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"Sweetheart, my shoes!"
Viktor was putting the finishing touches on his evening attire when his wife's exclamation interrupted him.
"What was that, love?"
A defeated groan came from the other side of their bedroom. Alice worked to prop herself up at the corner of their mattress (a laborious effort). Beneath her, an assortment of footwear lay scattered at her feet. "Yesterday they all fit, I swear it. But today…"
Her husband crossed the room and came to one knee beside her, gently lifting the right sole of her foot in his hand. "Your ankles do look more swollen than usual."
Alice huffed and placed a bracing hand on the weighty bulge that now took up the entirety of her midsection. A vague mistiness in her eyes and a slight shiver told Viktor she was hovering on the edge of an emotional precipice. "I can't very well go to dinner barefoot, Viktor. Besides, this dress is too tight, and I certainly can't manage a corset at this stage. They'll never let me through the doors." Her lamentations tapered off with a sniffle.
"They will let you in, or I will use my family name to force them." He began sifting through her shoes, comparing their various shapes to her dangling feet. Finding only delicate kid boots with rows of spat-style buttons and dainty evening slippers adorned with silk bows and brass buckles, he was beginning to understand her quandary.
She gave a watery chuckle. "You're not part of the aristocracy anymore, remember?"
"I can borrow my brother's identity for an evening. It'll be days before the consequences can reach him." She mirrored his roguish grin.
"Won't word get around town that Walter was accompanied by a prodigiously pregnant woman who is most decidedly not his wife?" The two giggled at the thought, the sudden release of tension contributing to their moderate hysterics.
"My brother's reputation could use a little roughening up; he's too protected in that isolated estate." Viktor returned his attention to his wife's predicament. "You, however, deserve a more generous hand. What about the boots you used to wear at the villa? We could lace them a bit more loosely."
"Working boots? For fine dining?"
"Your dress is long enough to hide them."
Alice released a reluctant breath and shrugged. "I suppose it's my only option. I haven't worn them in quite some time—not since that evening we rediscovered my maid uniform."
A slight blush overtook her husband's visage, and he met her gaze. "That was fun."
"That's not happening again any time soon," she said, gesturing to indicate her dramatic change in shape. She managed to maintain a playful smile despite the vague wistfulness behind her expression. Her husband rose to fetch her boots (from their hidden location at the back of their armoire) and loosened them for her. She slid them on, tested the laces with a conservative tug, then hoisted herself to standing, shaking out her ebony silk dress and measuring its distance from the floor.
"These seem acceptable for now. Though I still feel a bit…cumbersome."
"In the shoes?"
Alice glanced at her silhouette in their freestanding mirror. She ran her hands along her protruding belly and pondered a moment. "In everything."
Viktor approached her from behind, trailing his fingertips along her waist and placing his hands over her own. "You look stunning, Alice. Though we can stay home instead if it's causing you too much concern." He nuzzled the back of her neck and kissed it softly.
"No, no. I want to go. I apologize for being so tetchy." She lifted her skirt several inches from the ground. "I'd prefer shoes that are a bit more feminine, but these do have…history."
Her husband tightened his grip on her arms and traced his lips along the crest of her ear. "Put on your old garters and stockings, and just see what that history does to me." She giggled as he nipped her earlobe, pulling her snugly against his chest.
Viktor spared a final glance in the mirror for himself, fixing an errant curl in his hair only to dislodge two more in the process. In an act of begrudging surrender, he dusted off his grandfather's old top hat instead, brushing the weathered beaver felt and inspecting the grosgrain ribbon. Finding it acceptable, he put it on, much to Alice's nostalgic delight. He checked for his pocket watch, handkerchief, coin purse, and keys before offering his wife an arm and assisting with her exit and descent down the front steps of their house. Though their destination was an enjoyable, leisurely walk from their small cottage home, he'd arranged for a coach to transport them—more appropriate, he felt, given his wife's condition.
Both the coachman and Viktor aided with her ascent into the carriage, which made Alice feel utterly massive. The frame of the vehicle sagged under her weight, and she tossed herself on the far end of the bench, already winded by her short climb. "Thank you for the preparations, Viktor. Each carriage ride could be my last, at least for quite some time."
"My pleasure," he said, removing his hat and drumming his fingers on the brim as if he were playing scales—a compulsive habit of his, and one she observed with a smile. "What kind of monster would I be, making you hike that entire distance?"
"Not sure I'd make it, even if you'd forced me. Though I would like to take a short walk after dinner. Along the canal, perhaps. One last farewell to carefree, romantic strolls under the moonlight."
He took her hand as the coach lurched forward. "Even if we must take our perambulations as a group of three, it will be just as romantic."
His wife placed her head on his shoulder, observing through the clouded, hazy coach windows as evening swallowed up the city outside. Her husband accepted the weight of her body with an understated stability. Other than the occasional casual observation or mention of a town landmark, they rode the rest of the journey in relative silence.
Alice never felt more out of place than the moment her clunky, wooden soles sunk into the foyer's plush red carpeting. While they'd dined at this hotel before, they'd yet to set foot inside its crown jewel: L'Escoffier. Few members of their social stratum could afford to patronize such a fine French restaurant, so removed from the common man that one needed near fluency to even decipher the menu. She sidled past the entryway into the grandiose, cavernous dining area, hemmed in by countless marble pillars and ornate archways. Each cluster of tables was separated by planters overflowing with lush arrangements of heliotropes and palms, lit from above by ornate teardrop-shaped chandeliers that cast only a scant scattering of light. A small string quartet was stationed in the corner of the room; their graceful, unobtrusive music blended seamlessly with the murmur of polite chatter and subdued clinking of cutlery in a manner that added to the dreamlike quality of the space.
They attracted a few curious looks from diners as they were shown to their table. Her husband held her confidently on his arm, either unaware or stubbornly devoted to ignoring the stark contrast in class on display. How he even managed to secure them a reservation was beyond her; perhaps he had used his brother's name, after all.
He pulled a seat out for her, and she lowered herself with the grace and velocity of a sinking barge. Their host politely abandoned them, promising that wait staff would arrive and attend to them soon.
"Viktor," Alice whispered during the brief moment of privacy. "Do we really belong here?"
Her husband was poring over the menu, seemingly unfazed by her question. "We really do."
She cracked a sly smile. "My condition will likely be the talk of the tables for the evening."
Viktor took a sip of water, his attention caught by a particular offering scrawled across the paper in looped, handwritten script. "What a dreadfully banal thing to discuss over dinner. Then again, I'm very familiar with how upper society works. They have nothing much else to talk about, I suppose."
Alice was handed her own menu by a very curt, very sharply dressed male attendant. A separate employee announced himself to be their waiter for the evening and offered to take their order. She quickly perused the options, noting the distinct lack of pricing on her version of the menu. Not a single dish was written in English. Alice's eyes snapped to her husband, pleading silently for assistance.
"Poultry, fish, or pork?" he muttered under his breath.
Her stomach lurched in unpredictable directions at each option. "Poultry," she mouthed without speaking.
"Mon épouse voudrait Le Pigeon D'Anjou 'Saint-Claire,' s'il vous plaît," Viktor responded in what sounded like decently enunciated French. The waiter nodded at his request and took his leave. He shot her a teasing grin. "I ordered you the squid in vermouth sauce; I hope that's what you wanted."
She brought one hand to her mouth to hide her laugh, the other absentmindedly resting on her stomach. "So you plan on torturing two people tonight?"
The words garnered a greater level of sentimentality than she expected. His eyes shimmered a moment, a touch more reflective than usual, and she felt the tip of his dress shoe knock against the toe of her boot in a private connection. It offered the barest hint of human contact, but in their pompous and stodgy environment, it absolutely thrilled her.
"You went above and beyond for me," she lauded. His complexion took on a tinge of color at her compliment.
"I'm the luckiest man in the world. Elite, even amongst the elite. It only seemed fitting I'd make it known to the entire city."
Alice's stomach squirmed—whether from the baby's movement or his romantic declaration, it was difficult to say. "You're in rare form tonight," she purred. "Angling to cut the date short?"
"You're moving slower these days; someone has to do it."
Their meals arrived, and it only took one look to convince Alice she'd made a terrible mistake.
"Pigeons are supposed to be small," she bemoaned once the wait staff was out of earshot. "I'll never finish this entire plate, and they'll take notice."
Viktor began cutting into his noisette d'agneau. "We are paying for the whole meal. What does it signify if you don't finish it?"
"You know these types, Viktor. They'll take offense." She glanced anxiously around the restaurant. "I was a maid once. I know what will be said in the kitchen."
"Well, as you are no longer privy to what is said in aristocratic kitchens, we will have to serve as the sources of their gossip now." He took a bite from his inverted fork, chewed, and swallowed. "Besides, I'm sure your bakery functions the same. Gossip is the lifeblood of any good kitchen."
She took a sip of water and lowered her gaze, beginning work on her own dish. "You're very charming this evening."
"I know what it's like to feel out of place," he admitted. "But remember, you once offered me the same unconditional companionship." He reached for her hand. "You're never alone when you're with me."
Now it was Alice's turn to blink away her unexpected emotions. "I'm usually much more confident in these situations. It's not as if I'm completely unfamiliar with upper-class customs."
"Familiarity and feeling included are two very different things," he pointed out. "Next time, I'll take you to the pub 'round the corner. Or we'll send Rob out to pick up fried haddock from the stalls and eat it in bed."
They both snickered, then blushed, checking the room to make sure their small moment of unguarded joy went unnoticed. They appeared to be about as invisible as they felt, which eased their discomfiture and gave them a second wind of confidence.
"I just can't, Viktor," Alice complained as she forced down another bite. "There's no room." She curled her hand into a fist and pushed it into her side to prevent her agitated internal resident from jamming its foot into her diaphragm.
"You're going to hate me for what's coming next, then," he chuckled darkly, spearing the last of his lamb.
"What—what did you do?"
"Leave some room. That's all I can forewarn."
"What room?"
The waiter returned to their table with a second staff member, a silver platter suspended between them. Atop the platter was a sight Alice simply never would have expected to see: a gaudy, unwieldy swan made entirely of ice. Between the swan's wings sat a small dish holding some sort of simple but elegant dessert in shades of creamy white and golden amber, drizzled with what appeared to be a ruby-red coulis. A tumbleweed of spun sugar teetered on top, disintegrating ephemerally into the dessert below it.
"You've always said you wanted to try one," Viktor said with a sheepish smile. The waitstaff lowered their dish with undue ceremony before retreating back to the kitchens.
Alice blinked in sudden amazement, then met her husband's wide eyes with her own. "This is…"
"Too much?"
She dipped her dessert spoon into the bowl and brought it to her tongue. Cold, velvety vanilla ice cream embraced her palate first, followed by syrupy poached peaches and concluding with the electric tingle of tangy raspberry sauce.
"This is absolutely fabulous, Viktor," she said with a delighted sigh. "But the swan!"
Their restraint finally slipped, and they both burst into laughter.
"Think of it as a stork, and it will be more applicable to our situation," he jested.
"Mmm, I'm not going to give a stork credit for the last eight months."
Her husband nodded in amused appreciation, his smile revealing a flash of his eye teeth. Conversation began flowing more readily between them. Their shared energy felt looser, more at ease as the hour progressed, as if they'd split a bottle of champagne over dinner (though she hadn't bothered, what with her limited capacity for the food itself). After much prompting and cajoling, he agreed to help her finish dessert, gradually sneaking spoonfuls of peach and ice cream when the staff was too occupied to notice. They whittled away at it until it appeared satisfactorily consumed, with a small melted pool at the bottom helping to strengthen the illusion.
"Should we even attempt dancing?" Alice pondered as she watched the staff rearrange several tables, opening up a floor in front of the band.
"That is entirely up to you. We could stay and dance. Or I could whisk you away back home, get you off your feet and out of those unquestionably uncomfortable boots."
"Rake," she teased with wicked glee. "You've already done your damage."
He chuckled and fidgeted a moment under the intensity of her taunting, and it felt like old times. A wave of unexpected nostalgia constricted her lungs.
"Everything is about to change, isn't it?" she said in a shuddering whisper. Her eyes searched his for reassurance.
Viktor leaned forward, a calming sincerity emanating from his posture that could only originate from him. "Some things, absolutely. But others are set in stone." He discreetly captured her hand and brought her fingers to his lips, and Alice felt her universe shift itself from bewildering chaos back into a comforting, sensible arrangement.
"Viktor, I promise, I could have muddled through."
"You don't have to muddle through," Viktor insisted. He helped to situate his wife on their bed and knelt to remove her shoes for her. "Let's just spend the remainder of the evening right here, where it is most restful."
"But what about the rest of your plans?" Alice swung her legs onto the mattress, undressing even as she protested. "The dancing, and music, and that lovely stroll we were going to take along the riverside?"
"All of that can wait," he said. He meticulously removed and hung his suit jacket, untied his own shoes, and unclipped his socks from their garters. "There will be plenty of dining and drinks and walks after the baby is here."
"Who knows how long it will be until I even see sunshine?" Alice said, stretching out on the quilt. She rolled to her side as her husband began handing her a collection of pillows.
"It will be challenging for some time, yes, but we will get through it. We've gotten through much worse; don't forget."
Alice arranged herself meticulously: two pillows under her head, one between her thighs, and a small decorative silk bolster wedged underneath her side, propping up her bump. After a brief interlude in which a sudden, painful leg cramp interrupted her preparations and Viktor paused to help lengthen her constricting muscles, her husband completed his own nightly routine and joined her in bed.
"Viktor?"
He lifted his head. "Yes?"
"Should we have sex?"
He stared blankly at his wife for a moment, ensconced in her complex, downy scaffolding. "Do you want to have sex?"
"Well, yes, but no. Frankly, I'm a little bit of everything all at once."
He covered her with a blanket, then wedged himself behind her, molding his shape to hers. He reached over to their nightstand to turn off the lamp. As his body pressed against her own, she reveled in the way his specific heat and weight surrounded her—warm, familiar, and safe. "Perhaps we should attempt it when you aren't already so elaborately…entombed."
They both let out a lengthy stream of laughter, Alice's accompanied by a few sniffles. "It's true. I'm so awkward, even I can't imagine working around it."
Her husband yawned, then buried his face into her hair. "Oh, I can work around it. Don't you fret."
"My breasts are so large now, you will never survive it."
"I readily accept the challenge," he muttered against the back of her head, words muffled and losing their consistency with the soft erosion of approaching sleep.
She sighed and shifted in a vain attempt to get more comfortable. "You'll tell me if you're lonely, won't you? Unfulfilled?"
He snickered and secured his hold on her body. "How could I be, with the entire world in my arms?"
Her heart fluttered like a startled flock of birds before settling back into an easy rhythm.
"Viktor?" she murmured.
"Hmm?"
"Thank you."
Lips pressed drowsily against the back of her head, and his embrace tightened briefly before becoming slack once more. "Of course, love." The comforting shape of his form against her own allowed Alice to relax, or as much as she could manage in her condition. Together, basking in their mutual contact, they submitted to a gentle and dreamless slumber.
"Viktor!" Alice hissed. "Are you awake?"
A vaguely annoyed hum told her that, no, he wasn't. Or rather, he was now.
Alice grasped his arm and groggily tossed it over her midsection. She wove her fingers into his and brought them to her belly.
"Baby's moving."
"Hmm." His hum sounded more inquisitive now, less vexed.
Silent and still, tightly entwined, three sets of heartbeats drifted between them. The baby, ever punctual, was just beginning its habitual three-thirty polka, one it generally didn't conclude until close to sunrise. Despite the exuberant activity within her midsection, Alice managed to release back into a shallow sleep.
A robust gurgling noise interrupted them. Viktor jerked awake.
"Was that from the baby?" He ran his hand across her stomach.
"Viktor," Alice whispered. "I'm starving."
