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Victor had still dreams, sometimes, about moments in his past that had never really happened, where he stood in the center of a moonlit parlor while a smiling brown-haired girl beckoned him toward the grand piano to tell him her name and other secrets.

It had been a year.

The first two weeks bore a wedding on their wintry tide. Between November's small flurries, and in the days following the walking dead having returned to their graves in an event that few citizens deigned to talk about, the esteemed Lord and Lady Everglot had found themselves burdened by a widowed daughter and less money in the aftermath of her marriage ceremony than they'd had before. There were, of course, customs to take into consideration – a year of mourning yawning before the young bride, investigation into the matter of her inheritance, and the proper burial of her departed's mysteriously-absent remains being foremost on everyone's minds – but it was a matter of equal concern that the season for the collection of the Queen's taxes was fast upon them, and that coin had been regrettably tight for the last decade or so. Miraculously, the groom's most gracious parents objected not in the least to making their son a second husband following a quick annulment. For the second time in one month, Victoria Bittern, née Everglot, and Victor Van Dort found themselves betrothed. They didn't mind as much as some might have.

So under the scowling eyes of Pastor Galswells, man and wife were wed on a November afternoon in the parlor of the Van Dort's townhouse. Debarred from the church and from Everglot Manor, both so recently tainted by the presence of the unblessed dead, the ceremony was cramped and smelled faintly of the mothballs beneath the rug. The windows were high, though, and south-facing, and the clear white autumn skies without blanched the room so that bride and bridegroom alike appeared to glow where the light touched them. "With this ring," he said, "I ask you to be mine." The words were not difficult. As the golden ring slipped over his new wife's small finger, Victor would have wondered at what kind of fool he must have been to be unable to master his lines a month earlier, but he was instead distracted with pulling Victoria close and kissing her at the altar in sight of God and men. Maudeline gasped and Finis snorted and William made a sound, something like "Hrrm!" but Victoria's lips were too sweet for them to sour.

Let them cluck, Victor thought brazenly as his wife pulled away and grasped his arms, her smile prim but her eyes full of joy. Let them be shocked.

Life is much too short.

Their second month together was spent at her family's private country estate, standing far from prying eyes but still full to the brim with the sorts of whispers and small laughs that only newlyweds seem to know. Whether relaxed before the fire or standing together at the open window, Victor and Victoria felt always warm in one another's presence as December wrapped its soft snowy cloak around their shoulders. A townhouse of their own came soon after returning to the village, one at first dim and scantly-furnished, but able over time to trap all of their light within its walls. A chaise lounge and a piano fitted the drawing room, and two bedrooms were prepared for appearances' sake, if only one was ever used. The new housekeeper never said a word of it, and for this Victor was thankful. Nothing had prepared him for the quiet delight of waking in the dark of the day's first hours and being able to hold another body close to his own.

In the fifth month, Victoria entered a kitchen for the eighth time in her life, prepared to make dinner in celebration of her husband's birthday. The meal afterward could not be salvaged, but there was enough canned fish in the pantry to last a year and a fine pastry cake in the ice box, so they didn't go hungry. Victoria seemed so apologetic afterward that Victor felt compelled to ensure her that he'd had birthdays far worse; she made it up to him by finally taking him by the hand that night and telling him that they were going to have a baby.

Oh. Well, of course they were.

Even April's dreary sleet hadn't been enough to push him back down to earth after that. Still, that night he found himself dreaming of sitting on a piano bench and telling the news to the girl in the dark with him. If she'd said anything back, he couldn't remember, but he did recall that she'd smiled wider than he knew a person could. When he woke in the night afterward, Victoria smelled like powder and crushed roses on the pillow next to his. He fell asleep again with his arm around her waist and a warm feeling in his chest.

Spring was cold that year and summer short as ever. Three rose bushes bloomed in the garden with a handful of wildflowers, but little else could be convinced to grow in the rocky soil, so when the rare sun spilled through the kitchen window during breakfast, it was always a rose in white or red or yellow that stood on the sill to catch the rays. There were butterflies to be found and sketched in the garden, and fresh fruit at the grocer; when Victoria caught a cough in August, Victor brought her apples and blackberries, and a published volume of Shakespeare's plays to read to the baby. It was only halfway through the first act of Titus Andronicus that he found his enthusiasm for the early exposure of his child to classic literature ebbing, however, and he eventually closed the book and slipped it onto the shelf while Victoria napped in the afternoon sun. Lesson learned, then.

With October approached the anniversary of both of their first marriages and of his untimely death, the latter an odd occasion for oneself to be able to acknowledge, but a valid one nonetheless. The day on which the dead had risen from the earth came and passed; the greengrocer's son was heard once in the back of the store to ask whether his grandfather would be visiting again, but was quickly hushed. That night Victoria approached her husband in the study to ask a question about why moths are so fatally attracted to open flame, and they ended up with their arms wrapped tight around one another, sitting together on the small desk chair. She didn't cry, but kept her head buried close to his neck, and Victor himself struggled to contain a biting, empty sorrow. They talked; communication was rarely a problem between the two of them, but on that night many things seemed to go unsaid.

Dying, she'd asked him for the first time that night. What was it like? Victor tried to think, but he simply didn't know. He remembered nothing of the time in question, which might as well have been a light nap. He'd kept the suit he died in and still took it out every once in a while for examination. Three neat slashes cleaved the grey wool jacket stored in the bedroom where he never slept. No matter how many times he looked, not a drop of blood was to be found in the weave.

The girl at the piano never seemed to have anything to say about that.

Now Victoria was as heavy as the harvest before the first frost, and Victor had never been so in love. When the weather was decent they sat together in the scrub garden or strolled at the edge of the woods; when it was not, they read together, and Victor taught her of sketching and piano playing. Every note and line she learned, he hoped, was to become as much a part of their child as of either one of them alone.

In the rushes of late October, a third bedroom was prepared.

One year.

Everything was going much better than could have been planned.

It's my birthday, guys! And as a present to myself, I'm finally posting the first revised chapter of this story. With plots becoming rapidly more entwined in my head, this fic is going to be completed in its entirety before I post the next chapter of All Hallow's Eve. Sorry about that. It's gonna take a while, but I hope it'll be worth it.

Remember that this monster follows directly from the ending of The Wine of Ages, and makes little to no sense otherwise.

Enjoy, and please let me know what you think of it.