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There had been a time once when, for Saskia, the onset of the winter months had served only as a portent of hardship. Even the light of a new century had done very little to diminish all which dwelling in the wilderness entailed — and never were the claws of nature more cruel than in the midst of those cold, desolate nights surrounding the winter solstice.
Lord, but how far away it all seems now. How difficult it is to dwell upon the suffering of decades past in a present so ruled by comfort, guarded within the high, stone walls of Frankenstein Manor. Here, there is light and warmth and—
“— Papa.”
Delight rushes to eclipse her momentary surprise as, upon glancing up from the maintenance of her crossbow, Saskia's gaze lands upon the familiar figure at the library’s threshold.
“Ah — forgive me if I've startled you, my dear.” Her father’s expression equals his sentiment in its contrition as he draws nearer to the roaring hearth. “I’d all but forgotten myself to expect an early rising.”
An apology. Saskia nearly laughs aloud at the utter absurdity. These evenings she’s spent in his presence have, since his reawakening to the world, been nothing short of miracles in miniature. Surely, he can’t think she’d rebuke the notion of being granted even more time at his side.
Unable and perhaps even unwilling to suppress the smile that tugs at her lips, Saskia rises and crosses the room to clasp his hand (warm, yielding; he’d fed before coming here) between both of her own.
“No, please. Come sit,” she entreats him, her words painted in shades of eager adoration so vivid as to soundly chase away any doubt of their veracity. “I could do with the company. Eve and Doctor Frankenstein only just retired to the catacombs some time ago. No doubt they’ll be down there all night with whatever it is that’s stricken their fancy.”
Abraham's features soften as he inclines his head to regard her. Try though he may to conceal it within the fondness of his smile, Saskia cannot help but press his hand all the more firmly as relief flickers across the rich crimson of his irises. Time has, she knows, long-since dulled the horror of his condition — and yet, even so, it pains her still to catch so much as a glimpse of whatever part of him must expect rejection nonetheless.
“Quite so,” comes his quiet reply as he allows her to guide him to his customary armchair by the fire. “Mind you, I’d very much like to indulge my curiosity in that regard, one of these nights, but I'd dare not intrude upon what’s already begun.”
Saskia hums in agreement as, upon his settling in, she gently withdraws her hands. “You’ll have more than time enough for it now, I should think."
Even from her own lips, the sentiment holds an immeasurable warmth — one that, to her delight, she finds reflected in her father’s eyes when next they meet her own.
In the gentle glow of her own contentment, she allows herself to sink into the corner of the sofa nearest to his chair. Outside, the wind howls and shrieks, battering against the frosted-over panes of glass in the manor’s high, gothic windows. Its high, keening wail carries with it the promise of longer, darker nights ahead — a promise that, for the first time in over a century, Saskia very much hopes that it intends to keep.