His heart beat rapidly within him as he held the little sketch up with two shaking fingers. It was not the finest of his artwork, to be sure—but if it was of no interest to others, he found that it possessed a quality which none of the other pictures could have hoped to display. Thin lips curving in a smile of pure delight, he clambered somewhat unsteadily onto his desk, hoping to find some bare patch of wall to which he could fasten the drawing. There had to be a place where he could gaze at it without the slightest difficulty whilst sitting, but there were far too many butterfly sketches—somewhat agitated, he looked about him desperately even as a light knock rang upon his door.

"Oh!" he cried, startled. Running for the door, he swung it open with all possible haste. There stood the favorite subject of his art, her hands clasped behind her and her head cocked to one side as she watched him, somewhat amused by his panic.

"Victoria!" he breathed, the sketch falling from his hand. He moved swiftly to recover it, but Victoria was still faster.

"Hmm," she said, surveying her portrait with the faintest of smiles. "It's very nice, Victor. I like it. It's me isn't it?"

"Oh, yes," Victor breathed, clasping his hands wretchedly. "I'm afraid it isn't very good, I—"

"My hair," murmured Victoria, touching her own with one small hand, "why, it's rather messed up, isn't it? Look at these loose strands. You make it seem as if I'd just been in the worst of storms!"

Victor colored slightly, his fingers working ceaselessly at his worn tie. He couldn't bear listening to his beloved's comments on the picture, for he was deeply afraid that he had indeed sketched her poorly—and to hear as much from Victoria would certainly cause him the worst agonies yet.

Victoria cupped his hands in her own, stilling them. "Victor," she said, leaning towards him, "it's beautiful."

"Really?" Victor murmured with some uncertainty.

Victoria smiled. "Of course. You draw so brilliantly."

Taken aback, Victor tried to free his hands and resume twisting his tie but Victoria held them firmly. Gaining some courage, and with Victoria's gentle encouragement, he bent his head with the intention of finally kissing her—yet they were interrupted by the unpleasant sound of voices below, voices which they recognized all too swiftly.

"Mother—and father," Victoria whispered, stepping back. "I'd better go or they may find me here. You know how they do not approve of this—and if they learned of how I visit you without their permission…"

Victor managed a weak smile as she spared him one last glance before shutting the door behind her, but he could barely contain his disappointment.

"Oh," he said, "if only she could have stayed longer." He drew forth his little ring from within his coat and gazed at it dreamily. "Tomorrow," he whispered, "ah, tomorrow! I must be prepared—there will be no mistakes this time. With this hand, I will lift your sorrows…" he raised one hand in a theatrical fashion as he illustrated this point before continuing, "your cup will never empty—for I will be your wine." Hesitating, Victor laid one hand lightly over his heart. "I will be your wine," he murmured, lost in thought. "Your wine. Oh—get on with it, Victor! Yes, with this candle I will light your way in darkness…with this ring, I ask—I ask you to be—mine." He paused, drawing a deep breath. "It should be," he added after a moment, "I beg you to be mine. With me saying it, that's how it will doubtless be."

Gently tucking the ring away in his coat, he was startled to hear a familiar yet grating voice behind him.

"Well, well, aren't you just gettin' good at those vows? If I ever want some gal's hand, I hope I do that stuff in Victor-style, with the tremblin', and the stutterin', and the downright shameless terror, ha ha!"

Victor spun around, a tremor passing through him. "Please," he prayed softly, "not…Bonejangles?"