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«A Monstrous Murder on Abbey Road! The Culprit Found!»
«The Binsmod Family Robbery! A Daring Thief Climbed Through the Bedroom Window of the Family's Daughter!»
«Sir Damian Alistair Suspected of Infidelity with His Male Colleague! Read All About It in the New Issue!»
The newspaper boys, clambering onto snow-dusted benches, were bawling the sensational headlines. The terrible news, proclaimed for all the street to hear, reached the ears of passersby and became fresh fodder for gossip over a cup of tea, coffee, or something stronger. In the respectable districts of London, there was frankly little else to occupy one's leisure. Here, people were horrified by a stain on a lady's gown and shocked by some viscount's old-fashioned hat.
But it was not this that confounded Dr. Jekyll.
What confounded him was that for the past week, while the entire city seemed to do nothing but stumble over its own festive bustle, not a single one of these newspaper articles had borne any connection to Mr. Edward Hyde.
Henry had lately taken to poring diligently over these meaningless clippings of scandal, intrigue, and— God forbid — obituaries. Hyde, Hyde, Edward Hyde… No, that name was nowhere to be found. Not a single Christmas tree had been toppled with a crash into a ditch, not one instance of vandalism against a particularly garish holiday shop window. The good doctor's malevolent counterpart appeared to have vanished from the face of the earth. And this ominous alteration gnawed at Jekyll's peace of mind.
Letting Edward roam free had always been a discomfort — after all, the two halves of one soul were inevitably drawn together. But now it was… disquieting. Unsettling. Where once, upon Hyde's attempt to pick a fight with some bruiser, Henry could wrest control of their shared mouth and utter a crisp "You must excuse me, good sir". Now, with them separated, the devil only knew what trouble Hyde might have courted without his keeper's supervision. Had he landed himself on the gallows? In a madhouse? Perhaps he was dancing on a pub table, swinging some poor sod's unspeakables on his cane like a banner? Or drinking cheap gin from a boot, swaying perilously? Henry nearly snorted at the thought but checked the foolish impulse. Edward had not been at his lodgings, nor haunting the dens of Soho, for nine days now. With his reserves of vitality, funds, and unbridled, youthful depravity, he could doubtless disappear until Christmas itself and then reappear like a grotesque gift beneath the tree, as if nothing were amiss. But…
…this but itched at the base of Jekyll's skull and was, in all honesty, becoming a genuine ache.
The doctor rose from his armchair with a heavy exhalation and moved to the frost-rimed window. The streetlamps outside seemed to wink back at him. A breath of frozen air seeped through the glass. ‘It would be exceedingly vexing,’ the thought came unbidden, ‘if Edward were to contract consumption in this weather.’
He and Hyde shared everything: property, servants, knowledge, skills, even emotions and, since their recent physical severance, brief, intrusive flashes of memory. Henry, executing a polite bow in a letter to a patron, might suddenly tremble and blot the page — a vision of a shockingly intimate feminine form flashing before his mind's eye. Hyde, in the midst of revelry with some doxy, would in turn shove her from the room in disgust. His consciousness would be abruptly flooded with the titles, faces, and hypocritical smiles of the moneyed oafs from his other half's correspondence. A vivid, jarring, and thoroughly annoying effect. But a man grows accustomed to anything. Even this.
Thus, Jekyll was not surprised when, after three days of Edward's absence, a flash of blinding fury pierced his consciousness.
It lanced through his mind like a white-hot blade, unrelated to any familiar brawl or drunken stupor. It was a pure, impotent rage, trapped within four walls, and it faded as quickly as it came, leaving only a slight headache and a residue of peculiar unease. ‘Still carousing,’ the doctor sighed inwardly, shrugged, and returned to the work from which he had been distracted.
Why should he worry over that violent drunkard at all? Hyde was a grown man, perfectly capable of defending himself, if not with his fists then with a bribe or some cunning scheme. Let him walk the very circumference for all Jekyll cared.
It was with this logic that Henry fortified himself, which made it all the more vexing when, the next day, a sudden ache bloomed in his left hand. The pain, honey-thick, spread through his palm and fingers, rendering him unable to hold a cup or mix reagents. A pity, but… it was a greeting from his other half. A fight, a bite, some shameful bed-play, or whatever it was Edward busied himself with night and day. Jekyll merely rolled his eyes and rubbed his palm and wrist, as if he could physically knead the foreign suffering from his muscles. His face was a mask of cold indifference.
Nothing would make Jekyll so much as raise an eyebrow in Edward Hyde's direction again.
When, lying in his bath, he felt the grasp of coarse hands seizing his shoulders, pressing his face against something cold and wooden, the doctor did not rise from the water. He submerged himself deeper, drowning out the ringing in his ears: “Hold him fast!”
When, during his second breakfast, instead of "bon appétit," Henry heard a pedantic, icy voice seep into the substrate of his mind, he pretended it was merely a bothersome, buzzing fly. “You will be obedient. You will follow the rules. Each act of defiance will cost you dearly.” Jekyll cleared his throat and drowned the flare of sensation with the taste of blancmange.
Nothing would stir a fresh wave of anxiety in the doctor.
Not the taste of carbolic soap in his mouth.
Not the sensation of a constant, gnawing hunger.
As Henry, humming an old Christmas carol, hung his favourite golden bauble upon the tree, he felt a tight knot form within his chest. His heart thudded loudly. His ears burned as if someone had been pulling on them with sadistic diligence. The doctor, as was his habit, merely shook his head to dispel the unwanted mirage and picked up the large glass star.
Nothing would ever…
Henry froze, as if turned to ice. His next breath did not come. Jekyll heard a wretched, choked sob — full of the fury of a caged tiger and the fear of an orphaned child. His other half was weeping.
Jekyll dropped the star. It shattered with a crystalline crash.
***
Snow lay upon the streets of London like a soft eiderdown quilt. The cold air nipped at cheeks and teased noses with the scent of roasting chestnuts. A peaceful, serene grace. The West End was so redolent of fairy-tale and domestic comfort that one almost wished to become a crystal angel and perch upon a prickly bough, gazing down at the scatter of lights, the people in warm gloves, their reddened noses and ears. The city prepared for the holiday. It sparkled with lanterns, sang with sleigh-bells, breathed the steam of meat pies, and jingled with coin in pockets — a sure sign of impending merriment. “Good evening, Doctor! Do visit the ice fair!” “Mama says if I'm good, I shall grow up to be just like you.” “Where are you off to in such a hurry, old fellow? Mind you don't slip!” These courtesies flew at Jekyll's back like snowballs as he strode across the street, sternly hailing the nearest cabbie, careful not to break into an undignified run.
— Cab!
The thoughts in his greying head swarmed and buzzed furiously, shouting over one another, and not one of them held any admiration for carolling children or Christmas garlands. They howled and barked like a pack of hounds.
Edward Hyde has not been seen for a full fortnight.
Edward Hyde is starving and furious.
Edward Hyde is being held against his will and beaten.
He is being washed by force, like an animal.
And he is in despair.
Seated in the jolting carriage, Jekyll rubbed his hands together for warmth and clenched his fingers nervously. His analytical mind, honed by medical texts and Shakespearean verse, could arrive at but one grim conclusion: Hyde had landed in an asylum, a prison, or (this made the doctor shiver for reasons entirely unrelated to the cold) fallen into the clutches of a sophisticated, calculating maniac who was amusing himself with him as with a toy.
Regardless, Edward was trapped. And, by all appearances, powerless to free himself.
Henry, think.
Jekyll exhaled heavily, watching without joy as the tidy streets of the affluent district gave way to slums, and pressed his fingers to his chin in concentration.
Hyde is being beaten. But not with fists in a brawl — they aim for his palms, twist his ears. Punishment, not murder, or else he would have ceased signaling long ago. This rules out a common robber or an avenger.
He is washed forcibly, with vile soap. This is no brothel, no wealthy household. Would a sick pervert be so miserly with his prized "possession"? No, this smacks of something institutional, governed by martial discipline.
He is perpetually hungry. But not the hunger of one locked in a cellar — that leads swiftly to apathy. This is a peculiar, rhythmic hunger, as if fed on schedule, but poorly and sparingly. A workhouse?.. Perhaps Hyde was mistaken for a street urchin or a drunkard?
Or perhaps…
Henry did not have time to pursue the thought, for he was jolted violently from his seat as the cab gave a mighty lurch. He struck the back of his head painfully against the roof — these enclosed hansoms were clearly not designed to transport men of the doctor's considerable stature. Edward, on the other hand, with his short, stooped, compact frame, more boy than man in appearance, would have fit perfectly. And had anyone been brave enough to remind him of that fact aloud, they would have learned firsthand the delightful sound a heavy cane-handle makes against a human temple. Henry caught himself feeling an odd, almost wistful nostalgia for those furious, gnomic outbursts.
— 'Ere we are, guv'nor, — came the call from outside as the dreadful rattling finally ceased.
Standing on a cold, dirty, and decidedly un-magical street, Jekyll adjusted his gloves, pulled his top hat down firmly, and proceeded to his first stop on a long list: the Soho police station.
Little did he know how utterly defeated he would feel after just two hours of relentless searching.
At the station, a sergeant who smelled of onions and damp serge grumbled, thumbing through a battered ledger: "Hyde? No, not on the register. What’s he done, slipped his leash?"
In the receiving room of the White Poplar sanatorium, a matron with a frog-like countenance declared: "We house patients, Doctor, not gentlemen with surnames. And we do not disclose their names." Her gaze suggested she would be happy to admit Jekyll himself if he persisted.
At the workhouse on Oldgate, a clergyman with weary, watery eyes spread his hands: "My good sir, here we have souls thirsting for salvation, not riotous young men. Perhaps try the refuge for fallen creatures? Though," he sighed mournfully, "it is chiefly ladies there."
Once again, no one had seen Edward. For a phenomenon as conspicuously vile and frenetic as he, this seemed surreal, abnormal, simply, damn it all, impossible! And yet Hyde had done it.
Accursed, venomous gremlin! Rotten tooth in London's jaw! Mangled alley-cat of dwarf breed! Where the devil are you to be found?!
This mental stream of invective, mixed with hurt, fear, and horrific fatigue, acted like a spiritualist's circle. Jekyll, slowly ascending a bridge, paused to catch his breath and marshal his thoughts. He looked down at the water below, studying his own distorted reflection: wretched, gloomy, a black stain against the backdrop of bright Christmas lights. The doctor placed a hand on the parapet, if only to lean on something other than his exhausted legs.
And then an arrow pierced him. A new flash. Brighter than all before it. And it was his name.
“Henry!” — it rang in his head like thunder. Good Lord… Merciful heavens… Jekyll had never heard Hyde call him that. In that single cry was such a depth of shame and terror that the doctor choked on the frosty air and nearly toppled over the railing into the Thames. This could not be. It simply did not happen. Edward Hyde crying for help? Henry stumbled back onto the roadway and cast his gaze about like a madman, hoping, no, begging fate for the call to have come from somewhere nearby, not from within his own consciousness. Let Hyde be captive to a mad greengrocer, let him have fallen into a drunken stupor and frozen to the pavement, a plaything for passersby, let him have insulted a wicked wizard and been turned into a rat, forced to scurry through pipes and hide from cats. Anything, so long as he was here…
Nothing. Silence again. Deafening, bottomless silence. Edward's voice was gone, choked off.
Snowflakes drifted slowly around Jekyll, settling softly on his hat, embracing his shoulders. The wind teased the skirts of his coat, as if inviting him to join the general merriment. But inside the doctor was a void colder than any winter morning.
He raised his eyes. Above him, piercing the leaden sky with its spire, rose a church. People bustled about, lovers giggled, children scurried to and fro, and from a nearby pub came the raucous strains of a drunken song wishing all a Merry Christmas.
Henry did not quite know how his feet carried him up the path, how he pushed the heavy oak door, and fell to his knees directly before a stained-glass window. The air enveloped him with the scent of wax, incense, and perhaps a wholly unjustified hope. If no one on Earth could help him, if the Almighty would but hear him… The world around seemed to thicken, listening intently. The Magi gazed down at the doctor from the glass — some with judgment, some with weary sorrow, some with infinite human love.
— Lord, — he began quietly, looking guiltily toward the altar. — You know of whom I speak. You know what he is. And you know he has… to put it mildly, never held You in high regard.
Henry nervously adjusted his top hat, having quite forgotten that gentlemen are to remove their headwear indoors.
— But tonight is Christmas Eve. The holiday of… hope, warmth, and family, — his voice caught awkwardly on the last word. — I do not ask the impossible. I do not ask You to make him a saint, to cease his wrecking of the city, or to turn him into a blessed teetotaler. He would never forgive me for that in this life, — Jekyll sighed to suppress an inappropriate chuckle. — I merely ask… for a clue. A sign. Any sign. I beseech You, return that scoundrel to me, and I… I vow to donate more to the new church organ next year. To the choir. To every organ and choir in the city. I shall even make that blackguard sing in one, if need be.
The doctor looked away in embarrassment, feeling for the first time in forty years like a small boy caught in mischief and begging his father's pardon. A bright, boyish flush of sincere shame spread across his cheeks.
— He has committed such outrages as would make him fast friends with the devil himself, — Henry continued. — He is utterly unmanageable and incorrigible. Dangerous. And profoundly irritating. But I am the one who made him so, and I must answer for him before You. Punish me for my irresponsibility and hubris, not him for the nature with which he was born.
Jekyll remained on his knees, clinging to his last hope, pleading and bowing his head, until curious whispers began to swirl around him and his joints announced themselves with a soft creak. Then he rose carefully, as if disappointed by the lack of an answer and terribly regretful of everything he had ever done in his life. Somewhere out there, his soul was suffering — yes, only half of it, but it was his part, however loudly it might curse and however shamelessly it might swill wine straight from the bottle. Edward Hyde had called for help, and Henry Jekyll, in his own goody-two-shoes fashion, had begged God for mercy and a miracle.
And a miracle occurred.
Utterly broken, the doctor cast a despondent glance at the large, towering cross and pushed the heavy door once more. He stepped outside, squinting his tired eyes against the light of the setting sun. Jekyll ought to have been glad — for once, the nagging ulcer, the tumour on his daily life, had simply up and vanished. Evaporated, with a parting scream. He wouldn't even need to prepare an extra gift now. But Henry… Oh, poor Henry! He looked so drawn, as if already mourning the lost one in his mind. He did not know if Hyde was aware he was being sought, if flickers of his brighter half's memories had reached him, yet this lingering, raw ache at the bottom of his consciousness surely tormented them both now. The doctor swallowed a choking bitterness. Edward was nowhere. And it seemed he did not intend to grace the festive supper either.
In the end, fate had indeed compelled Jekyll to worry about Hyde.
Henry surveyed the street, gave a sad nod to the angels swaying on fir branches, exhaled a cloud of dense vapour. His fingers had long since gone numb from running about in the frost. It was time to return home…
And then a loud voice — not a call to evening service, not a carol, but a thunderous shout — cut through the icy air like a sabre. Crack! — and Henry, startled, slipped on the pavement, breaking the ice beneath him with a solid crunch. A sharp pain shot through his spine… but never had Jekyll received such pain with such gratitude.
For in the wake of this instantaneous divine "clip round the ear," he discerned words drifting from a window of a nearby building.
— Hyde! To the punishment class, this instant! A left-hander is no gentleman, and I shall thrash this nonsense out of you with the rod if it takes me till next Christmas!
That's… Oh, Almighty Lord.
— Daubing obscenities on the walls! Disrupting lessons with insolent speeches!
No, this simply cannot be. This is a dream. A delirium.
— Eight escape attempts, two broken noses, torn-out hair, a set fire to a study! You taught first-formers words that made their nannies cross themselves in holy terror! My patience is at an end, boy!
Henry is probably going to swoon.
Eight escapes. Broken noses. A burnt study.
…A left-hander.
Jekyll lay splayed on the road, gazing at the sky, accumulating a generous layer of snow. He stared into the void, heedless of the alarmed gasps of passersby, the pain, the piercing cold. He had just understood everything. The first sound from his chest was like the rasp of a drowning man. Then another. His throat constricted, his eyes blurred with tears — not of grief, but from the unbearable pressure of laughter fighting to burst free. The doctor tried to bite his lip, to swallow, but was utterly powerless before the absolute, ringing absurdity of the situation. What a farce. What nonsense. What a terrible, colossal stupidity!
He drew air into his lungs and laughed aloud. Tears streamed down his face, his cheeks flushed a healthy red, his shoulders shook in an uneven rhythm. He laughed at his own terror, at searching every prison and hospital in London, at picturing Hyde in a maniac's dungeon… while the wretch had been disrupting lessons and trying to set a school on fire.
He, Henry Jekyll, a scientist of world renown, had just been on his knees begging God for his demon's salvation… and the Lord, in His infinite and cutting mercy, had simply let him overhear a scolding from the window of the local boys' boarding house.
— Oh, Edward… — he rasped through his laughter, breathless. — My dear… precious… idiot…
It was easier to believe in fairies or higher education for women than in what was transpiring. Hyde, with his boyish frame, dishevelled hair, and perpetual look of defiance… had been mistaken for a runaway pupil. A troubled adolescent. Him, Edward Hyde, the terrorist of London's taverns, had been held in a boarding school and was about to be caned for vehemently refusing to mend his ways. No, Henry was definitely still asleep.
The doctor coughed, wiping his tears with the back of his glove, and slowly, with effort, rose to his feet. The pain in his back immediately announced itself, but now it seemed comical — a scratch, almost a Christmas gift from above. Jekyll straightened up, brushed off his coat, and adjusted his top hat, which had slid askew. His face, a moment ago drawn with grief, now shone. He puffed out his chest proudly, adopting the mien of a formidable, respected gentleman. Tonight, on the eve of the holiday, the irrepressible scoundrel Hyde would be collected by his stern uncle.
Henry did not explain who Edward Hyde was. He did not attempt to prove his age (he himself had not yet decided on the matter, given his nature) or the danger in which both pupils and staff had been — the school had clearly suffered enough and would not survive another scandal. One weary, exceedingly serious look and a restrained nod to the usher, accompanied by a dry, "Dr. Henry Jekyll. My nephew resides here. I have received troubling news," opened the doors of the boarding house to him. Then into a long corridor with a freshly painted, yet still visible stain on the wall (judging by the outlines, Hyde had some strange… notions of anatomy), and around a corner loomed a large, sturdy door. The punishment class.
The door swung open with a loud clang.
To the doctor's ears came immediately a hysterical, voice breaking into a rasp, yet utterly familiar:
— …and your mother earns twice as much because she's got no teeth!
It was him. It was Edward Hyde. Alive and mostly well.
Jekyll nearly doubled over with relief but restrained himself upon seeing the state of his dark half.
In the centre of the ascetic office, forced to bend over an oak bench, stood Hyde. Two burly attendants in coarse uniforms held him — one twisting his arms behind his back, the other pressing a palm between his shoulder blades. Edward's absurd school coat was torn and hung from one shoulder, his thin shirt had come untucked, and his unruly hair, gathered into a dishevelled tail, was plastered to his forehead with sweat. Hyde was pale as death, his entire body taut to the point of trembling, and his gaze, full of animal terror and mute fury, was fixed on the floor. Directly behind him, arm raised for the strike, a teacher stood frozen, holding a flexible birch rod. By the wall, arms crossed, the headmaster observed.
And when Edward's eyes fell upon Henry standing in the doorway, Hyde nearly squealed.
— Dr. Henry Jekyll, gentlemen. He, — the usher cleared his throat without joy, nodding for the teacher to step back, — is Mr. Hyde's uncle.
An awkward silence hung in the room. Jekyll slowly surveyed the scene, his face utterly expressionless, though the sight of the harried, half-undressed Edward in schoolboy breeches nearly made him burst into laughter again. He could only hope that clenching his jaw tightly lent him an angry appearance.
— It would appear, — Henry began in an even, cold tone, addressing the headmaster, — my nephew has caused your establishment… considerable inconvenience.
He turned to the teacher with the rod, nodding respectfully.
— You are quite correct. Left-handedness is a grievous vice. And vandalism… — his gaze slid to Edward, who froze, — requires eradication. A few strict lessons would, I daresay, be most appropriate.
Hyde jerked, trying to break free. A stifled, hoarse groan escaped his chest, full of utter betrayal and horror. His eyes, wide and dark, bored into Jekyll with a silent, and undoubtedly profane, question. The doctor, without blinking, addressed the headmaster again, his tone becoming businesslike and weighty.
— However, as his guardian and sole relation, I deem it my duty to complete this correction within the walls of his own home. I assure you, my methods will be no less, and indeed perhaps more… efficacious.
Henry poured all his diplomatic skill into this speech. A reputation as the patron of a madcap hellraiser who had wrought havoc within a school's walls was the last thing Jekyll needed, so the final argument in the brief negotiation was a promised, substantial sum by way of apology. Listening to this shameful bargaining, Hyde shut his eyes for a second, his shoulders slumping. He was being bought off, like a horse. His eyes, already red with rage, brimmed with the scalding moisture of fury and humiliation, but Edward immediately wiped his grimy face on his shirt with a low growl. Bloody shame.
— As you wish, Dr. Jekyll. We shall rely upon your… good sense.
The headmaster nodded to the attendants, who loosened their grip. Hyde, swaying, straightened up. His first act was to feverishly, with trembling fingers, fasten his trousers and pull on his coat, feeling the heavy gazes of all present like a hunted animal. He wanted to shout something in parting, something clever, about the usher's nocturnal trysts with the caretaker in the closet, or suggesting he'd had the headmaster's daughter up against a wall, but… all that emerged was a cowardly, relieved sigh of a drowning man saved.
There remained only the hope that the other boys, having witnessed Hyde's exploits, would continue his noble work.
— Come, Edward.
Henry turned toward the exit without looking back, knowing the other would follow. And Hyde obediently, like a chastened pup, trailed after him.
***
— Well, I was passing by, so I smeared it on their wall, and this mustachioed fellow saw and started bellowing, how dare I, what would my parents think. Didn't get the fuss at all. As if he'd never seen a cu... — the eloquent phrase was cut short as a bottle of red wine was thrust under Edward’s nose. — O-ho, handing out presents? That's more like it.
He took a swig straight from the bottle, wiping his mouth on his sleeve with relish. Life seemed to return to him with each gulp.
— So anyway. Grabbed me. Dragging me off. And I says to him, are you in your right mind, my good fellow? I says, I'm a grown man! And he says to me: ‘Grown men do not behave thus.’ — Hyde snorted, breaking off a piece of pie.
The festive table was set for a whole party, but Edward, with astonishing efficiency for one person, was devouring everything in his path: meat, salads, pastries, alcohol, sweets. Jekyll, with a doctor's concern, mentally noted how he had grown thinner, and now, like a mother hen, watched with relief as food restored Hyde's strength to theatrically recount his sudden adventure. They sat alone in the decorated dining room. Outside, the wind still howled and the soft snow fell. Edward, in his customary feline manner, had curled up in the chair by the fire, tucked his legs under him, and was declaiming with great importance, even attempting different voices.
— Dragged me to the office, and there's this… headmaster. Face like he'd never been touched by woman nor razor in all his life. Asks: ‘Your surname, boy?’ I says, Hyde, naturally. ‘Where are you from?’ I says, from over there. ‘Where are your parents?’ And I says, same place as yours, most honourable sir, in the churchyard. Thought, that's it, he'll grumble and let me go. Bollocks to that! Nods to that mug: ‘Poor orphan. Place him in the common hall. Put him in uniform.’
Hyde paused, a large piece of cake halfway to his mouth. He caught Jekyll's gaze, his own rumpled, tired face, and grimaced as if offered a pink hairbow.
— What?
— I thought you were being murdered, Edward, — the doctor admitted honestly with a light sigh.
— Well, something like that, — Hyde shrugged with his mouth full, managing somehow to stuff the entire piece of cake in.
— I searched the city like a madman, — Henry said quietly. — Went to every sanatorium. Thought you were in the hands of a lunatic. In the end, I even… went into a church. Prayed.
Hyde stopped chewing and slowly turned his head. A look of incredulous, offended understanding flashed in his eyes.
— A-ha… So that's where that flash of idiotic grace came from! Nearly blinded me! Thought their slop was making me lose my mind! — he snorted again, but the sound was somewhat abashed. — Prayed. You're such a dullard, Jekyll.
He set about opening a new bottle, a gift from one of the doctor's friends, which by right of inheritance he considered his own. Henry smirked, toying with the stem of his glass, his gaze fixed on Hyde with a slightly sly intensity through the pale gold of the champagne.
— Incidentally… When I arrived, was that… the first time? Or had they already managed to… tan your hide before I got there?
Silence fell. Edward suddenly developed an immense interest in the pattern of the tablecloth. He leaned forward as if searching for something, then abruptly reached for the bottle, poured himself a drink, spilling some. Carefully mopped up the puddle with his sleeve. Scratched his bandaged left hand. Pretended to have been deaf since childhood. Did, in short, everything except look Jekyll in the eye and answer the question.
— I see, — Henry chuckled, and his voice held not mockery, but a strange, warm solidarity. — Shall we drink to it?
— With you? Suppose I might, — Hyde rolled his eyes and clinked his glass loudly against the other.
Exhausted, having lain on an icy road, run all over the city, and bowed his head in prayer, Jekyll, watching as Hyde licked the pudding dish clean with the relish of an ill-bred child, caught himself realizing that the silence in his head had once more been replaced by the familiar murmur of his own thoughts. A calm, reasoned stream. This, perhaps, was what happened when both halves of one soul found each other again, weary, warmed, and slightly in their cups. And on this night, one could not wish for a finer Christmas gift.