laughter. Though Victor shall always remember the rich blue of her long hair fondly, he would not trade it for the velvet black that cascades freely down her back in rippling waves that Victoria loves to brush and braid while Emily is reading or playing a duet with Victor on the piano.
Together, they are a living canvas, and though Victor once had the thought to replicate it in his work, he decided against it one morning this past winter, when he awoke first and a happenstance glance back at the bed made his heart skip a beat. (Several, really). Emily with her hair spilling across the pillow and one hand closed over Victoria’s, and Victoria’s cheek nestled in a bed of black curls and white cotton, both painted in the pale, cold blue of a snowy dawn. Not only would this never be replicated, cannot be, but Victor would not. He will sell his canvases with pleasure, finally profiting from one of many arts that Mother declared an utter waste of what little brains he had, but the true work of art in his home, in his bed, in his life is not for sell. Not for any other eyes, but his own, and truth be hold, Victor remains to be convinced that he worthy of it.
His beautiful brides notice him in unison, but it is Emily who speaks first. “Before you scold us, darling, we have got the soup on. The biscuits are…well, in progress.”
“It was my fault entirely.” Victoria admits, which is quite wise, because the proof is in the tufts of flour all over Emily’s dress front and in her hair, though she doesn’t look repentant for it. “But I’ll put the blame on Crumpets for getting underfoot, else I’d have never upended the flour that way.”
Crumpets lets out a little bark, as if to confirm her involvement in the whole affair. “You most certainly would have.” Emily giggles. “Or I’d have done it first.”
The conversation rapidly evolves into enthusiastic retellings of past mishaps in the kitchen, albeit while both work on finessing the biscuit batter and putting it to bake. Victor sets Crumpets to the floor with an affectionate pat to her rump, then steps into the available space between both women. Victoria smiles over her shoulder as she cleans her hands and accepts a light kiss to her cheek with that soft, delicate expression that makes Victor want to run a single brush stroke over the canvas, even though he has tried a thousand times and has yet to achieve it. Emily’s smile is brighter, wider, splitting her cheeks with the unbridled radiance of it.
Victoria has, on occasion, quietly expressed a wish for an identical smile. Emily will have none of it. She always tells Victoria that her smile is that of a true lady, while Emily’s is that of an uncultured, bare-footed maid of the woods who was raised by bears. And while she takes great delight in transforming Victoria, day by day, into such a vision, she will not permit the gentle flower of Victoria’s smile to be changed or regretted.
From the kitchen window, Victor can see the woods, can see the faint outline of the old bridge. They journey down the old path sometimes, when the oppressive heat of the day can only be cooled by the dense shade of the trees or Emily longs to visit the clearing where the trees naturally part and the moon is a glittering orb of light in a dark sky. She has memory of what transpired in that place, so many years ago, for Victor will occasionally glimpse her eyes lingering over the withered old stump and broken branches, but she does not speak of it. None of them do. They speak of joys in the present and hopes for the future, of how the garden seems to flourish more and more with each passing year, of perhaps getting a little companion for Crumpets, and of the swell of Victoria’s belly, growing with each day, caressed by all three hands each night.