Author's Note: This is really only vaguely supposed to take place in Victorian England. You can interpret it any way you want, really. I've been in a dark mood due to the rain recently, and this was the result. Written as a birthday present for schwarztkd on Tumblr.

Part I

She only ever lifts the veil for tea.

He catches glimpses of what lies beneath it, in those moments—red lips, pale skin, blue eyes—but he dares not say a word.

She's always been mysterious—too mysterious, at first, for him—and that thin, black shroud, matching her black dress, and purse, and shoes, and gloves, makes her even more inscrutable.

But he's determined, this time, to see her, to know her, and so he sits with her in gardens, in lounges, in cafes, watching the hours, days, months pass.

And watching her.

The way she stares blankly out into the street; the way her hands clench and unclench around the cup; the way her lips grow fuller as they sip the tea.

He knows she's watching him, too—and that knowledge is precious to him.

I'm ready, she announces suddenly, and he starts at the sound of her voice. He hasn't heard it since that morning.

Ready? he asks, wondering.

She doesn't look at him when she does it—when she pulls back the veil over her red lips, pale face, blue eyes—but he's staring at her all the while, watching.

She removes it entirely, after a beat, and places it in her lap; finally, her eyes look down, observing her shaking fingers.

He sees the opportunity, takes it—takes her hand in his, gently, soothingly—and when she warms under his touch, grasps it back, looks at him, he realises, absently, that it's the first time he's touched her.

No—that she's allowed him to touch her.

Elsa.

She doesn't match his calm expression, but she's not cold, either, because her hand is still in his, and it's pulsing with heat.

She wouldn't want me to live like this, she says, and there's something like a tear in her eye before she quickly brushes it away. It's already been a year.

Her bottom lip is still trembling, he notices; he grips her hand tighter, and she shudders.

You've been so brave, he reassures her, ignoring the looks they've garnered from other patrons.

They know who she is, after all—everyone does—and they know who he is, and they think they know what he's after.

She's never listened to the rumours, though she's been warned by cautious acquaintances and circumstance alike; suddenly, he's thankful that she was raised behind closed doors, away from the world of gossip, and that she's become numb to the whispers around her.

I'm not brave, she says at last, looking at him again, solemn. I just lived.

He smiles. And living is a brave thing to do.

She's silent at this, though a faint touch of pink colours her cheeks.

He's never seen her look that way, and the expression is so reminiscent of her sister's that he's taken aback, nearly breathless.

He has to remind himself that they're not the same—not in the slightest—because where he would've confessed you're beautiful to her sister in that moment, and then looked chastened, embarrassed, while she blushed, she is cold to flattery, and charm, and humour.

At least, she was; now, gazing at her, he's not so sure.

It won't be as easy as before, he knows, watching as the colour fades, and her eyes grow duller again. She's not so easily fooled, nor tempted, and he can't imagine that she'd ever skate on thin ice, or even trust him enough to go in the first place.

But she hasn't let go of his hand, yet, either.

He remembers, then, the cabinet at home, and the little drawer inside of it, where the bottle is carefully hidden away—and he's glad he purchased it, silencing his doubts.

Somehow, he knows he'll finally get to use it.