3 December 1958

It was its own kind of death, he thought, staying in that house. Seeing his father's patients, sleeping in his father's old room, eating meals at his father's table, driving his father's car; Thomas Blake had died, but it often felt as if Lucien had as well, as if the man he had been, the person he had fought so hard to be, had been swallowed up, completely consumed by the role of Doctor Blake. Had Thomas felt like this once? Lucien wondered about it sometimes, wondered whether Thomas might have been someone entirely different from Doctor Blake, once, whether the responsibilities and expectations that had so overwhelmed Lucien now had once come for his father. After all, Lucien had never really understood how a man like Thomas Blake, staid and distant, cold and lacking in both patience and compassion, could have gone on holiday to France and come home with a beautiful young artist as his wife. There was something entirely incongruous about it, he thought, that the man who had shipped him off to boarding school, age ten, a bare few days after his mother's death, could be the same man who had snared Genevieve Etienne's heart so completely that she sailed across the sea and lived out the rest of her days far from her home, for the sake of the love she bore him. Perhaps it was Thomas Genevieve had loved, and Doctor Blake Lucien had hated; perhaps they weren't the same man at all.

Whatever the case may be Thomas had died, left the world at long last, and no matter how dearly Lucen longed to leave, to make his way to London or to Hong Kong or to anywhere else in the world that wasn't bloody Ballarat, circumstances kept conspiring to keep him in place. There was paperwork to be filled out, arrangements to be made. When Lucien left Mrs. Beazley and young Nurse O'Brien would both be homeless, and he knew he could not live with himself if he did not first ensure that they were both provided for. Nell Clasby was poorly, and she was a dear woman whose care Lucien could not entrust to Doctor King down the road. And one of Matthew Lawson's young constables had stumbled across a dead body, and they were in dire need of a police surgeon, and Lucien did so love a riddle…

Regardless of his intentions, regardless of what he wanted it seemed Lucien was in Ballarat to stay. The whiskey helped, and so did Matthew Lawson's grumpy wit. Mattie O'Brien and Danny Parks helped, in their own way - the company of young people eased some of his discomfort, brought him hope, reminded him how to laugh. The money certainly helped; the Blakes had always been a wealthy family, and the dual income from the surgery and the police surgeon post combined with the conseriable inheritance Lucien received from his father enabled him to once more employ a private investigator in China, on the search for his wife and child. Perhaps that was the true reason he chose to stay, more than anything else, this place, this position, might help him to find his family at long last, and he could not throw that opportunity away, no matter how his soul chafed at the bindings of small town life.

And so he did his best to carry on, and if he bucked against his neighbor's - and his housekeeper's - expectations, if he drank more than was wise, if he got himself into mischief and did not hesitate to raise his voice when he encountered some piece of provincial nonsense that made his blood boil, well, he was not going to apologize for it. There were few consolations in life, and Lucien Blake was not going to turn down any of them. Perhaps Thomas Blake had lost himself, somewhere over the course of his life, been consumed by his position and its restraints. Perhaps the same fate waited for Lucien, but he would not accept it without a fight; he would cling to himself, for as long as he could.

Easier said than done, perhaps; the house was suffocating him. There were too many memories in that place; the locked studio doors that had not been opened in forty years, behind which lay the ghost of his mother, the ghosts of her dreams, the studio itself now a monument to grief. The little room where Lucien slept, where his father had once laid his head; there was a master suite Thomas and Genieveve had shared at the back of the house, but Thomas had moved out of that room after his wife's death, and never returned. There was Mattie, a lovely girl in her own right, whose presence was sometimes physically painful to Lucien if only because she was so close in age to his own child, the child he had lost, grieved for, for seventeen long years now. Mattie was lovely, but she was not Li, and sometimes just the sight of her made tears spring to his eyes.

And then, oh, then there was Mrs. Beazley. Mrs. Beazley who was so beautiful, lithe and graceful as a dancer, with a swing to her hips that made his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth, with sparkling eyes and an intoxicating wit, Mrs. Beazley who hated him and threatened to strangle him with her disappointment and her indignation. When he first arrived in Ballarat, before his father's death, her eyes had been hard and he'd been drunk, and they had mistrusted one another from the very start. Things had only gone downhill from there; Lucien's heart had been aching, and he had not known how to respond to Mrs. Beazley's tentative attempts at kindness. The morning after his father his died, after he'd spent the whole night awake and drinking at his father's desk in the office, she'd brought him tea and a plate of biscuits with a sympathetic look on her face, but he'd been like a bear with a sore head and barked at her, and her eyes had blazed, and she had retreated, the movements of her body taunting him. The next day she'd tried to encourage him to eat a bit of breakfast, but Lucien had sensed judgement in her, and snapped again. Two strikes; the third had come the night after his father's funeral when he'd come stumbling home from the pub, having lost his tie and one of his shoes, singing loudly and bouncing off the walls. The whiskey had made him happy at last, but Mrs. Beazley had dampened any of his good feelings with her frown, her voice soft and full of concern. She'd tried to lead him off to bed, and he'd tried to let her, but his hand had slid low on her back and she'd stepped away from him at once, and he'd known then that he was now, and always would be, in her bad books.

After that night, that terrible night, he had tried to make amends. But to please Mrs. Beazley he would need to become another man entirely; he would need to be tidier, need to drink less, need to speak more softly, would need to keep his clothes neat and eat dinner at the same time every night. He would need to be Doctor Blake, for Lucien was not enough.

Just now he found it quite unbearable to be in the house, come evening. There was silence from Mrs. Beazley, well-intentioned attempts at levity from Mattie that fell flat, there was a bedroom that still smelled faintly of his father's soap and a trunk full of photographs and letters from another life. He could not breathe beneath the weight of it; responsibilities, memories, failures, hopes, it all sat on his chest, and pressed the breath from his lungs until he could hardly move.

To that end, then, as the weather turned warm Lucien had taken to walking after supper. Long, meandering walks through town, familiarizing himself with the changes Ballarat had undergone since last he'd come here - which, to be fair, were not so very many - breathing deeply of fresh air and trying to organize his thoughts. If he walked until dark he could come home to a quiet house and drink in peace, without bothering anyone. And when he walked with the sky overhead, with green trees beside him, with the warm wash of the breeze upon his face, some of the weight on his shoulders lifted. When he walked he was not trapped; he could imagine, just for a moment, that perhaps he would keep right on walking, would follow the road to Melbourne, and then beyond, would leave behind everything about this life that pained him, and start over fresh. When he walked, he felt alive, and the memories - of his mother, his father, of the terrible cell in Singapore where he had once wasted away, and gone half-made from isolation - did not trouble him. When he walked he felt perilously close to happy.

On this particular Wednesday evening he had travelled far afield indeed; his steps had led him towards Sacred Heart. The church had been a focal point of his youth, for while neither of his parents were particular devout their position in town required of them that they be sitting in the pews come Sunday morning. As a boy the ritual of the church had inspired him; he liked the incense, the kneeling, the old, familiar phrases wrought with a mysticism and a sacred meaning that had made his heart soar. He no longer felt that way, of course, had lost all sense of faith, now saw the church as a monolithic beast intent on crushing individual thought, but he remembered the awe his childhood self had felt, and lamented for it. He had some vague notion of perhaps searching the graveyard for his mother's marker, identifying its location so that he could come back with flowers at Christmas. She ought to have flowers, he thought; though she had been gone from the world for decades she remained in his heart, and dear to him.

There were several cars parked in front of the church; it struck him as odd, that people should gather here on a Wednesday, when as far as he knew so service was in progress, but as he drew near he found the doors of the church thrown wide open, and soft music drifting out from inside. It was the third day of December, Christmas fast approaching, and as the tune resolved itself into a familiar melody Lucien deduced that preparations for holiday festivities must be underway.

While Lucien did not hold with the teachings of the church and scorned the patriarchal restraints it placed upon his followers even he could admit that when it came to powerful music the church could not be bested by any other institution. The soaring melodies, the sound of many voices lifted in song, the words of hope and love and steadfast endurance stirring to his very soul, even now when he did not believe. The music called to him from the murky depths of memory, and set his heart to longing for home, and family, and peace.

His feet led him towards the door without conscious direction from his thoughts; the evening was warm, and no doubt they'd left the door open to allow a bit of fresh air in, not imagining that any eavesdroppers would come lurking about. The only instrument was a piano, but the player must have been a deft hand, for the tune was powerful, and compelling. The first song ended and there was a brief pause during which Lucien debated with himself, wondering what he was doing loitering on the steps of the church and whether perhaps he ought to just move along, but then the piano began again, starting softly, gently leading the choir into an old familiar carol.

A measure, then two, then three, and then there came the voice of one lone soprano, sweet and earnest, the voice strong enough to carry to where Lucien stood.

"O holy night," she sang, "the stars are brightly shining…"

Lucien knew the words, the melody, off by rote, knew how the song began low and slow and then built, and built, and built again until the full force of the choir - if they were well trained, and possessed a certain flair for the dramatic - swelled and burst, and what had begun as a somewhat somber, plodding song exploded into something reverent and holy.

"Long lay the world, in sin and error pining, til he appeared and the soul felt its worth…"

The song might have been better suited to a mezzo soprano, or even a contralto; the soul felt its worth, as Lucien recalled, was particularly stirring in a lower register, but this soprano had taken the song and made it her own.

"A thrill of hope…"

On she sang, her voice alone, carrying through the first chorus, and still Lucien, spellbound and listening. Who was she, he wondered, this woman who sang so sweetly, so fiercely, her voice the only one echoing through the church? She had a mighty talent, to his mind; was she some housewife, whose beautiful voice was only ever heard while she sang lullabies to her children, except on Christmas when she was finally given a chance to shine? Or was she more proud than that; did she lord her gift over the rest of the choir, insist with haughty certainty that no one else could sing the solo half so well as she? Was she a florist, or a baker, was she a widow or a spinster? And what sort of face, he wondered, would go with a voice so very lovely?

"For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn…"

Here it comes, he thought, and then, oh then the piano reached its full potential and the choir joined their voices to that lonely soprano, and the music rolled over him in waves so strong it nearly brought him to your knees.

"Fall on your knees," the music soared, rolled through the doorway like thunder, and Lucien's heart heard that call, taking him back through time to the joy and reverence this place had inspired in him when he was a boy; "Oh hear! The angel voices," despite the fact that she must have been surrounded by a good twenty or thirty people to make such a triumphant chorus the soprano's voice rang out louder and clearer than all the rest, and Lucien remained convinced that she must have been an angel herself, to sing with such heartfelt beauty, "O night, divine, o night, when Christ was born…"

Lucien stayed with them, smiling, until the song was through, and then he bowed his head and turned away and walked out into the night, his heart full of memories and for once glad of it.

10 December 1958

"Doctor Blake?"

Lucien looked up sharply from the pile of medical journals in front of him, taken aback by the sudden sound of Mrs. Beazley's voice in the stillness of the surgery after hours. To be a GP required a certain amount of continual study on Lucien's part, and now that he had reconciled himself to remaining in this post he had decided that he must take up his calling in full. To that end he had retreated to the surgery after supper, intent on reading for a while before taking his usual constitutional, and he had not expected to be interrupted. And he had not expected to see Mrs. Beazley wearing a fine, floral patterned dress and a matching hat, carrying her handbag and looking as if she had somewhere to be; in that moment, confronted with the reality of it, he suddenly realized that he knew almost nothing of her life outside the house. She had children, and her husband had died, and Danny was her nephew, and that was the extent of the personal details she had so far revealed to him. But she must have had interests, some sort of inner world he was not privy to; what did a housekeeper dream about? He wondered. What made her happy, what did she long for? What was she doing, when she was not cooking his meals?

"I just wanted to see if you need anything before I go," she told him when he did not answer.

"No, thank you, Mrs. Beazley, I'm all set here." In truth Lucien had come to almost hate having a housekeeper, someone at his beck and call; he had done his own laundry and fed himself for quite some time, and the idea of his care being someone else's responsibility was galling. He did not want to intrude, did not want to make demands of her, did not want her to resent him, but she remained firmly in place, fulfilling all the duties of a respectable housewife with none of the accompanying pleasures or benefits. Perhaps that was what bothered him about their situation most of all; she cared for him in ways that were almost intimate, and yet there was no bond of affection between them.

"Where are you off to, then?" he asked, stopping her as she made to leave him. If they were going to carry on this way, he supposed he ought to make a bit more effort to get to know the woman.

"Choir practice," she told him with a hesitant smile, as if she could not quite believe that was taking an interest in her comings and goings, as if she did not entirely trust him. "We're preparing for the Christmas program."

Mrs. Beazley would know, then, the identity of the mystery soprano. She could give Lucien a name to go with the voice, perhaps even make introductions, but for some reason he did not want to ask; he wanted that angel to remain an angel, a beautiful voice in the lowering light of dusk, a beacon of hope. Whoever she was, however lovely she might be, Lucien knew he could not live up to his imaginings of her, and he wanted to keep her on her pedestal, to continue to believe in a joy that was bigger, grander, more sacred than Ballarat deserved.

"Good luck to you," he told her. "Enjoy your evening, Mrs. Beazley."

Her smile this time was far more genuine. "And you, Doctor Blake," she answered, and then she turned as if to go, and Lucien returned his gaze to the pile of medical journals. The sound of her retreating footsteps did not follow, however, and so he looked up, to find her still lingering in the doorway, still watching him.

"And by the way, Doctor Blake," she said. "There's no need for us to be quite so formal, is there? You should call me Jean. Your father did."

Lucien's mouth nearly fell open in shock; he had thought himself quite beyond the reach of her kindness as a result of his earlier transgressions and utter lack of decorum, but the expression on her face in this moment was soft, and her words had been kindly meant; an olive branch of sorts. Perhaps she had sensed the intent behind his question, interpreted correctly the course his own thoughts had run, and sought to reward his attempt at civility with one of her own. Or perhaps it was just that she was a good woman, and Christmas was coming on, peace on earth, goodwill toward men, and all that. Whatever the reason, Lucien was more grateful for her offer than he could say.

"In that case," he answered, "you should call me Lucien. In fact I'd prefer it if you did. Every time I hear Doctor Blake I look around for my father."

"So do I," she said with a strange sort of wistfulness, as if she actually missed the terrible old man. "Good night, Lucien," she added, and then she was gone, leaving one somewhat hopeful, somewhat befuddled man in her wake.

17 December 1958

There were only eight days left to go before Christmas, but Lucien was not feeling particularly festive. He had procured a tree - Jean had asked him rather pointedly when, and not if he was going to get around to it, and he had sought to rectify his error at once - and with help from Jean and Mattie he had strung it with lights and hung a myriad of glass ornaments, retrieved from their resting place in the attic to once more see the light of day. A few of them he recalled from his childhood, but it had been decades since he'd spent Christmas in this house, and there were many ornaments that were unfamiliar to him, and yet apparently dear to Jean. He had procured one present apiece for his friends in Ballarat, Mattie and Danny and Matthew and Jean, wrapped them haphazardly in brown paper and stowed them in his closet for safe keeping before the time came for them to be placed beneath the tree. The gifts were not especially personal, as he did not know what any of these people might actually want; good liquor had been purchased for the men, and pretty baubles for the ladies, and Lucien had declared his attempts good enough.

It was Wednesday evening, again; Jean was out at choir practice, and Mattie had gone to have supper with some of the nurses from the hospital, and the house was quiet. At present such solitude only made Lucien nervous; Christmas was, after all, a time for friends, and family, a time when a man was meant to be in good company, reflecting on his blessings and all the events that had befallen him over the previous year, but in the absence of one and the fear of the other he had almost run from the house, eager to step outside, to breathe freely, to forget, for a moment, that he had no family to speak of.

It was a fine warm night, again; life in Ballarat was defined by nothing so much as repetition. Meals at the same time each day, with the same people, the same patients coming into the surgery, Jean dancing through the house performing the same tasks. His entire life, once reckless and entirely his own to command, had been reduced to a schedule that Jean forced him to keep rather mercilessly. Perhaps she found comfort in such predictability; some people did, he knew. It was just that Lucien was not one of them. Or at least he had not been, before he'd come home. When he'd been just Lucien, out there in the world, he had tackled tasks as they came to him, followed his impulses where they might lead him, and with nothing and no one depending upon him, he had rather enjoyed that state of affairs. Now, however, he found he worried somewhat less, for Jean had brought order from the chaos, and he did not have to wonder where or when he might take his next meal, or walk out the door in the morning wearing the same suit from the day before, or wake wondering how on earth he was going to occupy himself over the course of the day; Jean held the answers to all those questions, and lifted a burden from his shoulders he had not known he was carrying.

She really was a marvel, that Jean. He'd been pondering the riddle of Matthew Lawson's murder victim over dinner a few days earlier, and she had, quite casually, provided him with the necessary intelligence to piece the puzzle together. She knew everyone in Ballarat, and everything about them, those sparkling eyes observing the world around her with a keen wit, filing the details away in her mind until the day came when they might prove useful. She was far too clever - and far too beautiful - to be no more than a housekeeper, and yet she seemed quite content with her chosen vocation. Jean was happiest when she was standing in her kitchen, when every seat at the table was filled and the sound of voices carried on the air. This much Lucien had learned about her, and he was deeply grateful for it, for he did not know what would become of him, should he be without her.

Perhaps it was the approach of Christmas that led his feet once more to Sacred Heart, or perhaps it was his thoughts of Jean, and the knowledge that she was there. Whyever he had done it Lucien found himself once more on the steps of the church, once more listening to the voices of the choir echoing through the open door.

It was The First Noel they were singing tonight, their voices sweet and blending neatly, his angelic soprano lost somewhere in the harmony. The sound was no less beautiful and he stood for a time with his hands in his pockets, letting the music wash over him. The words to the song were simple and repetitive; it was the swelling voices of the choir, the way each part melded together, that made this song haunting and lovely. But even this melody could not last forever; it came to an end, and Lucien made to leave that place - for it was getting dark, and he did not imagine that the choir would continue on much longer - but then he heard the soft sound of laughter from inside the church, and in the next moment the piano burst into a merry tune that brought a smile to his face at once.

A voice joined the piano after a few beats, a bright clear voice that cut through the fog of Lucien's melancholy and reached his heart at once, and angel singing sweetly in full-throated joy.

"Angels we have heard on high," she called to him through the gathering dark, "sweetly singing o'er the plains…"

This melody was neither mournful lament nor humble reverence; it burst with rejoicing, and he fancied he could hear in her voice the smile the soprano must have been wearing.

"And the mountains in reply, echoing their joyous strains…"

There was something about the music; he loved it, truly. God had abandoned him in Singapore, had not answered his pleas for mercy or safety for his family, had been as silent and distant as Thomas Blake himself over the intervening years. The church scorned him for his progressive beliefs, and the parishioners eyed him mistrustfully, despising him for his many failures. But the music; oh the music captivated him, uplifted his soul, unearthed his every happy memory, encouraged him, if only for a moment, to imagine the possibility that what they said was true, that there was a God out there somewhere, full of love, watching over him. The moment the song was through those thoughts would fade, but for these few precious minutes he transcended grief, borne aloft on the sound of that angel's voice.

The choir joined her on the chorus, and those simple country folks, pouring their hearts and souls into the music despite their rustic surroundings and lackluster lives, put many a symphony to shame.

"Gloria," the word long and full of movement, the soprano leading all of them through the beauty of the music as it was written, "in excelsis Deo..."

Lucien stayed right there with her, breathless as she carried the choir and Lucien himself through the song to its conclusion. And when it was done he turned and walked away from that place, smiling.

24 December 1958

There was a certain sense of magic about Jean Beazley, of that there could be no doubt. No man on earth was immune to her, of that Lucien was sure; her disapproval, so eloquently expressed with nothing more than a single eyebrow, could bring the most pugnacious of brawlers into line, and her gentle smile could bring decorum and civility to any situation. She had asked him once, gently, if he would like to attend the choral service at Sacred Heart on Christmas Eve, and she had been so kind, so lovely, so genuinely guileless in her request that Lucien had accepted the invitation before he'd ever thought it through. And no matter how much he wished now that he'd declined, he was forced to admit to himself that this inconvenience would be worth it, if for no other reason than that he had somehow managed to do the impossible, and put himself in her good graces. Perhaps there had been more manipulation in the request than he'd realized at first - Jean did seem awfully pleased with herself, having managed to convince Lucien Blake to attend a church service - but he could forgive her these attempts to tame him, for in the attempt she demonstrated an affection for him, and a desire for him to succeed in Ballarat, and that was all for the good.

And besides, he told himself as he loitered by the car - he'd arrived early, having generously offered to drive Mrs. Beazley and spare her having to walk - at last his curiosity might be satisfied. He had waffled on the matter of his angel, and her identity; though he had resisted temptation and never asked Jean for the name of the church's star soprano he would see her face for himself in just a few minutes' time, and he was rather looking forward to it. Her voice had lifted his spirits during this trying season, and he felt a sense of hope when he thought of her; let her be as beautiful as her voice, he thought, and by God, let her be unmarried. Wouldn't that be a twist of fate, he thought, if having grown enamored with this woman through the sound of her voice alone he discovered her to be every bit as lovely as his imaginings, and found the best reason of all to stay in Ballarat. It was Christmas, after all, and anything was possible at Christmas.

Or perhaps I've just grown too romantic in my old age, he thought ruefully, and she'll be married with a brood of children and a surly disposition.

He could linger no longer and so he carted himself off to the church, settled himself at the end of a pew just about halfway down the aisle. There were a good many people in attendance this evening, butchers and bankers and farmers sitting cheek by jowl with their wives and children in tow, but the sanctuary was hardly at capacity; the flock had thinned somewhat from Lucien's hazy recollections of childhood Christmas services. A sign of the times, he thought.

He had timed his arrival fortuitously, and was spared the need to engage his neighbors in small talk by the appearance of the old priest, and the beginning of the service. The old priest spoke a few words in a tremulous voice while the audience echoed their responses, voices rising and falling in perfect unison. A prayer was said, and then the choir came filing in.

There were, as he suspected, about twenty-five members. Their clothes made quite a picture; they had not dressed in concert black, as professionals might, nor had they it seemed made any plan to match one another. Greens and pinks and blues and yellows; they clashed merrily with one another, a garden of brilliant Christmas flowers. Lucien searched their faces, wondering which of these ladies had so bewitched him - there were more than a few contenders, to his mind - but then his gaze fell on Jean, and he could not help but smile.

She wore a simple navy dress, but she had no need of patterns or adornment for the dress was molded to her lithe figure, and she shone in it. In the sparkling lights of the church he could see her gentle smile, could clearly make out the curve of her hip and the elegant arch of her neck. Her eyes were bright and full of good cheer, her hair artfully curled, and as he looked at her he felt his heart do a funny little flip in his chest. From the moment they met he had known she was beautiful, but she had been part and parcel of the world of Doctor Blake, had been a physical reminder of the limitations this life would place on him. She had been more institution than woman, in the early days of their acquaintance; full of rules and judgment, to his mind, as unreachable, unknowable as the stars themselves. But as he looked at her now he could not deny that she was a woman, beautiful and real, with hopes and dreams all her own, a woman who had in her own way opened her life to him, invited him to share in her joy, made a place for him in her family. In that moment she was utterly, completely captivating to him, and his eyes saw no face but hers.

The music began slowly, softly, the pianist well prepared no doubt from years of practicing. There was a conductor standing just in front of the choir, and Lucien's eyes caught the movement of the man's hands, preparing the assembled singers for their introduction. It was O Holy Night, the song he'd heard the first time he'd encountered the angelic soprano, the first time his thoughts had begun to wander to the Christmases of his youth, and all the old feelings of reverence and hope he had so long been missing.

But then, oh then, the soprano's part began, and Lucien's heart swelled within his chest, full of an emotion he was terrified to name.

"O, holy night," Jean sang, softly, her voice as low as her register would allow, every member of the audience holding their breath as the sound of her rejoicing filled the sanctuary with a beautiful, haunting echo, "the stars are brightly shining.."

It was Jean. It was Jean's voice he'd heard, Jean he'd thought of as an angel, Jean who had enraptured him and filled him full of hope. It was Jean who had helped him find his way, given him a home, given him a reason to believe that the future might be brighter than he'd ever imagined.

"A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices…"

Christ, he had never seen, never felt anything as beautiful as this in all his life. Beyond the walls of that church the world was dark and still, and yet inside everything was shining with a brilliant light, the stained glass windows suddenly as compelling to him now as they had been when he was a boy. It was Christmas, and his heart was full of love.

"For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn…"

When he had come back to the town of his birth Lucien had hated everything about it. He had been petulant and cross, felt stifled and unfulfilled. And wasn't it strange, but as he stared it her now he could not help but think how those feelings had changed over the last few weeks, how he and Jean had come to understand one another better, and in that understanding a new hope had been born. After his father's death Jean had organized the surgery and browbeat Lucien into seeing patients; now he almost looked forward to it, tending to his neighbors, easing their pain and helping them to realize better lives for themselves. Jean was the one who had sent Matthew Lawson to him, when the Superintendent had been in need of a police surgeon, and Lucien had found fulfillment in that work, and an occupation that satisfied his frenzied mind. Jean's frowns had caused him to reach for the whiskey less often - he had not stopped, and never would, but he could not deny she had curbed his habit somewhat, and he felt fitter and more alive because of it. Jean had listened to him, when he needed someone to hear, and Jean fed him, cared for him; Jean had made that house warm, and welcoming, when at first he had found it cold and terrible.

And Jean's voice had brought him here, to this place where he could sit and stare at her wonder, thinking of the beauty that could be found in the midst of life's grief.

"Fall on your knees," the choir lent their voices to hers, and the sound soared to the heavens, and Jean's smile in that moment as she gave herself over to the music, to the joy of it, was nothing short of beatific.

"O hear the angel voices…"

Lucien had all but stopped breathing, and he could hardly blink, could hardly think, found all of himself focused solely, completely, on Jean. They had not always been as kind to one another as they could have been, had both been wary and mistrustful of one another, but those early days of bickering and displeasure had faded, and what remained was a burgeoning friendship. In recent days he had felt a wry sort of affection for Jean begin to manifest in his chest, but as he pondered her beauty and all that she had done for him that affection threatened to swell into something else altogether, and in that moment he made a silent vow to henceforth treat her as gently as she deserved.

The rest of the service Lucien spent in rapt attention, his eyes, his heart, his very soul fixed on Jean, and Jean alone. When the singing was through and the audience began to demurely applaud Lucien clapped the loudest of all, and only just restrained himself from letting out a cheer. Jean's eyes fell on his face, and though they were separated by some distance he could see the blush rise on her cheeks, could see on her face a shy smile that made his heart constrict in his chest. She knew then, that he had enjoyed the service, that he had not scorned her, that he appreciated her efforts and had done this thing for her, and that pleased him more than he could say.

It took some time for her to make her goodbyes, after the service, but Lucien did not begrudge her the wait for it gave him time to gather his thoughts. He wanted to tell her how grateful he was to her, for everything she had done, wanted to praise her for the beautiful gift she had given him - given to all of them - in sharing her voice. He wanted to tell her that he had found hope, because of her, but he did not want to terrify or offend her, and he had no idea how to begin.

All too soon she was through, and walking slowly towards him, holding her handbag and smiling.

"Thank you for coming," she told him. They turned as one to retreat out into the night, and quite without realizing it Lucien let his hand settle at the small of her back. It felt natural, somehow, and she did not object, and so he did not pull away.

"Thank you for inviting me," he answered.

They reached the car a moment later, and Lucien held the door for her as Jean settled into her seat.

"Really, Jean," he said then, "it was lovely." You are lovely.

She smiled at him brightly, and he closed the door then, not wanting to her to see just how much that smile affected him.

The drive home was quiet, and comfortable; they discussed the service, and Lucien managed to slip in one or two oblique pieces of praise for her talents, designed not to make her uncomfortable with unaccustomed compliments but to ensure that she knew how much he had enjoyed her performance.

"To tell you the truth," he said as they turned onto Mycroft Avenue, "it doesn't really feel like Christmas, without the music. I hadn't realized how much I missed it until tonight."

Jean hummed, and Lucien deftly turned the car onto the drive. "Christmas is a feeling, isn't it?" she said, and though they had reached their destination Lucien was in no hurry to step out into the night; he wanted, very much, to simply sit, and listen to her talk. "Everything we do, the presents, the biscuits, the music, the lights, it's all there to make us feel...love, and happiness, and family, and belonging. Christmas is about home, wherever that may be."

She turned to look at him in the darkness, and her smile was sweet, and somehow sad. What was she thinking of? He wondered. What had Christmas been like for her in the past? Where had her home been, before it was here?

"I think we lose sight of that, as we get older," she said softly. "None of it matters, if we don't have love in our hearts. But sometimes these traditions can help us find that love when we feel as if we've lost it."

"Jean, you are a marvel," Lucien answered, unable to stop himself. An angel, he thought. Before this moment he never would have imagined that his housekeeper had something of the poet in her soul, but he could not deny it now; she was brilliant, and she had seen plainly to the heart of him.

"Come on, then," she said, blushing and turning away from his compliment. "Time for a cup of tea and a few of those biscuits, if you haven't eaten all of them already."

Lucien barked out a laugh and they stepped from the car together, smiling and comfortable with one another at last. They reached the low porch together, but as Lucien unlocked the door and held it open for her he saw something that gave him pause.

"Lucien?" she asked, lifting her chin to follow his gaze, her eyes widening slightly as she caught sight of the sprig of mistletoe hung just above the door.

Lucien's mind was whirring; he wanted, very much, to kiss her, but he did not want to overstep. He had only just begun to understand this burgeoning affection he carried for her, and he had no notion of her feelings on the matter whatsoever, and the night had been going so well, and he so desperately did not want to ruin things between them-

'Lucien?" she asked again, and this time her voice was softer. There was no accusation in her gaze; her expression was not one of open invitation, exactly, but Lucien rather got the feeling that if he tried to kiss her in that moment she would not stop him.

"Be bad luck not to, eh?" he said, hoping he sounded casual, hoping his voice did not shake despite the wild clamoring of his heart.

She smiled hesitantly but did not answer, and in the silence he heard what she could not say; she would not ask for him, but she would not turn away from him, either.

And so he drew in a very deep breath, bowed his head, and let his lips brush gently against her cheek, lingering there for a moment against the softness of her skin. When he touched her Jean's own hand had risen, her palm cradling his cheek, warm against the brush of his beard, and that gentle touch seared him to the core.

"Merry Christmas, Jean," he breathed.

"Merry Christmas," she answered him, a little unsteadily.

He pulled back from her then, and found that she was smiling at him in wonder. It was Christmas, and his heart was glad, and Jean was with him; he could ask for nothing more.