Archive of Our Own ^beta

Wallace Larson stares at the squalling bundle of blankets lying in the crib before him.

She is so small. Yet she is so very determined to force her shrieking out through tiny lungs, filling the normally peaceful house with her noise. The only skin visible her flushed and tear streaked face, wrinkled in discontent. Her mouth stretches open in a earshattering wail, tiny eyes squinting shut and crinkled at the corners.

Larson grips the edge of the railing as he watches her, feeling rather like he's about to faint.

His wife is asleep in the next room, exhausted from the fuss and strain of childbirth. She had been in labor from sunup to sundown, hours of pushing and agony while he held her trembling hand. The doctor only just departed a few moments ago, promising to stay in town to check on her later. Downstairs, he can hear the voices of Tristian and Lucien as they play a game with the nurse in their room downstairs, their gleeful cries muffled but audible through the floor.

But as far as he's concerned, right now there is only him and his new, wailing baby daughter.

Larson has never considered himself an easy man to startle into silence. But here, he is in a veritable state of shell shock. It isn't the leftovers of the harried worry of attending to his wife during her labor. It is a warm and dizzying feeling, threatening to crest like a wave every time he looks at this newborn's face.

And it isn't as if he's never experienced this before: in fact, he's done so twice over. He witnessed the births of his own sons and cradled them each in his arms minutes after. It was a wonderful feeling both times, of course. He loves his boys more than life itself, and the first time he was able to peer into their tiny faces had been unexplainably blissful.

That was expected, of course; that's what parenthood was supposed to be. Wrinkles developed in the later years, of course, but he heard time and time again from friends and family that bore children before he got the chance that it was a joy without parallel. Part of him was concerned that he wouldn't feel the same rush of excitement, not after two previous births. It has been a persisting concern since his wife announced that she was pregnant again nine months prior.

But it seems as if his worries were in vain. Rather, Larson has to white-knuckle the side of the crib to keep himself standing up straight, unable to look anywhere else but his newest, absolutely precious addition to the family.

His gaze traces over and over her miniscule features, her round cheeks, her scrunched nose, her eyelashes soaked with tears as she continues to scream. Even though her face is contorted with her cries, she is perfect.

He can only describe it as love at first sight.

She pauses for a breath, and the room is briefly plunged into quiet. It's startling enough to snap Larson out of his trance, at least enough to reach into the crib and scoop his daughter out.

She is a warm weight in his arms, with the familiar milky smell that always comes with an infant. She is so tightly wrapped in blankets that she can barely squirm, yet manages to wiggle like a dissatisfied caterpillar turned on its back in his arms. Even for something so soft and small, it's a wonder to behold.

She continues to sob, but with less ferocity. When her face relaxes enough to open her eyes, they are the same warm brown as his.

He balances her in the crook of his elbow to brush a tear from her cheek with his opposite thumb, tracing it down to her dimpled chin. She chokes on her sob at the contact, only pausing long enough to look at him with those wide, watery eyes so full of confusion.

"Well, aren't you pretty?" He murmurs, although that hardly makes for an accurate summary of everything he feels. "Even if you're crying your eyes out, you may be the prettiest thing I've ever seen."

The compliment does not faze her. She wails again.

Larson clicks his tongue, bouncing her on his elbow as he paces circles in the nursery. His words of reassurance don't seem to do much, nor do his shushing or soft noises of distraction. None of it is working to calm her down, his baby so new to the world, so overwhelmed with everything around her in a way no one could possibly understand.

Larson sighs, taking a seat in the rocking chair in the corner. His eyes drift up to the rafters, away from the crying child in his arms.

Absently, he hums.

It's a tune he remembers hearing, some folk song he heard once or twice. The words escape him for the moment but the tune is familiar and cheerful, soft even in the quiet room.

The response is faster than he expects. Her crying begins to quiet, trailing off into half hiccups until it stops completely.

A haze of silence settles over the room once again.

"You like music, is that it?" He asks her. She blinks at him and mumbles in meaningless babble, miniature features scrunching up as if trying to study his face. There is no understanding, but yet her gaze makes warmth blossom in his chest anyways.

With another sigh Larson braces his heels against the floorboards and pushes, setting the chair rocking. When he hums again, her eyes are trained solely on his with such fascination that it makes him smile.

The words are beginning to come back to him, now.

Oh my darling, oh my darling

Oh my darling, Clementine

You are lost and gone forever

Dreadful sorry, Clementine…

A rather dark topic to sing to an infant, he can't help but think. But the words form on his tongue anyways, because she looks so perfectly content with it. Her cries lapse into soft mumbles as she tests her early vocal capabilities, and do not surface again. Only that endless and curious gaze, still shining with forgotten tears, is left.

In misery, in confusion, in curiosity. She is endlessly perfect.

A hand on his back makes him startle. When he turns his wife laughs, leaning over his shoulder to take a look at the baby herself. She has traded the faded yellow nightdress she wore for a clean blue one, and her hair sits neatly at the nape of her neck in a bun. Although she looks exhausted, clearly just woken up, the smile she offers at the sight of their daughter is contagious.

"She's beautiful." She says, tracing an index finger down her smooth, damp cheek. "Was she crying?"

"For a little." Larson replies, still transfixed on her small face. "You shouldn't be on your feet like this."

"I'm alright. I heard you, though." His wife flashes a playful smile, lifting the baby from his arms. Larson almost mourns the split second abscence, watching as she dabs at the infant's flushed cheek with her nightdress. "I've never heard you sing before."

"It worked like a charm, didn't it?" Larson shrugs his shoulders, but he cannot resist a smile in return at that sharply teasing expression he knows well.

She laughs again, lifting the baby so her face is level with her own. "It looks like it. She must love the sound of her daddy's singing."

She thumbs her cheek, earning a soft noise of amusement. Larson accepts a kiss on the temple before she returns the baby to his arms and disappears back into her room for a continuation of her nap.

She must love the sound of her daddy's singing.

It makes him swell with a pride he doesn't expect.

His sons always gravitated towards their mother, mama's boys through and through. It was never a point of resentment; after all, they took after her as well, with their russet hair and enchantingly dark eyes. Though they had the usual energy he would expect from boys, they always had their mother's undeniable headstrong streak, even at an early age. And it never made him cherish them any less.

But this little girl, he has a feeling, will be his. And it delights him to no end.

"Addison." He says it softly, as if the air is made of glass and that it will shatter from a noise even slightly too loud. Her eyes widen comically at the sound of her name, as if she recognizes it already.

She is perfect.

He taps the pad of his index finger to her flat little nose, and smiles at the noise it earns him. It sounds almost like a giggle.

She is perfect. And she will be his.

***

Summer has settled over the town like a warm blanket, coating everything in color that so contrasts the endless greys and whites of early spring. The woods below are alive with wildlife and flowers of every shape and hue, the growing town below bustling with new visitors hoping to prosper. In such a short time the town has grown beyond belief, stores and businesses popping up almost overnight. The warm weather seems to attract the promise of prosperity, and everyone can feel it.

With the season, Addison blooms as well. She is still so small, Larson thinks as he watches her waddle beside him as the boys play a game of chase across the grounds. Her face is still round with baby fat, and she can't walk without help. But gone is the squalling baby he met for the first time: her soft brown eyes, identical in shade to his, are large and full of curiosity. She has grown a head of short hair over the past few months, sporting the same auburn as he. When he does venture down to town with Addison in his arms, people are quick to admire how she is a perfect copy of her father.

Larson is inclined to agree with them, about her perfection at the very least.

She can almost talk now: fractured syllables and words and demands for things when she needs them. She can almost form mama and daddy on her tongue, along with the first few syllables of her brothers' names. Not to mention that her crawling has made it difficult to keep her out of anything; barely a day goes by without her nearly getting trapped in cupboards and drawers. It's enough to give the entire household gray hairs.

Despite it all, she has grown healthy and strong. She fills the house with cheerful babbles and half made words, always attempting to crawl up the stairs one by one without help until someone scoops her up. She screams with laughter when her brothers play games with her, and is never afraid to wail when she requires something. Even as young as Addison is, she is full of stubbornness and spunk in equal measure, filling their home with one more cheerful voice. She is a bundle of joy, of energy, with his looks and her mother's personality.

She is everything he has ever wanted, and Larson falls in love with her more by the day. His chest is full with it, spilling over with the leftovers every time she smiles.

Her tiny arm is warm and soft in his palm as she takes one wobbling step after the next, the lace hem of her soft orange dress brushing the blades of grass as she moves with the exaggerated care that's characteristic of an infant. Her features are scrunched in a mask of concentration, her lower lip stuck out as she puts one chubby foot in front of the other.

"Almost there." Larson tells her. Addison replies to the encouragement with gibberish, her round face upturned to look at him as her lips form something that sounds like daddy.

It brings a laugh out of him. Her first word was mama (much to his wife's triumph), but that doesn't stop him from enjoying every instance that she refers to him. It sends such a shock of joy through him that he believes he'd do anything to hear it over and over.

He scoops her off the ground, sweeping her up until her golden hair is haloed by the sun and all he can see is her delighted face. It is all he wants to see, for as long as time stretches.

"Hmm. Do you like to dance?" He asks her, cradling her in his elbow and letting her tiny fingers grasp the lapel of his coat. "Of course you do. It's very easy, I'll show you."

She looks up at him with a wonder unparalleled, as if he's offered her the sun and the moon and the stars wrapped into one.

He takes her diminuitive hand in a facsimile of a waltz, and her already enormous eyes widen further when he takes a step forward. "See? One, two, three. One, two, three. You'll be a regular dancer by the time you get on your feet."

The melody comes easily to his memory now: a song that once was barely familiar has shifted into second nature over months of humming it every time she fussed.

Nothing could soothe her like her daddy's voice. It was something he took enormous pride in.

In a cavern, in a canyon

Excavating for a mine

Dwelt a miner, forty-niner,

And his daughter, Clementine.

Addison shrieks out a laugh, her dress billowing as he turns again and again while just barely following the box step he had been taught as a child. They spin in a heedless dance across the grounds, and all he can absorb is the way those eyes watch his. There is nothing but delight and complete trust in their honey-brown depths, nothing but simple affection that has known nothing more or less.

When he pauses to catch his breath she squeals, her fingers closing over his thumb as if disappointed the dance has ended. When he looks up to the house, wiping sweat from his brow with one hand, he sees his wife from the window barely restraining a grin.

"Well. You'll make a wonderful dance partner yet." He sets Addison down in the grass, where she proceeds to kick both legs out in front of her and begin plucking out handfuls of grass with clumsy enthusiasm.

He lifts his gaze to the edge of the mountain. The sky is clear, with tufts of clouds cresting the tree-line below. The sun is hot, even for this time of year, but the day is beautiful regardless.

Larson feels a tug on his pant leg, and glances down. Addison stares up at him with solemn eyes, her arm outstretched upwards and her fist clenched around a dandelion ripped out from the root.

He struggles with a laugh. "Thank you." He takes it from her fingers and tucks it into his breast pocket with exaggerated care. "I'll take good care of it."

Addison makes a noise of delight when he scoops her up again, clapping her now slightly green hands together. Having her warm weight resting against his ribs, her soft head leaning on his heart, is something he never quite knew he needed before.

"Let's go find some more flowers for your mama, how's that? Maybe we can make her a bouquet."

***

"Wallace."

Larson looks up from the papers scattered across his desk, one hand pinching his temples and the other balancing a ballpoint pen. The mines have been a success and the town flourishes along with it, but something he didn't anticipate was the amount of menial paperwork that came with it. It seems that every day there's another contract to sign, another letter to write, another list of numbers to peruse. By now he should have really hired a secretary, but the remote location makes it difficult to find a willing candidate.

His wife peers through the doorway, her hair loose about her shoulders. Gingerly she pushes the door fully open and crosses the threshold, only pausing to adjust the lamp near its frame.

"What is it?" He tries to keep the frustration out of his tone, but if the way his wife's expression quirks into half a frown is any indication, he fails miserably.

She has never appreciated him or anyone else taking a tone with her, and he doesn't expect she'll begin tolerating it now. "I'm sorry. I have an awful lot of work to do, and it's wearing on me."

"It's alright." Her expression softens. "I came to tell you that Addison wants you to sing to her before she goes to sleep."

Larson allows himself a huff of laughter. "She does, does she?" He replies, but he has already halfway set his pen down. "It's well past her bedtime."

"It's well past yours." His wife stifles a laugh herself. "I offered to do it instead, but she wants you. I'd do it soon, or she might never get to sleep at all."

Larson stands, accompanying her into the hallway and shutting the door behind him. While she heads for the opposite end of the hall to wish Tristian and Lucien goodnight, Larson goes to the bedroom closest to theirs.

The years have been passing much more quickly than he is comfortable with. His boys have grown into strapping young men, with talents all their own. Tristian has taken to art with a passion, always sketching out animals in the woods or the people in town. Lucien has taken to hunting, sometimes joining his brother in the woods if only to fell some of his subjects with a slingshot.

And Addison, his Addison, is equally as precious. She has grown from a bouncing baby to a toddler to a little girl, now starting to develop skills ahead of her years. It seems her penchant is for music; she spends hours begging her mother to play for her, Tchaivosky and Mozart and Beehtoven, tapping her heels against the floor in time. But songs with words are her favorite; sheet music for nursery rhymes and old hymns and folk songs begin to fill the parlor for her to sing along to whenever she pleases.

But there is still nothing she enjoys more than to hear her father sing to her. And it is something Larson believes he will cling to for some time.

Addison lies sprawled on the bed when he opens the door, resting her chin on her palms and clearly waiting for him to arrive. She pushes herself up on to her elbows when she sees him in the doorway, sending a pillow to the floor beside the bed.

"Daddy!"

There's such delight in her voice whenever she addresses him, brimming over like sunshine through a windowpane. From the beginning, she has always been her daddy's girl, and this has hardly changed since she was an infant.

Her smile is bright as ever, her cheeks still round and now dotted with freckles from the sun. Her hair is tied back in a braid that goes halfway down her back, a few strands loose and wispy around her face as she sits up fully. The plain yellow nightdress she wears is stark against the white sheets in her bed.

"You should be asleep." Larson chides her, but he can barely muster any sort of edge and both of them know it.

"I want you to sing to me." She pouts, sticking out her lower lip. "The song I like."

"I'm surprised you aren't tired of it by now. I've been singing it since you could fit in the palm of my hand." Larson takes a seat on the edge of the bed, feeling the mattress sink beneath his weight.

"I still like it." Addison is quick to nudge herself against him, her head resting on his ribcage and one arm draped over his lap. One arm over her small shoulders makes her hum with delight, closing her eyes in a silent promise to go to sleep given that her request is fulfilled.

"Mmm…I don't know if I can remember the words." Larson sighs exaggeratedly, glancing towards the door.

"Daddy! You remember." Addison trips over the last word but laughs anyways, kicking her legs underneath the blankets. This routine is a regular one now; it isn't every night she requests his presence, but it's often enough.

"Alright, alright. I think I can remember."

Larson remembers just fine. The lyrics have been etched into his mind now the tune so repeated that the words come without any effort whatsoever. Addison hugs his forearm, tilting her face upwards to watch his expression.

Light she was and like a fairy

And her shoes were number nine

Herring boxes, without topses

Sandals were for Clementine.

"Daddy?"

"Yes?"

"What are number nine shoes?"

Larson raises his eyebrows, reaching to brush a stray piece of hair out of her eyes. "It means her feet were as big as mine, even though she was as small as you."

Addison explodes into giggles, tossing her head back carelessly onto his lap. Her laugh is always contagious, heedless and squealing amusement that makes him smile every time. "That's funny. She was a little girl like me?"

"A little girl like you." That wasn't precisely true, but he doesn't bother to correct it. He reaches down to take her hand; small still, but becoming long and graceful like her mother's. Her fingers close around his just as they did when she was an infant, cold in his palm.

"And she had a daddy like you?"

"Like me." Larson agrees, tracing patterns in the creases of her palm without thinking.

"What happened to her?"

He shrugs, pondering how to explain it in simple terms for a child. His gaze wanders along the window beside her bed, along the wainscoting and the pale green wallpaper. Pencil drawings on parchment are fastened to it with pins he swears are from his office. In them are the liknesses flowers and animals and boxy figures he can make out as people. "She fell in a river, because her daddy wasn't watching over her."

Addison grows serious, her eyes searching his face as she rolls onto her stomach and sits halfway up. "Why?"

Larson shrugs again. "He wasn't doing a very good job."

She frowns, the expression adorably crinkling her nose. "That's sad."

"She's only pretend, Addie." He offers a smile, releasing her hand to thumb her chin. "Don't you worry."

"Am I going to fall into a river?"

He laughs this time, and it brings the smile back to her face. Sad topics of conversation never could bring her mood down for long. "No. Because your daddy is always going to be watching over you. And your mama, and your two brothers." When she crams herself back into his side he holds her close with one arm, her head against his heart where it belongs.

She is warm and squirming and his. He is never going to let her go.

"Promise?"

"I promise." He brings her hand up to his face and presses a kiss to her knuckles, earning another delighted little squeal.

He means it more than any contract he could have signed. There is nothing that matters more to him than his little girl.

"Okay." Addison nods, questions apparently satisfied. "Keep singing."

He drops a kiss onto the top of her head and sings until her breathing slows into the steady rythm of slumber, her fingers loosely curled around the hem of his nightshirt. He only trails off into absent humming once he is sure she is asleep: after all, she would throw a fit if he stopped while she was still conscious.

She makes for an image of angelic peace while asleep. Her lashes brush her cheekbones, one hand drawing itself blindly to the pillowcase in order to grasp it. Addison shifts in her sleep, lips forming something unintelligible from a dream he cannot see as she tucks her head into her elbow.

The lamp burns low by the doorway by the time he can bring himself to get up. Part of him wants to watch her sleep all night, if just to keep his promise. If just to hear her whistling snore and feel her warm weight against him for a little longer. If just to stretch this moment, away from thoughts of paperwork and business and settling, like a shimmering spool of thread across time.

It takes a few more moments for him to gently extricate himself from her arms. Addison doesn't wake, only curling her arms to her chest and drawing her legs up to her chest.

Larson smiles faintly and blows out the lamp.

Oh my darling, oh my darling

Oh my darling, Clementine

You are lost and gone forever

Dreadful sorry, Clementine.

***

Fall has come for the town again, painting the blue summer skies with grey and white. The trees have begun to fade from green to gold to brown, coating the woods below in colors that Larson can see even from the estate. Even the activity in town has seemed to fade as the air takes on a chill; the bustle of business settling into a lulled murmur as everyone settles down for winter.

The weather is cold enough that his older boys prefer to stay inside by the fire, reading or playing quiet games while their mother looks on. The brutality of winters in the town is truly something to behold; the snow makes roads impassable and the rain is often enough to send even the hardiest men home with illnesses.

But in between the rain and hail that precedes it, Larson rather likes to take walks while he still can. The open sky that towers above all else always made him feel a certain way, and he can't help but enjoy it. Walks in the woods are equally as enjoyable despite the trek it takes to reach them; when all is quiet with nothing but the wind in the leaves, it brings him a unique sense of peace.

Well, most of the time.

"Daddy, look! A chipmunk!" Addison yanks on his hand excitedly, pointing at the blur of brown and black and white as it skitters up a nearby tree.

"So it is! I thought they'd all be hunkering down for the winter by now." He acknowledges with a chuckle, squeezing her small hand where it rests in his. She is dressed in her very warmest winter clothes, a brilliant red coat lined with fur and a hood straight out of a fairytale. Her small boots are caked with mud, even though they've barely been walking for more than half an hour now.

Addison has taken to joining him on his walks whenever she can. When she turned eight she begged to help him hunt with her brothers, and sulked for days when he had refused on account of it being both dangerous and unladylike behavior. For now, though, she seems perfectly content to explore the woods in his company, and Larson is grateful that she accepts the compromise.

Addison is stubborn, enthusiastic, and has a penchant for theatrics a mile wide. His wife continues to tease that she makes for a perfect replica of both of them, with her hard head and his flare for drama. Larson has to agree with the truth even in the humor; it's plain as day that she is both of theirs in equal measure, for better or worse.

But a belief that Larson holds deep within is that…well, she takes after him just a little bit more.

Addislips her hand from his to squat in a nearby patch of underbrush, staring intently at something he can't quite see. Larson slows to wait for her on instinct. By now he is more than used to her curiosity about the world, and it never does well to rush her.

She scoops up something into her gloved hands, humming to herself as she straightens. She forms nonsense words to a familiar tune as she skips down the path ahead of him with both hands tucked in her pockets.

Larson stifles a laugh, and follows after her.

"I forgot the words again." Addison announces over her shoulder, stopping in the middle of the path to plant her feet with both hands on her hips. When he catches up she is trying to work out the tune herself, nose scrunched in concenrtation. "Put…put her ducks…?"

She stops halfway to stare intently at his face, her wide eyes trained on his in a clear request for help. Addison continued to be the musical prodigy of the family, but sometimes words escape her.

"I'll tell you what." He drapes an arm over her shoulder, feeling her fingers curl around the edge of his coat. "I'll sing the other parts. You just sing the part you know, hm?"

"Okay." She giggles, burying her face in his shoulder. Larson sighs, although fondness blooms in the sound, and tugs her hood up to shield her from the wind.

Drove she ducklings to the water

Ev'ry morning just at nine

Hit her foot against a splinter

Fell into the foaming brine.

Addison positively vibrates with excitement waiting for her turn. When she bursts with the refrain, the echo of her voice seems to bounce in the still air like an explosion. It's wiggling and bright, a sunbeam cutting through the dark clouds that shroud the town. She is loud, and it breaks any kind of peace and quiet Larson might have wanted.

But he thinks that he wouldn't have it any other way.

Oh my darling, oh my darling

Oh my darling, Clementine

You are lost and gone forever

Dreadful sorry, Clementine…

It's the part of the song she knows best by heart, and she never passes up an opportunity to show it. When she stops on the last line she looks up at him expectantly, waiting for him to continue.

Larson hardly remembers when it became their little tradition. Tossing songs back and forth, he the verses and she the chorus. Sometimes they manage to harmonize when she can't quite remember, her sweet little chirp rising above his voice in the perfect accompaniment. From opposite ends of the house she calls to him like a fledgling in the nest, shouting one verse and waiting for him to throw back the next in an endless game that is theirs and theirs alone. Tristian and Lucien complain that it's too loud, but Larson can never quite bring himself to stop.

At least in the woods there is no one to disturb. Larson takes the next verse in stride, tucking her mittened hand into his as they drift further down the path. He hardly has to pause for more than a second before Addison picks up the chorus, swinging his arm back and forth as she strains to trot faster into the trees. Larson just manages to hold her back; the bigger she gets, the harder he has to pull.

"Ooh, look! A frog!" Addison squeals, and Larson barely has time to think before she yanks her hand from his grip and chases after it. The small creature jumps in zigzags, back and forth until it reaches the pond where the children typically play in the summer. Addison follows in close pursuit, her boots sending up plumes of fallen leaves as she ducks off the path.

"Addie, come back here!" Larson calls, although without much conviction. Once she has it in her head to do something, she won't give up easily.

"I almost have it!" Addison yells back, and with a sigh, Larson detours after her. The edge of her coat vanishes around a tree as she heads for the deeper part of the pond, clearly in hot pursuit of her target. Larson knows the place well; it's dotted with rocks along the shore that both Addison and her brothers would play hopscotch on.

But that, of course, is in the summer. When the water isn't deathly cold.

"Addison, get away from-"

"Got you!"

Several things happen at once. A moment after Addison's triumphant cry, a deafening splash shatters the silence of the woods. Larson can see the ripples that fan out from the impact, and skirts the edge of the pond much quicker.

"For goodness' sake, Addison!"

When he makes it to the deep end of the pond, he is just in time to spot Addison's head cresting the surface. Her hair is wet and sticks to the sides of her face, her heavy coat and winter dress soaked beyond belief. She thrashes in the water, trying to keep her head above the rippling surface.

If he doesn't act quickly, the panic and the cold will ensure she won't be able to swim for much longer.

"Daddy!" She wails, coughing up a mouthful of water.

The jolt of fear that her cry strikes through him is enough to have him draping his coat over a rock and wading in after her.

"I'm coming. Just hold still."

The water is freezing from the moment he steps in. It takes a moment for him to overcome the shock of cold that radiates through every muscle, cold enough to burn. The moment it seeps through his clothing is worse; the fabric sticks to him now, pressing the chill deeper and deeper into his skin.

But of course, he presses on.

The pond is a little less than chest deep even at its deepest point, and from Addison's height, her toes don't even touch the bottom. Larson can see the weight of her clothes is pulling her down. After such an exuberant struggle, her energy is beginning to dwindle, and she's starting to pant for air.

Yet even so, she thrashes away the first time he makes contact. Her mouth is wide with the strain of drawing breath into her lungs, deep enough that it rasps in her throat. 

"Addison, calm yourself down!" Larson grabs for her again, and misses. With clenched teeth he edges closer, the rippes only causing fresh shocks of ice through his muscles. "You're alright, now. Hold still." 

Addison whimpers. Finally, she stops squirming enough for Larson to scoop her well above the surface, sending a cascade of pond scum and muddy water back down in her wake. Between the filth and her waterlogged clothes, she makes for cumbersome cargo. It doesn't help that his teeth chatter so hard it rattles his skull, and even a moment of standstill makes it difficult to move. Her cold little arms clasp vicelike around his neck, her entire body shivering and soaking wet.

Oh, for goodness sake.

He deposits her on the leaf covered ground, snatches his coat, and drapes it over her shoulders. He's shivering himself; and without the coat, the cold is truly biting. The annoyance of being wet, half frozen, and soaking the inner lining of his good winter coat is enough to make him raise his voice.

"Addison Larson, what on earth were you thinking?" His tone rises with frustration at his wet pants and the loss of his coat. "You know better than to chase things into the water, especially in this weather!"

Larson's frustration might have risen further if it wasn't for Addison's face. Her features scrunch up into wrinkles, eyes turning to slits as she stares pointedly at the pebbles along the shore and not at him. Larson knows that Addison hates to cry, even if her attempts to avoid it make her distress all the more obvious. Her solution is always to squeeze her eyes shut as tightly as possible to keep tears from slipping out.

"I'm sorry." She says it in such a somber tone that Larson can hardly bear to hear it. She continues to squint at the ground, hugging the dark coat as tightly around her as she can manage. Even so, she trembles with the cold, tucking her legs under her body.

He heaves a sigh, counts to three, and tries for a smile.

"It's alright. But you know to be more careful than that, don't you?" He pulls her to her feet, and at her prompting, scoops her off the ground once again. Addison is tall and willowy for her age, and it's getting much more difficult than it used to be for him to pick her up. Regardless of whatever strain it causes him, however, she buries her face in his neck and sniffles.

"I know. M'sorry."

"I don't want you doing that again. Look at your clothes." He clicks his tongue, picking at the hem of her coat. "Your poor mother is going to have to wash off the mud."

"Mhm."

"And you know that I'm always going to go in after you, even for a silly reason like this. I'd rather not have to again." He offers half a laugh, but Addison doesn''t return it. Instead she looks up, studying his face with an interest he wasn't expecting.

"Anywhere?" She asks, something between careful and playful. Larson doesn't feel in the mood for games, not while soaked and chilled to the bone with a long walk back to the house. But he humors her anyways.

"Anywhere."

She nods, thoughtfully, and doesn't say anything more. Instead, she tucks her face back into his throat and heaves a long sigh.

Larson decides he's let the guilt trip go on long enough.

The walk back to the main road is a quiet one. Larson isn't quite sure if it was the shock of nearly drowning, or the utter cold, or the simple terror that comes with having a displeased parent nearby. But Addison doesn't say a word until they get onto the paved road up to the estate itself.

"Daddy?"

"Yes, sugar." The uncertainty in her tone makes him take pause. Perhaps he was too harsh. The girl is doubtlessly scared out of her mind after such a fall, maybe his scolding took it too far. Once they get back into the house and before a warm fire, he can make up for it.

"Can you sing to me on the way back?"

Larson laughs. Well, that sounds more like her.

"Mm. Don't push your luck."

***

The house has grown quieter as of late.

Larson sits in his office, the window halfway cracked to let in some of the cool wind. Spring has come with cold rain and dreary skies, but it has stopped raining long enough for him to catch a breath of night air. The smell of wet soil and petrichor drifts into the room with every breeze, making it seem ever colder.

Quiet hardly begins to cover it. The entire house still smells like bitter medicine no matter how many months it has been or how many times Larson calls to have it cleaned. Sometimes he half believes that the smell has sunk into the wood and stone itself, and that no amount of scrubbing will get it out.

His wife is dead. His sons are dead, Lucian first, then Tristian. All of them fell ill and succumbed to the fever within weeks, even as he scrambled for the best doctors and treatment money could buy.

Addison is the only one left.

Her fever broke after a week of suffering, as the doctor told him with some relief. The only member of his family that made it to the other side, even though her cough lingers and she seems so much frailer.

What good is it, when he won't have her much longer?

Larson leans back in his chair, his eyes wandering thoughtlessly to the door.

What good is any of it, if everyone else is gone?

None of it matters now. It shouldn't, what with the things he has discovered over the course of a few short months. A name that went dormant with his forefathers, one he only revisited in the depths of his grief.

The Order of the Fallen Star.

Something that could save him yet, brought to him in darkened rooms lit by candlelight and perfumed with smoke. Powers that spoke to him without a word, that opened his mind to dreams and pleasures previously unimagined to him. Greater things, unfathomable things, that made the world he had so blindly lived in for so long look no more remarkable than illustrations in a book.

And fortune has come to him, after so much suffering; they can give him more. An existence safe from death and illness, knowledge that will continue to bless his line years into the future, everything he could ever want. Everything he has ever wanted, with the ambition he has cloistered for long enough as it is.

And they only have a single stipulation. A price only he can pay.

"Daddy?"

Larson sits up, his vision refocusing in the doorway. A pale face pokes through, round and soft in the lamplight, Iphigenia emerging from the bowels of the ship.

"Addison." He tries to match her worried gaze, and promptly fails. Instead he deigns to pinch his temples and stare at the smear of text before him, some letter from a business associate back in New York that means nothing to him now.

Addison has grown so, tall and sweet with ever wondering brown eyes and a crooked smile. Only a few months ago she turned eleven, with budding optimism that lit up a room even in times like these.

Now, her light hair is long past her shoulders and tied clumsily in a ribbon, her nightdress a pale blue one that Larson recognizes from her mother's closet. Her thick brows furrow with worry and she twists the ends of her hair in her fingers, back and forth in an endless self soothing motion.

"I can't sleep." She steps fully into the room, her bare feet padding against the rug beneath his desk. "I'm nervous for tomorrow."

"Nervous?" He doesn't know what to say. What can he say? "Come here."

She obeys. The moment she is close enough she crawls into his lap and draws her knees up to her chest, curling herself up like a pillbug against his chest.

It 's a habit that has lasted from her younger years, ever since she was a toddler. A routine that neither of them see fit to break.

It is one that Larson believes he will sorely miss.

He cradles her back in his elbow, although she is far too big for it to have the same effect as when she was an infant. The other arm slides under her knees, drawing her close to his chest and pressing his cheek to the top of her head.

He once believed he would never give her up. He never once thought he would have to reconsider.

Addison lays her head on his shoulder, her eyes wide and thoughtful as they wander the dark room. Ever since the haze of death settled over the household, she's become more quiet, more reserved. She still has a brightness that far outshines his, but she has less to say and is far quicker to bury herself in her father's arms than she used to be.

"What's going to happen tomorrow?" She asks, reaching one arm to pick up the pen on his desk and start fidgeting with it.

Larson swallows, tracing an absent pattern up and down her arm. He has tried to keep the details from her, as much as he is able.

"It's going to be special. The most important moment of our lives."

The words are halfway spoken into her hair, and he tucks his face further into it. It still has the warm, powdery smell of a child, mixed with dust and leaves from playing outside.

Even as the years have passed, she is still so young.

Addison shifts, the pen still twirling between and around her small fingers. Her frame is stiff with nerves, only relaxing slightly when he tucks a strand of hair back behind her ear.

"What if I make a mistake?"

Larson shakes his head. "You won't. You'll do just fine." He replies, tidying the strands of hair that come loose from the ribbon. "You just do exactly as I tell you, and everything will be alright."

It is a fight to keep the tremble out of his voice. He has learned to wear plenty of masks over the years; an assertive tone with the troublemakers in town, a smooth and persuasive one with the high class businessmen, a gentle one with their wives.

He has never had to take one like this.

"I want to make you proud, daddy." She mumbles into his collar, and he hand that plays with the pen goes still on her lap. "It…it seems like it means an awful lot to you."

"You'll always make me proud. You know that."

He means the words with everything he has left.

That gets a smile out of her, and her shoulders relax as she tucks her face into the hollow of his throat. Her eyelashes flutter against his pulse every time she blinks, and if he focuses he can feel her heart thud in time.

"You said it was just going to be you and me from now on." She says thoughtfully, her voice half muffled.

"That's right." He can barely get the words out, and he does not want to feel how the backs of his eyelids sting.

"Me and you." She repeats, and flashes her gap toothed smile. "Forever. That's not so bad."

Forever is a long time. Especially to go in alone.

For a split second, he wants to reconsider. Every fiber of his being burns with the urge to scorn these gods and turn away, regardless of the gifts promised.

She has such potential. He can see his daughter grow into a young woman, to marry, to bring children of her own, to be everything he has ever wanted her to be instead of sentencing her to a fate that will cut all of it short.

Anywhere?

Anywhere.

Larson looks down at her. She returns his gaze, her smile growing as she sits up and bumps her forehead against his. The movement sets his glasses crooked but he can hardly care as he leans to meet it, cupping her soft face in his palms.

She is so young. But she is so fragile.

The illness could return and rip her from him at any time. She could fall into the mines or wander into the woods and be lost. He hasn't forgotten that time in the woods, either; a brief and fleeting taste of mortality, but a taste nonetheless. She could die in a thousand ways even he, with his newfound knowledge of this world and those beyond, could never predict. Addison will be torn from him in one way or another, and he does not want to feel the silent agony of knowing that fact thrum beneath his skin any longer.

At least this way, he can control it. He can rest knowing she will not suffer the senseless and cruel fate of her mother and brothers. She will die with honor and purpose.

This way, her death will have meaning.

"Daddy?"

"Yes?"

"Can you sing to me? Like you did when I was little?"

The last thing Larson feels like is singing. There is nothing in him that has a single inclination towards anything cheerful or lighthearted, not with everything that has happened and everything that is to come.

But Addison hasn't asked for this in so long. If this is the last thing he can give her, so be it.

Ruby lips above the water

Blowing bubbles, soft and fine

But, alas, I was no swimmer

So I lost my Clementine

Well, maybe it befits the situation after all. It almost makes him laugh, as much as the thought makes something sharp creep up his throat.

Addison hums along, clearly too tired to sing as she usually does. Her eyes begin to fall shut, and she stifles a yawn in her hand as she looks up at him one last time with sleepy eyes.

"I love you."

Three flawless, shining words, hanging in the air like a spider's thread shimmering with morning dew. It's the death knell and the sweetest comfort he could have experienced wrapped into one gut-wrenching combination, one that writhes in his stomach and snakes around his lungs.

In that moment, with his last and his favorite curled up close to him, living and breathing, he wants nothing more than to hear those words over and over in an endless refrain.

His Addison. She made it out alive the first time, and maybe that needn't change. She was the only one strong enough to push through, his daughter, full of life and youth and years to spend by his side.

For a final time, Larson wants to reconsider.

Instead, he holds her closer.

"I love you more."

***

It takes several days for him to adjust to the sheer silence of the house.

The tapping of footsteps on the stairwell as Addison runs up the stairs or the flipping of pages as she reads a book are no more. The soft click of the kitchen door as she goes out to hunt for chipmunks and shiny stones, the ring of "daddy!" from across the hall, the lingering hum of piano notes from the parlor when she plinks out another melody have all vanished just as she did.

The estate is as silent as a tomb, and Larson feels as if he is sealed within it.

He tries to spend less time in the estate. After all, the Order is of utmost importance to him now, the mines and business be damned. He travels to New York more often than not, to meet with his brothers at every inclination. He is still quite new to it, but his lineage gives him enough status for his fellow members to treat him with more respect than the average new face. Still, the fuss of socializing and organization keeps him busy for the most part, and as the months pass sometimes he can tell himself he's forgotten about it altogether.

Of course, what he did sounds terrible on paper. Even thinking it leaves a bitter taste behind. He reacted badly at first, too; he could hardly stop shaking for weeks afterwards. The memory of his grief feels blurred and vague, like a dizzying nightmare from which he wakes up sweating and nauseous. It was a sacrifice, he will freely admit that. The effect it had on him was to be expected.

But it was necessary. There was no other choice. That is what his brothers in the Order tell him even as they helped him recover, and it is what he staunchly tells himself. It was a necessary sacrifice, and one that would be repaid tenfold.

She would have wanted this for him. She would have understood. She as always such a precocious girl, she would have known why he had to.

But when there is no more business waiting for him in New York, and he returns to the vast and silent house once again…well, it's much harder to make a convincing argument.

Larson lies back, staring at the ceiling of his master bedroom. It feels larger than it used to, particularly with the lights out. The sky outside is clear, starlight casting a dim blue glow onto the floorboards and glittering against the glass. The weather has only just begun to take a turn for the better, and Larson counts that as one small mercy.

Lately, it has become difficult to sleep. He spends his nights reading, studying ancient texts that lend to his knowledge. More often than not he falls asleep with his head on his desk and doesn't wake until his dreams swim with terrors and sickeningly familiar screams that jerk him into stumbling halfway to his daughter's room.

If he can fill his mind with the arcane studies of those who came before him, he will not have to suffer it.

He doesn't feel like it tonight.

Larson rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand, gaze darting between the beams that support the ceiling as if he hasn't seen them countless times before.

Larson hasn't liked to let his mind go idle, not lately. It's a dangerous thing nowadays to let his thoughts wander, lest they drift in to territory that will leave him in a bad mood at best. And it certainly doesn't help his insomnia, no matter what the doctors tell him or what treatments they prescribe.

He sighs, stretching an arm out to his side.

And before he knows what he's doing, he hums.

It's become second nature over the years, the melody coming to mind just as quickly as the lyrics. Night after night of singing her to sleep, day after day of singing a duet on walks, all of it culminates into a song he cannot get out of his head.

In a cavern, in a canyon

Excavating for a mine

Dwelt a miner, forty-niner

And his daughter, Clementine…

And for a moment, he waits for a smaller voice to hum back a chorus, one that never comes and never will.

Something soft and sickening as disease creeps up the back of his throat. This is worse than the nightmares and worse than waking up in a cold sweat. This is worse than having the moment Addison stepped up to that stone altar with all the courage she could muster before she was torn apart in front of him.

It is everything that could have been. And that is the most torturous thing of all.

Larson sits up, shoving the blankets out of his way, and snatches a book from his nightstand to read.

These thoughts give him no benefit, not with everything he has now. He can feel the power running through him, something warm and living and electric in his bones. Larson feels invincible, as if nothing and no one could ever hurt him in a way that matters. He possesses power and protection beyond human imagination on his side, something to safeguard everything he has worked so hard for. It is everything he could want, everything he does want.

And yet, he has given up the only person left in the world who loved him.

He will live to see wonders that his fellow men cannot imagine, and many more. He will never age and never grow weak, the picture of strength and vitality that humanity has sought after for millenia. Knowledge of the far reaches of infinity is his to learn and his to take. He has always aspired to something greater, something bigger than himself, and now has the means to claim it as his own if he only tries.

But the sleepless nights keep coming. He feels little exhaustion, no pain or ill effects from the lack. But there is something leftover, deep in his gut, that he doesn't want to think about for too long.

Larson has never felt better. But in many ways, he has never felt worse.

***

"I hope you didn't mind a rendezvous here. After all, a man of your caliber ought to be used to finer things, but there's nothing like the comforts of home."

Larson offers a smile, even though the comment sets his teeth on edge. He does mind, truth be told, that a man who owns half the oil industry felt it appropriate to discuss business over stale coffee and pastries. But by now, he knows more than enough not to say so.

Despite closing the mines only a few years prior, Larson feels that things are going very much in his favor. The years he spent with the mine in working order have been more than enough to sustain him plenty of times over, and a few smart investments as advised by certain neutral parties have led to more prosperity than he could have ever foreseen. The gods' gifts simply keep on giving, and he lives in comfort and security beyond his wildest dreams. It has been decades since the night that brought him his power, and he doesn't look a day older.

The only downside to the gift of eternal youth is that nobody tends to take him very seriously.

"It's perfectly fine, Mr. Hensley. Believe you me, I find myself lacking the comforts of home these days." He replies, sweeping his coat off of the rack by the door. Mr. Hensley follows suit, only pausing to button it up to the collar before pushing the door open and bringing in a rush of cold wind into the heated coffee shop.

"Oh, good." He holds the door open and Larson steps out, wrapping the collar tighter around his throat. "Say, that surprises me. A young man like you, unmarried?"

Larson forces a chuckle at that as the door clicks shut behind him. He isn't quite sure how old his companion is, but he wagers that he is undoubtedly the older party. "No, I'm afraid not. My wife passed some years ago from illness."

He can't help but relish the way Mr. Hensley's face slackens with horror. Nosy questions are easily enough shut down with mention of such a loss, and Larson has to feel a smidge of gratitude that it's that simple.

"Well. I'm sorry." Mr. Hensley clears his throat uncomfortably.

"No need." He waves his hand dismissively. "It's been a pleasure, but I think I'll be heading back to my hotel."

"Shall I call you a cab?"

"It's only a few blocks west." Larson fights with an eye roll, instead tucking a hand in the pocket of his dress pants. "I'll be just as well walking."

"I'll join you, then. I'm heading the same direction!" Mr. Hensley insists, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his coat pocket. "Smoke?"

"No, thank you." Larson declines, with as much grace as he possibly can muster. He always found smoking to be a filthy habit.

Mr. Hensley lights the cigarette and starts down the sidewalk, leaving Larson no choice but to fall into step with him. New York is once again on the cusp of spring, although the cold of the remaining winter still nips at his fingers when they shift in his coat pockets. Despite the weather, however, the streets still bustle with people ducking in and out of shops along the street, chatting and laughing to one another.

There is something about the damp chill that strikes a recognizable chord. The feeling nibbles at the edges of his consciousness with maddening familiarity, and causes Larson to completely miss the next minute of his companion talking until he receives a good natured prod to the shoulder.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Mr. Hensley inquires. Larson shakes his head.

"Oh, nothing. The dreary weather before spring always leaves me in a mood." The explanation is lackluster, but he doesn't bother to remedy it. "You were saying?"

"I was saying that there's a quaint little music shop along this corner." He points to a storefront with an awning over the dusty window, the wooden door halfway ajar. "Would you mind stopping in?"

Larson forces a smile, although his jaw tightens.

"Of course not."

Oh, how he minds. But his companion is already halfway through the door, holding it expectantly open for him to follow.

A bell jingles when the door swings shut, the noise almost muffled in the dusty gloom. Larson can spot one or two electric lamps lit in the corners, near wooden shelves of musical instruments and rolls of sheet music. Even though it's clearly open to the public, there doesn't seem to be anyone about.

All in all, it seems like a perfectly uninteresting shop. Larson doesn't find it useful to do much else than watch as Mr. Hensley enthusiastically busies himself with a nearby shelf of music books.

Idly, he lets his gaze wander. For the store looks to be exactly as he first estimated: full of instruments he can't play and literature he can't use. But one object near the window differs from the rest, and he cannot help his curiosity.

Larson recognizes it as a phonograph. The one he has in Addison is a small, boxy sort of machine, with a horn protruding from the front of it. He special ordered the thing a few years before purchasing one was even an option for the general public. He was never quite sure why he bought it; it wasn't as if he listened to music often. Larson can count on one hand how many records he owns, all classical symphonies he enjoyed but somehow fall flat now.

After all, it isn't as if he's the musical one in the family. In fact, no one else really was but-

Well. It isn't worth thinking about.

Larson clears his throat. The damp breeze through the open window seems to curl at the back of his neck, and lingers much longer than he is comfortable with.

This gramophone is very much the same. This one is a smooth wooden rectancle almost level with his chest, the needle resting on a round turntable. Beside it lies a box full of what he assumes are the discs that accompany it, in various shades of tan and brown.

"Ah, a gramophone!" Mr. Hensley seems to materialize behind him, peering over his shoulder. "This must be from a few years back."

"I imagine so." Larson replies, trying to sound more interested than he is. "I have a similar model."

"Do you? I wonder what sorts of music they've got in here!" Mr. Hensley kneels, lifts the box onto a nearby ta rifle through it.

Larson stifles a sigh. This day just keeps getting longer.

"….a few hymns, some Mozart…ah! Isn't this an unusual find?" Mr. Hensley cheerily holds up a disc, encased in yellowed paper casing with cramped script on the front. "Must be some sort of folk song, given the title. Though I don't recall ever hearing of it."

"Oh?"

"It's labeled as "Clementine", though I can hardly guess whether that's the name of the song or-"

"I'm sorry?" Larson interrupts before he can stop himself. He doesn't realize his interruption, nor that his voice seems to have gone up several octaves, until Mr. Hensley gives him an odd look.

It couldn't be.

"You know it?"

Does he? If it's the same, it would have marked years since he's heard it.

"I…." The words won't come. He hasn't heard it since-

The feeling that claws its way up his throat is fiercely unwelcome. A few pointed swallows do nothing to dislodge it, a burning that curls in his chest and up his lungs until his entire ribcage feels as if it's being engulfed in flames from where he stands.

"Are you alright, Wallace?" Mr. Hensley claps his shoulder, his round face twisting into vague concern. Larson does not appreciate the familiarity in using his first name. It's enough to snap him out of it, at least temporarily.

His vision blurs for a moment. When he blinks, it's gone.

He takes a breath. "Quite. I'd like to see the disc, if you don't mind."

Mr. Hensley hands it over. The labeling on the front does indeed read "Clementine". It seems too much of a coincidence for it to be anything else.

First the weather, and now this. He's beginning to remember what this blustery spring day reminds him of: a time that should be long in the past, far from his memory. A night that he has tried his hardest to snuff out and bury in the back of his mind, one that he vowed never to let resurface.

She would have loved having one of these about the house. She would have played the discs and cylinders until they wore out, sprawling on the sofa and tapping her heels together in time. He would have bought her new ones, too, as many as he could fill the parlor with, as many as she could play.

How old would she have been now, twenty? Older? She would have been nearly married. But she would have loved this one in particular, this song that he never would have been able to find when it mattered, and she would have begged him to sit with her and hum along just like they always did-

"Would you like to buy it?"

Another voice startles him, seeming to come from the dim shadows of the shop itself. A middle aged woman peers around a nearby shelf, pleasantly round with a soft face and a dimpled smile. Crows feet crinkle the corners of her eyes when she gestures to the disc in his hand, and for a moment Larson finds himself at a loss for words.

"He was just looking." Mr. Hensley answers for him, offering another playful pat on the back. "He's the dreamy sort, though. Gets lost in thought now and then."

Such a quick judgement on his character almost prompts him to throw an annoyed glance at his companion, but Larson resists. Instead, he turns to the woman, who folds her hands in front of her pleated skirt.

"I would."

The woman leads him to the counter, and money is exchanged. Larson can hardly bring himself to thank her as he follows Mr. Hensley out the door and back into the bustling street.

He has moved past his bereavement. He thinks he has, at least. It's for old times' sake, after all. There is no need to spoil the pleasant memories with unpleasant ones, and this is simply how he chooses to do so. A testament to her memory, to the ways in which her sacrifice saved him.

It isn't a matter of regret, or foolish sentimentality, or wishing for what might have been. The part of him that wished for those things died with her, irrefutable and absolute.

Mr. Hensley clears his throat uncomfortably, tucking both hands firmly into his coat pockets. "So. That song…means something to you, then?"

Larson offers a noncomittal shrug of his shoulders, tucking the record into an inner coat pocket. He hopes it won't get scratched before he reaches the hotel.

"Something like that."

He has never once regretted it. Or at least that's what he tells himself.

***

What is that?

Larson pauses in the middle of shifting a book out of the way in his desk drawer, his fingers lingering over the handle.

"It's a novel by Jane Austen. A rather good one, too, as I've heard." Larson tries for a good natured laugh, halfway to shutting the drawer. "Though I can't say I've gotten around to reading it."

He knows what his passenger points out. Any fool could see that several objects contained in this drawer aren't like the others. But he certainly does not want to suffer an explanation.

That's not what I meant. The King snaps back. Open the drawer again.

Larson sighs, but does as he is told. The object rolls forward with the motion, over books and papers and a wooden frame half obscured by pages.

What is that? It…it looks like a cylinder. It has writing on it, I can't quite see it-

"It's nothing important." Larson replies, and a sharp prickle of irritation enters his tone as much as he would like to keep it at bay. "Nothing you need to worry yourself over."

It looks like it hasn't been touched in years. And…there's a picture beside it in an oval frame, a painted portrait of a young girl. It's-

"That's enough!" Larson finally snaps, reaching down to blindly shove the drawer shut. It takes him a moment for the rush of panic that wells in his chest to recede, nerves singing with more feeling than he wishes to fully process. "You don't need to describe what you see to me, Your Majesty. I can see just fine."

He takes a breath, even though it suddenly feels like his lungs have constricted.

Excuse me? The King replies, perfectly deadpan. He expects groveling, just as usual. Perhaps he's gotten his royal passenger far too used to it.

Larson takes another breath, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"I apologize. It's a wax cylinder for an old phonograph I own." An attempt to take on the sugary tone he typically uses with his guest still stings with bitterness. "It's somewhere in the attic, I believe. I prefer the newer models anyways."

It's a song? Which one?

Larson grits his teeth at the insistence of the King's questions. Usually he doesn't find it much trouble to be patient, but the subject he chooses to interrogate him over is hardly a welcome one. Larson would much rather suffer through endless prodding about poetry and the music discs in his parlor before answering a word about this.

"One I used to know when I was a younger man." Is the nondescript reply he gives.

It does not even begin to sum it up. But regardless, the King seems to accept it for now. You don't enjoy listening to it?

"No. Not anymore."

And the painting?

"My daughter." He almost chokes on the word, as if bile rises to his throat at the thought. His eyes flick back down to the drawer, which bounced back open with the force he tried to close it with. The portrait is half obscured by loose papers, with only the skirt of a familiar blue dress and black buckled shoes visible.

He cannot see her face. Privately, he thinks it's much better that he can't.

I see. The King mutters back. You…miss her?

Larson sits up sharply, and for a moment he believes his teeth will snap with how tightly his jaw clenches. If the King can feel his tension, he certainly doesn't seem to care about it. It isn't often that he becomes annoyed with a being he works with, but it also isn't often that he winds up with such a curious one.

It takes a moment of struggle to wrestle his tone back to where he wants it to be. "In a manner of speaking." He replies, and his eyes dart back down to the drawer again. His hand twitches towards it; for a moment he is tempted to brush those papers out of the way, just to see those eyes that once looked at him with such adoration even from that ivory frame.

He had been nearby while it was painted. She had smiled so widely when he walked in the room and tried so hard to sit still when the painter gently scolded her. She had excitedly told him that it was almost done and that she couldn't wait to see what it looked like, and it was one of the first times she had looked truly happy after tragedy befell them both. Even the artist had commented on how her eyes seemed to light up from even the sight of him in the doorway, how he had tried his best to capture it even in miniature.

He digs his nails into the palm of his hand.

That's why you keep the song. The King says, his tone thoughtful. It isn't phrased as a question.

"I've been meaning to get rid of it." Larson replies, even through the words ring with the lie. "What good is a cylinder that I can't play?"

It looks as if you've had it a while. He points out.

Larson has. He's had it since it caught his eye in a shop sometime when he'd gone to New York decades ago.

He does not know what possessed him to take it from its place on the shelf and buy it.

"Have I answered your questions, my King?" Larson asks testily, shutting the drawer more carefully this time. No matter how hard he tries to keep the sharpness out of his voice, it bubbles to the surface anyways. Trying to dismiss the thought, he moves a sheet of paper into his line of vision and plucks a ballpoint pen from the corner of his desk.

I suppose you have. The King replies, mercifully letting the matter drop. With no more questions or comments, the King recedes into silence, leaving Larson to deal with this fresh deluge of unwelcome recollections.

Maybe he should throw it away. After all, it's been sitting there for years, doing nothing but gathering dust. What on earth is the point? What on earth possessed him?

His eyes dart to the drawer, now fully shut.

No, no. He doesn't think he will. After all, it was so many years ago. He has well and truly moved on from the strife of it all.

It sounds like an excuse, even to him. But Larson only adjusts his glasses and begins to write his letter.

The house is perfectly silent, just the way he prefers it. Only the ticking of the clock behind his desk makes any sort of noise, a metronome with no music to accompany it.

In the quiet, he catches the tune in his throat just before it slips out.