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Phileas Fogg's apartment was just a street away and I once again suspected I might have made the wrong decision. Rose, better than me, wasn't fretting straightforwardly, but she kept tossing a threepence, rolling it between her fingers.
Christmas had well run its course. Carols on the streets have faded; apart from our footsteps, there was only the sound of branches crunching softly under snow. How it differed from the last time, when we returned! We had been surrounded by hungry journalists and members of the Club, the entire public thronging with curiosity; now no passers-by could be seen. The doors of Savile row gaped to the street, as black and quiet as empty furnaces.
A truly inopportune time of visit, if you ask me. But we were here for a purpose; at least Rose was.
"I'm gonna visit him," she had declared after dinner.
"What, so late this night?" I said, "I doubt he'd like a reunion so unannounced."
"In secret," she emphasized, "just drop by to leave a gift. You come?"
I couldn't refuse, of course. We bantered a little along the way over the degree we shall offend his privacy at such a late hour. My manners told me we shall simply leave her present upon the doorstep to be found next morning, but Rose insisted entrance shall be made.
"Can't risk urchins stealing away the prize!" she quipped, her cheeks pink.
"Just as you would have done?"
She smiled and punched my arm. "Until I learned to pick my targets."
"Well, but we shall be careful not to wake him." I replied.
"You're indeed too kind, my dear Passepartout," she said, huffing white mists that quickly disappeared into the air.
Monsieur Fogg would have left his study at nine; that's where we'll initiate our "burglary". It took some time, but thanks to her years of pilferage and my own acrobatic experience, we sneaked into my old master's study without much ado.
Rose pulled me up and skipped to the floor, agile as a sparrow. She straightened herself and smiled triumphantly, her eyes glinting in the dark like some wild feline.
I followed suit and landed, feeling weirdly dizzy. When she busied herself setting up her surprise on the desk, I idled my time looking around the chamber that I had only had the chance to tend once.
The decoration of the room remained the same from what I recalled; the giant terrestrial globe, Turner's painting, the books, poetry, history, full collections of Aristotle, Newton and Marco Polo, the wooden ship model (this time I noticed its name), all in their places, as if we never left. However, the newly-appeared tchotchkes from our journey did prove otherwise. I recognized the carnivale mask from Venice, the dagger from Istanbul, and the Buddha statue from Singapore. Surprisingly, I found the ferrotype picturing Monsieur Fogg and me against Taj Mahal, framed, on one of the shelves.
I did not realize I was staring until Rose poked me from behind.
"Thinking of the decent life again?" she jeered to my startled yelp.
"No, " I paused, uncertain how to word my feelings, "it's just...curious. I never thought he would care."
Rose was silent for a moment.
"When things are lost, people tend to begin caring," she said quietly, "except they don't realise they were never theirs from the start."
I wondered what she was talking about, or who she was talking about. She sighed and touched my arm. "I'm finished here, sweetheart. Linger as you please."
I turned my gaze back to the shelves of souvenirs. Things...happened during the past year. First I eloped with Rose; I had always felt guilty for not properly resigning. When we returned to London she had already set course for another immediate adventure, and I by that time preferred not report to my master in person my decision to leave, partly because I feared what might transpire if I did. So in the end I wrote a letter, - perhaps less mannered than it should have been, and Rose delivered it in god knows what way. I could not imagine how Monsieur Fogg reacted to it. It's probably better I don't know.
Then, one month after our completion of journey, Monsieur Fogg arranged a meeting with Rose's mother and confirmed for himself that she was indeed married. The meeting itself was pointless, but that was his way. It was through her that he learned of our current lives together and sent us his regards. A few days later a letter arrived; he intended to legalize her position, but Rose did not think it necessary. "Why, I don't trust that club one bit." she told me, "That he'd accept me for his daughter, I'm happy to learn; but aristocracy? Bah! I am the Black Rose and will always be. I can't risk being hanged by his gentlemen associates." She turned down his offer of financial assistance in a similar fashion, after which no more letters came.
I traveled with Rose throughout the world, for several rounds if not dozens. New adventures, each and every memorable. We had been to jungles, deserts and oceans, flew high and dived deep, tongued and fought our way through most perilous situations, saved lives of many, failed many. We negociated a truce with the Artificer's Guild, ensuring that their deepest secret shall be protected until the world was ready. We contributed our part in making the world a little more fair, a little more just; a little closer to the impossible dream we had wished.
In the meantime Monsieur Fogg stayed in his apartment and lived his usual routine. There was no more news of him on the newspaper after a few weeks; interest from the press apparently waned quickly after they realized the man possessed none of the eloquence or pomposity of a proper celebrity. He had found himself a new valet, no doubt. I could only hope he would not be one so greasy such as that Diederich.
A quarter of nostalgic hour passed in silence, and Rose bore with me patiently when I was absorbed in memory. Eventually, I decided that it was time to leave. But then - just then! - a soft, shuffling noise sounded behind the half-closed study door.
Rose acted faster. She hid herself behind the terrestrial globe and dragged me behind, while my mind reeled over the possibilities. The servants would be on holiday - a common charity from upright gentlemen - so either it was another intruder, or Monsieur Fogg himself. The noise continued, Rose readied her dagger, but the soft dragging of steps - the more I heard them - appeared oddly familiar to me.
"It might just be him sleepwalking," I whispered, but was rewarded with Rose's - totally unmerited! - scolding look and a gesture for me to keep quiet.
Holding our breaths, we watched as the knob turned, and the door creaked open. Rose relaxed beside me; it was Monsieur Fogg himself. Dressed in his nightgown, he looked strangely melancholic: his eyes were downcast, and his movements were somehow tardy, without the firm acrity that I used to witness when he made calculations or played whist. I could not even tell if he was still asleep, until he stopped halfway, turning to the gift wrapped in black paper that Rose left on the desk, accompanied by her usual signature of black rose.
I didn't know what Rose prepared for the present; she denied me knowledge when I inquired, saying it was "merely a compensation, entirely due". I watched as Monsieur Fogg pulled the chair and sat down to open the present, still moving eerily slower than usual. For a minute or so, there was only the rustle of wrapping paper in the quiet chamber.
Then, under the shimmer of moonlight, I saw what it was: a rod-shaped device with a dial plate head, its bronze glamour worn by generations of use.
The altimeter! How did she get it back? I had sold it to gather money for our next leg of journey, too late to realize the importance it had for Monsieur Fogg. It was his grandfather's, a man he admired very much; I still remember his reproaching tone when he asked me its whereabouts. But our cash was rather strained at the time, and as a pragmatic Englishman he soon accepted necessity of the sacrifice and left it unmentioned. But then I realized - the reason I had to sell it, along with several other valuable objects, was because the lapis lazuli that we intended to trade at the next market mysterious disappeared, stolen by the girl beside me! Although she later stuffed our cases with cash, there was no turning back. No wonder why Rose didn't want to tell, then - a due compensation indeed!
I glowered at Rose and her guilty conscience; she made a grimace back.
Then, there in the dead of night, we heard a sigh.
Fogg opened the first drawer to his left, put the device in. He seemed to contemplate for a second, then bent down and opened another drawer, returning with several objects. I squinted my eyes, but was unable to discern what they was except carved pieces of wood. I glanced at Rose, and saw her as puzzled as me.
Fogg stared at the wooden shapes for a moment, then produced a knife, and - started to craft on the shapes. They appeared clumsy, unfinished, but his eyes were intent, and his hands were steady.
Behind the globe, Rose and I hid, silent as a pair of statues.
I had seen him whittling, on the secluded island of Pitcairn. I had thought him insane. Did the episode last so long that he even brought the habit back to London? But there were no more signs of it once we left the bewildering place.
Without better things to do, I observed the ideas he was aiming at. The piece in his hand was bulb-shaped with etched edges, which he was trimming with measured movements. Of the other two on the desk, one was clearly a bust. The other resembled the ship model he had cast into the sea, only finer. It must have been months since he first started making these.
After ten minutes or so my feet started to feel sour. I tried to shift my weight; unfortunately, the attempt caused my elbow to nudge the brass globe, setting it into motion with clinks from the axis. Fogg stopped, and very slowly raised his gaze.
"The world turns not without reason," he declared, "show yourself, please."
Rose hesitated for a second, then walked out. Seeing her, my old master's expression changed to a somewhat softer one, and when he saw me standing out of the shadow, his eyebrow arched in mild surprise.
"We just come by to drop a Christmas present," Rose said, her tone thoroughly innocent.
"I received it," Fogg acknowledged rather unnecessarily, "You have my sincerest thanks, Miss. And sir." There was a pause before the last word, which he addressed to me.
"Passepartout would be fine, Monsieur," I faintly protested.
"Passepartout. It is good to see you again." He kept our eye contact brief, and my mouth went dry.
After a few seconds of awkward silence, he suddenly said, "Before you leave...I also have something for you, if you would have them."
I was dumbstruck. So was Rose. Fogg ignored (or did not perceive) our shocked immobility and continued, signifying the carved pieces.
"I'm afraid they're not quite finished, but I doubt I ever will," he said, picking the bud-shaped piece and handing it to Rose, "Here. I'm sorry I haven't painted it black." Then, the bust figurine, apparently of a female, "For your mother."
Rose took them silently, looking as if she knew nothing to say.
Monsieur Fogg nodded then turned to me, holding out the final piece. Now looking closer, I saw it was the same as the boat he had kept in the study, the Bounty of daring adventurers, only there was something more to it: at the prow stood two little figures, one taller, one shorter.
"For our journey," he said.
His eyes betrayed no other emotion than sincerity. I recognized the look instantly. This must be the closest he could to say something forbidden by his habitual reticence, perhaps even something I had once so boldly, desperately crave for. But it was too late, as Rose said. I had made my choice. I had picked my Fogg. I stared at the ship, wordless, my bosom filled with a strange warmth of genuine pity.
"I'll never forget it, monsieur," finally I managed, "I'm...happy to see you valued it so."
"You'll have even better adventures," he said.
"We have," Rose said, and her voice was soft, almost strangely sad.
We exchanged a few pleasantries until there was nothing more to say. Then Monsieur Fogg escorted us downstairs. "Do use the front door next time, if possible," he said. I realised it was probably his attempt of a joke.
"We'll try," Rose said.
He bid us farewell, and we took our leave.
Upon the doorstep I could not help but turn the last time to look at him. Rather to my surprise, in that glimpse, I saw Phileas Fogg gazing back. His pale blue eyes burned against the darkness of the room, like stars against the night, as if all the spirits of the world were somehow seeing through him in that second. There, in the shadows, his unmoving figure appeared a monument, timeless, silent, illuminated only by the silver snow falling faintly outside.
The door closed, and Rose took my hand. I wondered, briefly, how little we knew the man we both loved. When the bells struck twelve in the distance, Rose pulled me into a kiss.