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“You are fettered," said Scrooge, trembling. "Tell me why?"
"I wear the chain I forged in life," replied the Ghost. "I made it link by link, and yard by yard; I girded it of my own free will, and of my own free will I wore it.”
The night was never going to go how Lestat had intended from the start.
To his immense displeasure, Mademoiselle Claudia had been prone to fits of ennui of late, and he was no longer the lone maverick short-tempered one in his little family. He had courted her good graces with trips to the theatre and with fine new dresses he allowed her to pick rather than himself, and these entreaties worked only for a while before she drifted away from her fathers again.
And then the answer had struck him: appealing to his daughter’s human wants would never be as effective as wooing her fiercely vampiric side. And so he set the stage for his latest intervention.
“You wouldn’t believe who I met last night,” he boomed confidently, strolling into the parlour as he tied his wild mane back with a ribbon. He paused to admire himself in the looking glass, and presently his gaze flicked to his daughter, who gave no sign of listening to him as she tucked a leatherbound journal into her satchel.
“Frederique Lascelles -- have you heard of him?” he prompted.
“Can’t say that I have.” Claudia paused, and locked eyes with him in the mirror, a vision of tumbling blonde curls and stormy blue eyes offset by her dark violet dress. She had her hair up in a carefully pinned and elaborate bun, which meant that Louis was home.
He turned on his heel to face her and put a hand on his hip. “Frederique’s only one of the worst cardsharks in the South but you wouldn’t know it from his overwhelming stroke of luck after the game’s done--”
“Really,” said Claudia with an air of indulgent patience, and slipped off to the closet by the hall. Hooks had been placed at a low height within the door for her benefit; she plucked her favourite cloak from one hook.
“Well,” he continued, following her to the entryway. “Do you know how Monsieur Lascelles deals with losses? With a knife, cheri .” He easily overtook her in one long stride, and blocked her way.
“The game would be a lot of fun,” he said hurriedly.
“I’m sure you’ll enjoy yourself.” Claudia drew the cloak around her slim pale shoulders with a languid feminine ease.
“I’m inviting you out, chouchou ,” said Lestat sharply, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe to the parlour. “It’s been an age since we last had a night out, just the two of us.”
She stilled, and then took two steps closer, her neck craned to meet his gaze.
“So, you were planning to just waltz into one of those backroom games with a child? Are you quite mad?”
He scoffed. “You know full well we are cunning enough to come up with some clever backstory. ‘Why, this is my little niece, you see, and--’ ”
“Lestat, enough!” she said sharply. “I have plans this evening.”
“Plans?”
“If you must know, I have a tailoring appointment, and I’m eager to get there before he closes, so if that’s all you have to say, let me be on my way.” She turned to the door and used her full weight to drag it open.
“Well -- we can--” Lestat faltered. “No matter! We can always go another night. He is in town for the next week.”
Her eyes were fixed on the street traffic outside, flicking from one pedestrian to another. “I’ve had my fill of dirty cheats for the year. Good evening.” And then she was gone with preternatural speed into the ebb and flow of the night.
“Ah... all right, then…” muttered Lestat, and took meandering steps back into the parlor, as if lost in a museum, until his hand brushed against the polished walnut burl of the piano, swirling natural patterns evocative of a tapestry from another world. He traced its gracefully carved body with one finger,admiring raw material transformed by human hands into a magnificent instrument.
He sat down heavily at the piano, then slumped in a morose heap. After a moment, he lifted up the fallboard and launched into a slow and heavy rendition of Liszt’s Consolation.
Presently, the soft footfall sounded in the hallway, and Louis appeared in the doorway. He coughed slightly, and stepped back tentatively as Lestat flung him a glare before returning his attention to the piano.
“Lestat…” he ventured. “Are you all right?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” said Lestat crossly. “Is the music bothering you?”
“No, I like that piece, actually.”
“Of course you do,” said Lestat, and slowed the tempo of his playing.
Louis shrugged. “Claudia’s gone out?”
“Yes, it seems I’m not enough company for her to-night.”
“I thought you were going after that cardshark you’ve been -- that strange notion of yours.”
Lestat scowled. “I’ve lost my appetite. Some other time.” He pressed his fingers onto the keys, and smirked at the discordant angry note. “What now!”
Louis shrugged again. “Do you want me to go with you?”
Lestat stopped playing, then, and granted his fledgling his full attention. “You would -- I mean. Ah, no. I really couldn’t. I want it to be a game, and you’d beat him and he’d lose… and…” he shook his head. “I don’t know why she is so cantankerous at turns.” He clasped his hands together, and stared down at the keys.
“Lestat,” said Louis softly, and he crossed the room and sat down gracefully next to his maker on the bench. “Listen… she’s just trying to be more independent -- no, don’t frown like that. She’s more like you than you think.”
“Is she now,” said Lestat, and he slammed his fingers onto the keys again, hitting that discordant crash.
Louis reached out and placed a gentle hand on Lestat’s, stilling him. “She rejected my reading to her on Sunday. I confess -- I still hurt over that.”
“I’ve seen dogs treated better than this!” muttered Lestat. He shut the lid over the keys a little forcefully, and pouted at Louis.
“I know. We’ll have a good time without her, come.” He rose to his feet, and held his hand out invitingly. Lestat clasped his hand, and allowed him to lead him to his favourite chaise across the room. The red and gold damask patterns flickered in the firelight, and they sat with Louis’ arm still looped to Lestat’s for a while, watching the flames.
“We can take a walk if you wish,” said Louis presently.
“No.”
“Or we could go over our accounts,” said Louis carefully, but he could not quite suppress the wicked grin which crept over his face.
Lestat squinted at him. “Don’t you start, Pointe du Lac.”
“Well, what else can we do?” mused Louis. He pushed away Lestat’s wandering hand diffidently. “Maybe later. We have plenty of time.” He bit his lower lip, considering. “Ah! I know!” He again shoved away Lestat’s hands which had been artfully reaching for his collar, and stood up.
“Louis, so help me god, if you say the tax rolls!” Lestat growled in mock anger.
“It’s the 21st. We have only a few days until Christmas Eve -- why don’t you open a gift?” He considered. “Just one gift.”
“Claudia won’t be happy if we go ahead with our sneaky annual tradition without her,” said Lestat. He followed Louis over to the Christmas tree, where the gifts were gathered in neatly-packaged boxes beneath it, glittering tantalizingly in silver and gold ribbons. “Why do the Germans have to be so strange ? We have an influx of them in the Quarter and now we have an entire tree spreading needles and detritus in the flat.”
“Have you ever heard of the Luddites, Monsieur?” said Louis. He took Lestat’s hand. “Besides, you know how Claudia loves the new decorations.”
“Does she now? She hasn’t said as much to me. Anyway, she’ll notice a gift is missing if we open it!”
“I doubt she’s taken inventory of them,” said Louis. “I doubt she would notice one of yours missing, in particular.”
Lestat ran his hand through his hair, disturbing it from the ribbon. “Seems I fail her by existing, let alone committing any actual crimes.” He wrinkled his nose. “You open one of yours, instead.”
“Very well, if it pleases you,” said Louis patiently. He stroked his chin, considering. “That one looks like clothes -- that can wait. Huh -- that one is a strange shape -- I’ll save that for Christmas itself. Aha!”
Lestat sighed deeply. “Of all the gifts, you chose the most disappointing one.”
“I have a penchant for that.”
“Oh, shut up,” said Lestat, but there was no heat to it. He watched as Louis carefully unwrapped the present - a mass of beautifully expensive paper and lace and ribbons -- and set it aside neatly.
Louis smoothed his palm over the book, which had a magnificent green fabric covering punctuated by embossed silver lettering in tasteful cursive wreathed by holly. He looked back up at Lestat, his face brightening in a relatively rare show of utter delight. “How did you-- it’s been sold out for the last year … ”
Lestat shrugged. “I have my means.”
“But still!” said Louis. “I’ve had it on order for months, to no avail.”
“Well, there’s a limit,” said Lestat. “I could only get it in--” he made a gagging sound. “English.”
“Monsieur Dickens is better in English,” said Louis.
Lestat snorted. “I’m sure. Anyway, it’s Christmas, n’est-ce pas? Let’s see what the hell he has to say about it.” He took Louis’s hand and led him back to the chaise longue. “Sit down,” he ordered.
Louis’s mouth tightened at the order, but he did as instructed, flinching a little when Lestat clambered onto the chaise longue with him and, taking a cushion, placed it in Louis’s lap where he lay his head, facing up to his fledgling. His long legs were bent at the knee so that his entire body rested on the seat.
“What are you doing--” whispered Louis, his ears reddening and then his cheeks as he flushed.
“Stop maundering, and read to me.”
He nodded. “Very well.”
And he cracked open the book, and began to read.
__________________________________________________-
“Mon Dieu! ” cried Lestat an hour later. “How this man goes on! He has tongue enough for two sets of teeth! ‘Squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching!’ Just get on with it!”
“If you don’t appreciate his love of the written word, that’s an issue on your part, not Monsieur Dickens’. His books are a commentary on the ruling class, and their failure--”
“ Their failure?”
“Our-- failure.”
“I trust you will donate to the cathedral tomorrow?”
“I donate to the cathedral every year ,” said Louis severely.
“And then return to your resplendent flat to wallow in luxury.”
“ Our resplendent flat. And you know, you’re right.” He bit his lip, thinking. “Maybe we should consider donating a property. One of my rentals at Algiers, perhaps.”
“Why not just go the whole hog!” cried Lestat. “I’ll sign Rue Royale over to that stinky old washerwoman at Bourbon to save my very soul!”
“According to this story, it need only be a small gesture to a starving employee, so think of the reward you’d get for giving over your whole domicile. It might even see the angels knock off a grim murder or two.”
“A soul’s a soul, Louis. There isn’t a class system in Heaven.”
“Been there, have you?” he jibed.
Lestat scrunched up his face with feline rancour. “Don’t be absurd, and I won’t tolerate any of your foolish questions or questing tonight. I am waiting for Monsieur Scrooge to agree to celebrate Christmas -- because of course ghosts care about that -- and end the whole torrid affair. Ridiculous. A whole novel about forcing a man to celebrate Christmas! And you style yourself as an intellectual.” He sighed. “I look forward to the sequel, about a rake who doesn’t properly observe La Toussaint.”
Louis’s mouth set in a firm line, and he stopped combing his fingers through Lestat’s hair. “You are being blithe,” he said tersely. “Why would you believe it is a novel about Christmas?”
Lestat blinked. “Because -- you mopus -- it’s called A Christmas Carol . Mon Dieu, must I do the thinking for both of us!"
“Ah, yes, and Notre Dame de Paris is about a church service.” He tutted, and gripped Lestat’s torso, attempting to shift him a little.
“Don’t you take that tone with me!” Lestat raised a finger at him, but there was little of the usual force in the gesture; supine, he was not such an intimidating figure.
“What tone!”
“ That tone! Like I’m the cat’s uncle Gringog, when you’re the one reading a novel about Christmas and insisting it’s anything but.”
Louis scowled. “ You bought this book! You had to know what it was about.” That silenced Lestat, because of course he had not asked what it was about, much less cared; Louis liked Charles Dickens, and so he had set out to procure the book, at great personal effort. He had pleased himself flipping through the cover and illustrations right before wrapping it.
“You didn’t ask what it was about?” Louis looked down at him, but Lestat didn’t make eye contact, studying his nails.
“No, why would I? It’s a gift for you ,” he muttered. His hands flattened on a small throw pillow on his chest. He made a picture, all dressed to the nines for his intended night's activities, long legs in pinstripe pants, a vest with a gold pocket-watch and matching chain, all to lie on a couch and be miserable with The Ghost of Christmas Present.
“It’s a step up from the heat-sensitive plants you bought for the courtyard last Christmas, so there’s that.”
“Oh, stop blustering and continue," said Lestat. He gazed at the fire for a moment, and then pushed the book back into Louis’ hands.
Louis moved the book aside again, but kept a finger in to hold his place. “Why?” he pressed. “So you can complain about my cadence, or how I turn the page?”
“I have barely complained at all,” said Lestat, meeting his gaze with pitiful eyes. He reached up and tucked a stray curl behind Louis’ ear, and lay back like a puppy showing his best submissive pose.
“You’d find fault with a fat goose,” Louis teased.
“I would, truly. There’s wingspan, feather quality, overall health of the animal,” he began enumerating on his fingers theatrically.
Louis reached out and grabbed Lestat’s fingers to still him. “Stop being so literal.”
“I would, though,” said Lestat, with the self-approving confidence of a child.
“All right, you would. Fine.Now, do you want to hear what happens next?” ventured Lous. He opened the book and found the line where he had left off.
“If the intermission is finally over, yes please, play on.”
—--
For the better part of two hours, they continued through the chapters of the story, every so often pausing to talk about the action, admire the deft linework in the illustrations, or for Lestat to play out a few lines in character as one of the ghosts, by turns educating or terrorizing Louis’ Ebenezer Scrooge. For Louis, these were echoes of who he had been in their earliest years, his frustration with Louis made painfully evident on a nightly basis and with no sweet child to serve as buffer for their vastly different souls.
Lestat, for his part, committed as fully to his roles as he was capable, still in his reclined position, reminiscent of his performances of Shakespeare for their daughter, when their performances were limited to her dolls. Unspoken was the fact that this was the first time they had performed so without her in attendance. From time to time, their eyes met, as if conveying the same wary excitement - her presence was not needed for this childish amusement.
Somewhere, a clock chimed. Louis's voice did not falter, engrossed as he was in the tale. “Scrooge was better than his word. He did it all, and infinitely more; and to Tiny Tim, who did not die, he was a second father. He became as good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man, as the good old city knew, or any other good old city, town, or borough, in the good old world.”
“Does this charlatan know any other word than ‘good’?” Lestat folded his arms. “Couldn’t he afford a dictionary?”
“It’s a literary device, Lestat. Repeating a term is melodic, and adds emphasis. Surely repeated notes are acceptable to you in music?”
“Well, I mean. I suppose .” Lestat snorted, and went on: “And is he really so ‘good,’ after all? I don’t know that I can take anymore of this, ‘give away all your wealth and suddenly you’ve achieved goodness’. I don’t believe it. This is -- how many pages are we in? -- it’s three hundred pages of propagandist drivel.” He made as if to bat the book out of Louis’ hands, but not hard enough to actually dislodge it.
“It’s the last page, at one hundred and sixteen pages, Lestat.”
“Alright, one hundred and sixteen pages of sanctimonious preaching which would put Father Layec to shame and send the congregation at St. Louis to sleep.”
Louis’s mouth twitched, and he coughed to cover the threat of a smile. “We could have stopped at any point, you know.”
“Of course I know that.”
“And you didn’t ask to stop.”
“I couldn’t get a word in edgeways thanks to your droning.”
Louis ignored that. “And you took great pleasure in the illustrations,” he went on. “And playing the Ghost of Christmas Present-”
“My friend, I loved it, the pretty pictures and storytelling are the sugarcoating that makes you swallow it whole!” Lestat said, exasperated. His hair had completely escaped the ribbon, and surrounded his head like a halo, perfect waves and curls from having been finger-combed for two hours. His collar had grown loose from his acting, and pulling it open as the heat of the fire permeated the parlor, tendons of his neck exposed down to the clavicle invitingly. In whole, a captivating hybrid of intensity and da Vinci’s Venus de Milo.
“I see," said Louis, and cast him an indulgent smile.
“I mean, yes, I liked it,” Lestat revised, and steepled his fingers. “It was, as expected, a pleasant two hours’ distraction.”
Louis didn’t need to correct him that there were a few lines left to read, and shut the book, setting it aside carefully.
“But the message, it’s not merely the laying out of wealth on good causes that matters,” he went on. “Scrooge can’t merely thump a giant bird on their table once a year -- which costs him almost nothing, really -- and go right back to being a miser after Christmas. The entire thing is about changing your ways completely, believing in it!” He raised his palms up in supplication.
“Oh, I agree,” Louis nodded emphatically. “Whether you believe in Scrooge’s change of heart, that sentiment comes through, clear as a bell. And that is the meaning of Christmas. So you would have to conclude, then, that it is, in fact, a Christmas story.” And then he grinned, fully at first, tried to school his expression back to seriousness, but failed, his gratification blooming forth again.
Lestat paused a moment, neck craned, tension in the V of his muscles, scrutinizing Louis’ face intently. His lips curled, and brow furrowed, “You think you’re so very clever, Pointe du Lac.”
“I’ve been known to adequately argue a position before, yes.” His gaze was warm, content.
Lestat took of his free hands and kissed the fingertips, his eyes locked on Louis’s, for any small sign of encouragement. “Well, then,” he started, drawing the hand in and dragging his lower lip along the inside of his wrist. “Perhaps a change in your position is worth a debate?” He placed a few dainty kisses to the tender skin there, warmed with freshly taken blood. “Ah, a lively debate! You went out early tonight.” Lestat flashed his fangs when he smiled, impressed.
Louis pressed his lips together, but shivered from the loving attentions to his wrist. “Yes,” he said huskily.
Tentatively, he slid the long pale fingers of his free hand further into Lestat’s shirt, and when Lestat did not stir, he gently pressed the pads of his fingers into the warm skin. Lestat had also already taken his first kill of the night, and the stolen heat in both of them from the night’s victims loaned their touch a charged eroticism.
“It’s 11,” he said softly.
Lestat nodded. “She’ll be back by 1am, like clockwork.” He sighed. “It seems I really am the damnedest liar, my friend.”
“We know that,” said Louis, stroking Lestat’s chest more firmly now.
“You see -- I’d like to claim a gift now.” He pressed a fresh kiss to Louis’ palm and then dragged a fang over the crest of the heel of his hand, nearly catching on the skin. He rose, finally, to sit beside him, and tenderly placed a hand on the sharp angle of Louis’ jaw.
“Oh?”
Lestat flicked his gaze from his eyes to his lips and back again. “A kiss, just a kiss.”
Louis tutted. “Sweet lies. But I’m a charitable man, so I will gladly donate to your cause.”
It was past midnight when the latch sounded Claudia's return to the flat. She carried a single amaryllis stalk with a red waxy flower, and several buds.
On the walk home she had reflected on the events of earlier that evening, and her abrupt dismissal of Lestat. The man could be infuriatingly insistent. But he had a point -- they had not hunted together in a while, and she had missed his company. She had carried the image of his wounded face with her out into the night.
Slipping off her coat, she shifted the plant from one arm to the other, and it didn’t take much effort to find him.
Back in the parlour, her fathers nestled together under a thick chenille blanket. They seemed to be dozing in the pleasant warmth, which was perfect for her subterfuge.
She quietly made her way to the tree, and set her plant in its pot at its base, amongst the gifts. Stepping back, she frowned to see that it was lost among the branches and ornaments of the tree, and shifted it a foot away, where it could stand on its own. She made quick work of tying a ribbon around its neck, and tucking a folded piece of paper, which read simply:
“Merry Christmas, Papa Jaune. Love always, C.”