The Stocking

The Epilogue

One year later

Thomas leaned casually against the dark mahogany doorframe, nodding a quiet farewell to the last of the party's revelers. Outside, the snow was falling softly over the cold, dark valleys of Wiltshire.

With a muted thud, he shut out the night, strolling down the long, panelled hallway toward the parlor. The house was peaceful now, a contended hush that echoed with the memory of joy and laughter. He crouched down slowly to stir the fire before settling down leisurely on the forest-green settee.

His hand reached up to his suit pocket.

Fawn's heart spiked softly as the gentle weight of his fingers brushed against the fabric, pinning her slightly against the warmth of his chest and filling her ears with the familiar thrum of his heart. Though exhausted from the night's commotion, she shifted to meet his touch, pressing her hand against the outline of his. Not a moment later, his long and powerful fingers dipped into the darkness, carefully gathering her up into his grasp.

Fawn sucked in a breath as his face came into view.

The sight still hadn't ceased to amaze her. It wasn't just the vastness of those thundercloud eyes, or the miracle of colour and light that danced in their endless depths. It was the warmth of their tenderness when they gazed upon her, as if nothing in the dazzling, candlelit room was as beautiful or as precious as herself.

"You're awake," he rumbled fondly. "Are you alright?"

She nodded her head, her heart swelling at his gentle concern. It had been her idea to hide in his pocket during the Christmas festivities. She wanted to be as close as possible to the excitement.

In fact, she had insisted on taking part in every Christmas tradition this year, her endless enthusiasm more than making up for lost time. She had nearly given Thomas a heart attack the first time she clambered up the branches of the Christmas tree, his hands grasping her to himself as she tried to tie ribbons to the outer boughs.

There had also been Christmas caroling, the sampling of endless sweets, and an unfortunate run-in with a wooden nutcracker. She had even tried her first glass of eggnog and rum, the warm spike of sweetness loosening her limbs until she stumbled into Thomas' plate of mashed potatoes. Much to his amusement.

But to finally be part of the master's Christmas revel...it was a dream come true.

"I was a bit scared at first..." she admitted, her tiny fingers trailing absentmindedly across his palm. "I've never seen so many of you together from so close. And your voices...stars above, you thunder like gods," she laughed incredulously. "But I trust you, Thomas. I knew I would be safe with you."

Thomas's chest clenched, his fingers aching to graze softly over her skin. So fragile and yet so fearless. His own little butterfly.

"You're always safe with me," he murmured.

Leaning over slowly, he set her carefully onto the floor where she would be free to stretch her limbs. Fawn peered up after him as the warmth of his hand retreated, her eyes glazed with unbridled affection.

He smiled softly. "Here," he motioned, pinching a small, present between his thumb and forefinger. "I forgot this one. Would you mind putting it beneath the tree?"

Fawn grasped the small, wrapped package to her chest, eagerly accepting the task. She knew he was humouring her, but something about the act still stirred her heart. Though he'd insisted countless times through her tears that he wanted nothing from her but her company, a small part of Fawn still felt the need to be useful to him...to justify his kindness to her.