At midnight,
Upon the twelfth night
Of December,
The old oak doors
Of Nocturna
Opened quietly,
And Belladonna Moreau
Stepped inside.
Few members
Ever addressed her
By her given name.
To everyone
She was simply,
“Ding Dong.”
A nickname
Bestowed long ago,
For no better reason
Than the cheerful
Bell
Hidden within
Belladonna.
She adored it.
Cradled tightly
Against her chest,
As though it were
The most precious thing
In the world,
Was a taxidermied
Honey badger,
Its fierce little face
Forever frozen
In a magnificent snarl,
A deep green ribbon
Tied neatly
About its neck.
Daniel Hargraves
Opened the great entrance door
With his customary nod.
“Welcome to Nocturna.
May your evening
Be a pleasant one.”
“Thank you, Daniel.”
She smiled brightly,
The curls
Of her untidy blonde hair
Bouncing happily
As she passed.
Inside,
Gideon Rook
Was already waiting.
“Good evening,
Miss Moreau.”
She laughed.
“Oh please…
Call me Ding Dong.”
“As you wish.”
He offered
A courteous bow.
“Your guest
Has been eagerly awaiting
Your arrival.”
With an elegant flourish,
He gestured
Towards a secluded booth.
There,
A gentleman
Rose immediately
To his feet.
He was impossible
To overlook.
Tall enough
To make every doorway
Appear too small,
Broad enough
To cast
His own shadow
Across the room.
The moment
He saw Belladonna,
His entire face
Lit with delight.
He waved
With such wholehearted enthusiasm
That she could not help
Blushing.
“My dove!”
His deep voice
Boomed warmly.
“You are here.”
“Oh Henry…”
She laughed,
Her cheeks
Flushing crimson.
Gideon smiled quietly,
Leaving them alone.
Henry Boudreaux
Reached for her hand
With extraordinary gentleness,
Helping her
Into her chair,
As though
She were made
Of delicate porcelain.
Together,
They made
An unforgettable pair.
Belladonna,
A taxidermist,
Tiny,
Pale,
Her sleeves
Always rolled above
Her elbows,
Her chocolate-coloured
Victorian dress
Already carrying
Tiny traces
Of sawdust
And thread,
Never without
Some curious creature
She had lovingly restored.
Henry,
An incredible artist,
And gentle giant
From the West Indies,
Whose immense hands
Were equally capable
Of lifting
A grand piano,
Or painting
The finest
Brushstroke.
His usually unruly
Paint flecked Black hair
Had been carefully
Combed back
With fragrant pomade.
His bushy beard
Had been trimmed.
His emerald velvet
Three-piece suit,
Richly embroidered
With gold thread,
Caught the glow
Of every nearby lamp.
A polished gold
Pocket watch
Hung proudly
Across his waistcoat,
While delicate
Round spectacles
Balanced neatly
Upon his nose.
He had dressed,
Quite obviously,
To impress her.
She noticed.
And loved him
All the more
For trying.
“I finished
Your Christmas gift.”
Belladonna
Placed the honey badger
Upon the table.
The little beast
Appeared ready
To challenge
The entire room.
Henry’s eyes widened.
“My goodness…”
He leaned closer,
Studying every stitch,
Every carefully arranged whisker,
Every strand
Of polished fur.
“He is magnificent.
You have outdone yourself,
My dove.”
He rested
One enormous hand
Gently
Across hers.
She answered
By placing
Her own tiny hand
Upon his.
“I’m so pleased
You like him.”
For a moment,
Neither spoke.
They simply smiled,
Content
To admire
One another.
Then Belladonna
Tilted her head.
“You look
Exceptionally handsome
This evening.”
Henry’s grin
Spread from ear to ear.
He instinctively
Brushed imaginary dust
From his lapels,
Making her giggle.
“I hoped
You might notice.”
“Oh…
I noticed.”
From beneath the table,
Henry carefully lifted
A beautifully wrapped parcel.
Handmade paper,
Decorated
With delicate green flowers,
Bound
With a gold ribbon.
“For you.”
Belladonna
Needed no further invitation.
She untied the ribbon
With determined enthusiasm,
Paper fluttering
To the floor.
Inside
Rested a painting.
Not of a grand landscape.
Nor an exotic creature.
But of them.
Seated together,
Laughing,
Exactly
As they were now.
Her fingers
Touched the canvas
As though afraid
It might disappear.
“Oh Henry…”
Her voice
Became almost
A whisper.
“It is beautiful.”
Before he could reply,
Gideon Rook
Returned,
Placing
A gleaming silver tea service
Upon the table.
With his usual discretion,
He quietly gathered
The discarded wrapping paper,
Offered a courteous nod,
And departed
Without interrupting
The moment.
Henry watched
His teacup
Far more intently
Than was necessary.
There was something
He wished to say.
Something
He had rehearsed
A hundred times.
His enormous hands,
Normally so steady,
Suddenly seemed uncertain.
“My dear…”
He swallowed.
“Have you considered…
My letter?”
Belladonna
Did not answer.
Instead,
She slipped quietly
From her chair.
Walked around
The table.
Stopped
Beside him.
Henry looked up,
Completely bewildered.
She reached forward,
Placed
Both little hands
Into his great beard,
And drew him suddenly
Towards her
And kissed him
With all the certainty
He had been hoping for.
When at last
She smiled,
Her answer
Was wonderfully simple.
“Of course…
The answer is yes.”
For a heartbeat,
Henry could only stare.
Then joy
Overwhelmed him.
He rose
In one effortless movement,
Sweeping Belladonna
Into his arms
As though
She weighed
No more
Than one of his paintings.
She laughed,
Her feet
Swinging happily
Above the floor,
Her arms
Around his neck,
As he kissed her again.
Behind the bar,
Edgar Brillows
Lowered the glass
He had been polishing.
A slow smile
Spread across
His face.
Beside him,
Marcel Carreau
Folded his hands,
Watching proudly,
While Gideon Rook
Allowed himself
The rare luxury
Of a broad grin.
Edgar quietly raised
His teacup.
“It would seem,”
He said,
“We have
A wedding
To prepare for.”
No one
Could have disagreed.
And so,
Another evening
At Nocturna
Came gently
To its close,
Not with farewell,
But with the promise
Of a joyful beginning.
