Under a Winter Sky: A Midwinter Holiday Anthology

by Jeffe Kennedy, Kelley Armstrong, Melissa Marr, L. Penelope, Grace Draven

Genres: Fantasy Anthologies & Collections; Fantasy Romance; Anthologies; Holiday books; Holiday Romance

Synopsis

Five powerhouse authors of fantasy and urban fantasy bring you a feast of romantic midwinter holiday adventures. These heartwarming and pulse-pounding tales celebrate Hanukah, Christmas, the solstice, Yule – and holidays from worlds beyond our own. With fancy-dress balls, faery bargains, time travel, blood sacrifice, and festive cocktails, these stories will delight lovers of fantasy and romance, with a dash of seasonal joy.

Ballgowns & Butterflies by Kelley Armstrong

The North Yorkshire moors are always a magical place, but they’re particularly enchanting at the holidays…especially if one gets to travel back in time to a Victorian Christmas. For Bronwyn Dale, it is the stuff of dreams. Fancy-dress balls, quirky small-town traditions, even that classic one-horse open sleigh, complete with jingle bells. There’s just the tiny problem of the Butterfly Effect. How does a time-traveler make a difference without disrupting the future forever?

The Long Night of the Crystalline Moon, a prequel novella to Heirs of Magic, by Jeffe Kennedy

Shapeshifter Prince Rhyian doesn’t especially want to spend the Feast of Moranu at Castle Ordnung. First of all, it’s literally freezing there, an uncomfortable change from the tropical paradise of his home. Secondly, it’s a mossback castle which means thick walls and too many rules. Thirdly, his childhood playmate and current nemesis, Lena, will be there. Not exactly a cause for celebration.

Princess Salena Nakoa KauPo nearly wriggled out of traveling to Ordnung with her parents, but her mother put her foot down declaring that, since everyone who ever mattered to her was going to be there to celebrate the 25th year of High Queen Ursula’s reign, Lena can suffer through a feast and a ball for one night. Of course, “everyone” includes the sons and daughters of her parents’ friends, and it also means that Rhyian, insufferable Prince of the Tala, will attend.

But on this special anniversary year, Moranu’s sacred feast falls on the long night of the crystalline moon—and Rhy and Lena discover there’s more than a bit of magic in the air.

Blood Martinis & Mistletoe by Melissa Marr

Half-dead witch Geneviève Crowe makes her living beheading the dead--and spends her free time trying not to get too attached to her business partner, Eli Stonecroft, a faery in self-imposed exile in New Orleans. With a killer at her throat and a blood martini in her hand, Gen accepts what seems like a straight-forward faery bargain, but soon realizes that if she can't figure out a way out of this faery bargain, she'll be planning a wedding after the holidays.

Echoes of Ash & Tears, an Earthsinger Chronicles Novella, by L. Penelope

Brought to live among the Cavefolk as an infant, Mooriah has long sought to secure her place in the clan and lose her outsider status. She’s a powerful blood mage, and when the chieftain’s son asks for help securing the safety of the clan, she agrees. But though she’s long been drawn to the warrior, any relationship between the two is forbidden. The arrival of a mysterious stranger with a tempting offer tests her loyalties, and when betrayal looms, will Mooriah’s secrets and hidden power put the future she’s dreamed of—and her adopted home—in jeopardy.

and

A Memory Of Summer, a Wraith Kings Novelette, by Grace Draven

Spinsterhood has never bothered or embarrassed the independent Emerence Ipsan, and the winter festival of Delyalda keeps her far too busy managing her father's shops to worry about matters as trivial as marriage.

Until the arrival of a young Quereci warrior with old eyes and an admiring gaze makes her question that notion.

 

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Release date: November 19, 2020

Publisher: Brightlynx Publishing

Print pages: 532

Sample

BALLGOWNS & BUTTERFLIES

by
Kelley Armstrong

Ballgowns & Butterflies is the second story in my time-travel Victorian gothic series, coming right after the first novel, A Stitch in Time. If you haven’t read Stitch, no worries—this novella was written to stand on its own, and you’ll be up to speed within a page or two.

 

When the car-hire driver slows in the village of High Thornesbury, I direct her to the hill instead, where a house looms at the top, barely visible through the falling snow.

“Wait,” the woman says. “You’re going to Thorne Manor?”

“I am.”

“You know them then? The couple who live there?”

“You . . . could say that.”

She cranes to look back at me, and I resist the urge to nicely ask her to keep her eyes on the road . . . the impossibly narrow roads of North Yorkshire, now covered in slick December snow.

“Is it true what they say?” she asks.

I’m tempted to make some noncommittal noise, quite certain that I don’t want to know what “they” say. But curiosity wins out, and I venture a cautious, “What do they say?”

“That she owns the house—the wife. She inherited it from her aunt. She’s a professor in Toronto—the wife, not the aunt.”

“I have heard—”

The driver steamrolls over my response, her accent sharpening as she warms to her subject. “They say she used to come here as a girl. To Thorne Manor. Then a terrible tragedy claimed the life of her uncle. But the best part is . . .” Her voice lowers to a delicious whisper. “The ghosts. The manor house is haunted, and the girl saw the ghosts. Her uncle did too, the night he died.”

My throat closes, swallowing any reply I could make.

The driver continues, “Then the woman inherited Thorne Manor and came back, after over twenty years away. She must not have seen any ghosts that time, because she stayed the summer, and she met a man. A Thorne.”

“Yes, I have heard—”

“It’s like a story out of one of those romantic movies, isn’t it? The American—well, Canadian in this case—inherits a house in the English countryside, and then along comes a British lord, claiming it’s his rightful family home. They start off fighting about it, only to fall madly in love.”

I sigh inwardly. I should just let her have her version of the story and keep my mouth shut. But I am a history professor after all—I cannot allow rumor to stand as historic fact. Of course, nor can I tell the actual truth, which would probably have the poor woman turning around to whisk me to the nearest psychiatric hospital. Still, I should repeat the narrative we’ve constructed, the part of our story that is completely true.

“I’m familiar with the couple in question,” I say. “The woman knew him when she was a girl. They were old friends, and he has never laid any claim to the house.”

“Hasn’t he?” She frowns through the mirror at me. “Isn’t that suspicious?” Her eyes round. “Oh! It’s that other sort of story, then. The one where he pretends to fall in love with her to get his hands on the house, which he thinks is his by right.”

“No,” I say.

“How would you know?”

Because the man was the rightful owner of Thorne Manor . . . two hundred years ago.  

 Because as a child, that girl stepped through time and met a boy. Returned as a teenager, and fell in love. Returned as an adult, and won him again and was able to bring him back, both of them now moving from his time—where he is Lord William Thorne of Thorne Manor—and her time, where he is Mr. William Thorne, husband of the current owner. How do I know all this? Because I’m the current owner, the girl, the woman, the wife: Bronwyn Dale Thorne.

Of course, I can hardly say any of that, so I only gaze out at the lights of High Thornesbury as we pass through the tiny village. I know every street of it, in this time and in William’s, and my pulse quickens, a smile growing as my hands clasp atop my protruding stomach.

Home. I am home.

When I was a little girl, this was my favorite place in the world. Even after I lost it, first when my parents divorced and later after my uncle died, I would dream of North Yorkshire the way others dream of a childhood home. So many happy memories here. Summers spent exploring these moors, picking bramble berries and picnicking with my dad and my Aunt Judith and Uncle Stan. So many even happier times crossing over to William’s world, secret visits to my most cherished friend and, later, my first love.

I grew up and found love again. Married a wonderful man and lost him, widowed at thirty. I’d had a home with Michael, but Toronto never felt like home the way this place does. Now I am back. Back for good, I hope. I had to return to Toronto to teach the fall term, but I’ve started my maternity leave, expecting a baby in March. After that . . . Well, if all goes well after that, this will be my home. I have a lead on a teaching position in York and a few other possibilities tucked in my back pocket.

I’ll miss Canada, but I am ready to make this move. I think I’ve been ready since the day I first visited my aunt and uncle at Thorne Manor, certainly since the day I stepped through time and met William. Now, seeing the village lit up for the holidays, I feel as if I’ve come home. My first Christmas at home.

The lights fade quickly as the hired car begins the long climb to Thorne Manor. I’m struggling

 not to press my nose against the cold glass, straining to see the manor house through the falling snow. I think I can make out a faint glow and then—

The driver curses and jams on the brakes just as the headlamps illuminate a coal-black horse, racing around a curve and coming straight for the car. Or so it seems, but when the car follows the turn in the winding road, it becomes obvious that the horse is actually off to the side, galloping down the hill.

“Bloody fool,” the driver grumbles.

“True,” I murmur.

The rider wheels the stallion around and begins running alongside us.

“Is he mad?” the driver says.

“Possibly. Just don’t let him beat us to the house, please, or I will never hear the end of it.”

Now I do press my nose to the icy window, breath fogging the glass as I squint out. William lifts gloved fingers in greeting, but I don’t think he can see me. He’s bent over the horse, and with his black jacket, he nearly melds into the beast. Only his red scarf makes him truly visible, flapping behind him, an obvious concession to my warnings that car drivers aren’t accustomed to sharing the road with horses.

The horse seems to have adapted well to his new master’s riding habits. After much consideration, William bought him late this past summer. The first horse for his new stable on this side of the stitch. A black stallion, the mirror image of his on the other side. Xanthus and Balois, named after Achilles’s immortal steeds.

We continue to the end of the drive, where William swings off Xanthus and lifts an imperious hand for the driver to stop.

Then, before the driver can do more than squawk an objection, William is throwing open the rear door and shoving his head and shoulders inside.

“Finally,” he says. “I

 have been waiting hours. You really should have let me meet you at the station.” He peers at me. “You aren’t dressed for the weather at all. It’s a wonder you didn’t freeze on the way.”

“Hello, William. So lovely to see you.”

He grumbles and shoves a thick car blanket into the rear seat, bundles me into it and then glances at the driver.

“That will be all.” He hands her a bill. A large one, given the way her eyes saucer. “I appreciate you conveying my wife safely from the station. Please deposit her bags at the end of the drive, and I will retrieve them later.”

“I can carry—” I begin.

“I’ve got it, miss,” the driver says. “You ought not be carrying anything in your condition anyway.”

I’m not even halfway out of the car before I’m scooped up, the blanket wrapped around me.

“I’m pregnant, William,” I say. “Not an invalid. I can walk—”

“Yes, you can. No, you will not. It’s cold and it’s slippery, and you’ve come halfway around the world in a single day, while six-months pregnant. You must be exhausted.”

Exhausted is one way of putting it. Bone-dead and beat-down is another. I’ve spent the last two weeks cranked up to double speed, frantically finishing my end-of-term work so I could catch the first possible plane to William.

I’d told myself I’d sleep on the flight. I did not, even though someone found a way to secretly upgrade me to first-class, and I had no excuse for not stretching out in my little pod and spending the seven-hour flight sound asleep. No excuse beyond the fact that I was on my way to see William for the first time in two months, and I was so excited I could barely stay in my seat.

No sleep on the flight. No sleep on the train. Definitely no sleep in the car, and I can blame my chatty driver, but by that point, as William and Thorne Manor drew ever closer, it’d taken Herculean effort not to leap out of the car and run the rest of the way.

Now I am here, and it’s as if my strings have been cut, every bit of energy evaporating. So yes, I am tired. Exhausted. But my journey is at an end, and I will now crawl into bed and not leave for three days straight. Okay, maybe there won’t be much rest tonight—I’ll definitely find the energy for a proper reunion—but afterward, I’m zonking out.

William fusses with my blanket, making sure I’m swaddled like an infant. I don’t argue. I’m in the mood for a little coddling. Also it gives me time to look at him, just look at him, a sight even more welcome than the lights of High Thornesbury.

It’s always disconcerting to see William in twenty-first century clothes. That’s my hang-up. He had no such concerns. He’d been more than happy to shed his suits and ties for jeans and sweaters. This is a man who’s never more comfortable than when working in his stable or riding out on his land. Modern clothes suit his lifestyle much better, even if he does look very fine in an old-fashioned suit.

Today, he’s wearing a cable-knit sweater under his jacket. I roll my eyes at that, wondering which local knit him the sweater. When he’d first “arrived” as my fiancé, the villagers had been skeptical. Yes, he was obviously a Thorne—his face bears the strong features that grace a dozen portraits in town—but they didn’t know him. They’d taken me in—that wee thing who used to trot about town, that poor girl who saw her uncle die, that quiet widow who came to reopen Thorne Manor at last. 

William might be a Thorne, but clearly he was up to no good. Wooing me in hopes of regaining Thorne Manor. Their suspicion lasted about five minutes, and the next thing I know, he’s bringing home the best scones from the bakery and the finest cuts from the butcher.

High Thornesbury is very proud of its history, with a million tales of the eccentric and good-hearted family who once inhabited the manor house. The Thornes were a rare example of popular landowners, and William carries the mantle of that legacy with ease. He is as popular in modern High Thornesbury as he is in his own version of it, and I have no doubt someone knitted him that sweater . . . and no doubt that he has already found a way to repay their kindness.

The sweater does look very good on him. Even by modern standards, William is a big man, over six feet tall and broad shouldered. Like me, he’s thirty-nine, our birthdays being a mere month—well, a month and a hundred-and-fifty-odd years—apart. His tousled black hair is unfashionably long in his own time, but suits him well here. He has a square face, bright blue eyes and a solid jaw without even a hint of five-o’clock shadow, meaning he shaved for me this evening. Not that I care—he looks very nice with beard shadow, too—but he will always be the Victorian gentleman who must show his lady that she’s worth the effort of a late-day shave.

I take off one glove and run a finger along his clean-shaven jaw. His gaze slants toward the road, being sure the driver is gone. Then his hand goes behind my head as he pulls me into a deep and hungry kiss.

“Now that’s a far better hello,” I say as he lifts his head.

“It seemed rather improper to deliver it while you were in the backseat of a cab, shivering to death in the cold.”

I roll my eyes. “I wasn’t shivering, William. But yes, it wasn’t the best place for a welcome-home kiss.”

I snuggle into his arms and let him continue carrying me up the walk. As we reach the porch, I twist, wanting to see Thorne Manor lit up in her holiday finest . . .

The only lights are ones illuminating the porch. The yard is snow-covered and otherwise empty.

William pushes open the door, which lacks so much as a wreath. Once we’re through, I discreetly try to look about for a tree or maybe a sprig of mistletoe, even cards on the fireplace mantle.

Nothing. There’s nothing.

“Yes, yes,” he says. “Stop squirming. I’ll put you down soon enough.”

A clomp-clomp as he kicks snow from his boots. Then he walks into the parlor and deposits me on the sofa, amidst a nest of piled blankets. Across the room, a fire blazes. A tantalizing odor makes my mouth water, and he disappears into the kitchen, only to return with a basket of warm scones.

“Freya’s?” I say.

“Of course. You didn’t think she’d let you arrive without sending up a bushel basket of scones. That’s the appetizer. Mrs. Shaw left a cold supper on the other side. We’ll cross over when you’re ready.”

A cold supper isn’t . . . quite what I’d hoped for. Especially not one served in a nineteenth-century house on a midwinter night. I’d rather stay here and pop something into the microwave oven, enjoy my late dinner with central heating and electric lighting.

Really, Bronwyn? Really? Mrs. Shaw made dinner for you. Freya made these scones for you. William got this fire going for you and came out to meet you with blankets. And you’re complaining?

No, the truth is just that I’m disappointed by the lack of, well . . . My gaze slides around the room, which looks exactly as I left it after October’s Thanksgiving break.

I’m disappointed by the lack of Christmas. Which is equally shameful. I know William hasn’t celebrated the holidays in years. Did I expect him to ready the house for me? He’s waiting so we can decorate it together. It’s hardly Christmas eve. There’s plenty of time.

I’m just tired. Tired and overwhelmed with the emotion of being back here and seeing him and our house. I missed them both so much.

Which reminds me . . .

I sit up as he takes a scone from the basket. “Where’s Enigma?”

I’d left my kitten here, with William and her mother, Pandora. Taking the little calico to Canada wouldn’t have been fair. This is her home. Yet she can pass through the time stitch, so I’d expected her to be waiting for me.

“She’s off doing kitten things,” he says. “On the other side. Endless mischief, that one. I think I might have spotted her this morning . . .”

Not disappointed. I am not disappointed.

“Give me a few moments to fetch your bags and stable Xanthus. Then we’ll cross over.”

He kisses my forehead and then holds a warm scone to my lips. I smile and take it. As I nibble a toasted edge, he heads for the door. Then he turns and glances back, his lips twitching in a smile.

“Any gifts for me in your bags?” he asks. “Best to warn me, so I 

don’t accidentally peek.”

“You mean so you know whether there’s any point in peeking.”

His brows arch. “That would be wrong.”

“No, William, there are no gifts for you in my bags.” I take a bite of the scone, drawing out the moment. “I had them shipped to Del and Freya’s. Pre-wrapped. And very well taped.”

“One would think you don’t trust me around them.”

“One would be correct.”

He shakes his head. Then, at the door, he pauses and looks back at me. “You never did tell me what you want for Christmas. You’ll need to do so post-haste, or you’ll wake up to a very sad holiday morning.”

So he hasn’t bought me any gifts yet. He’s waiting to hear what I want . . . when I spent days wandering through wretched shopping malls picking out exactly the right things for him, without so much as a hint about what he’d want.

Not disappointed. I am not disappointed.

The door closes, and I slump into the blankets and sigh.

It’s fine. Really, it’s fine. There are many inconsiderate people in the world, but William isn’t one of them. This is all just new to him.

The man has spent the last decade living alone in the moors, avoiding all but locals and close friends, his family gone, his life shadowed by scandal and rumor. Now, in the space of a half-year, he finds himself married and a father-to-be . . . and living part-time in a world he can barely fathom, a world filled with endless challenges.

It’s a wonder he crossed over to meet me at all. In his place, most people would hide in their own century, popping over only long enough to leave a note saying “Meet me on the other side.” He not only waited here but found a way to surprise me with a flight upgrade and hired car. And I’m disappointed by the lack of a Christmas tree and presents?

By the time he returns, I’m on my feet, face washed, hair brushed, scone basket over my arm.

“All ready to cross over?” he says as he shakes new-fallen snow from his hair.

“I am.” I kiss his cheek. “Thank you for coming to meet me. And for the flight and car.”

“Flight and car? Whatever are you talking about?”

“The upgrades?”

His eyes dance. “Must have been pixies. I can scarcely operate my mobile phone. I’d hardly know how to get you . . . what did you call it? An upgrade?”

I shake my head. He’s right about the phone—so much tech to learn, so little time to learn it when you’re taking care of two houses and two stables.

Luckily, William isn’t afraid to ask for help, and our neighbors Freya and Del are more than happy to provide it. Well, Freya is, at least. Del just quietly comes over and cleans out the stable or mows the lawn, and then, if thanked, he’ll grumble that someone needed to do it.

“We’d best bring a blanket or two,” William says, as he puts out the fire. “I’ll need to light the fireplaces once we cross. Perhaps we should bring a torch as well? I considered leaving a candle burning, but that bloody kitten of yours would have set the house aflame.” He frowns. “I hope she didn’t get into our supper. I ought not to have left it out.”

So I’m leaving this brightly lit, warm house for a cold, dark one with a potentially kitten-nibbled dinner?

I plaster on a smile. “It’ll be fine. I’m just glad to be home.”

He leads me upstairs, flipping off lights as we go. We head to my old bedroom—the one I’d used when I’d visited my aunt. It’s an office now. We’d debated turning it into a nursery, but we’d rather not need to worry about our baby crawling through time during naps. This is where the stitch is located. A link between my old room and William’s.

Why is there a time stitch here? How is there one? What even is it? There are questions we can’t answer and don’t care to.

For years, I’d been the

he only human who could cross. Then came Pandora, William’s kitty, and later Enigma. After I put the last of the Thorne Manor ghosts to rest, William was able to cross as well.

Could others cross? It isn’t a question we’re ready to answer. The few people who know our secret have decided that, as much as they would love to pass through time, they don’t dare risk being trapped on the wrong side.

We only hope that our child will be able to cross over. If not . . . well, if not, then we’ll have decisions to make, but we trust that if we can—and our cats can—then our child will be able to as well.

We head for the stitch spot without preamble. William takes my hand, and we cross into our other office, which—contrary to his warning—is neither cold nor dark. It’s blazing with light and warmth, the fireplace burning bright.

I turn and smack his arm.

He rubs his arm. “Is that how they use mistletoe in your world? Terribly uncivilized.”

I crane my neck up to see a green and red sphere hanging over the stitch. It’s a kissing ball—an apple covered in foliage and herbs, giving off the most delectable smell. There’s mistletoe, of course, with its bright red berries, but also rosemary and lavender, symbolizing loyalty and devotion.

I smile as I gaze up at the ball. Then I reach for William, but he’s already bending down to pick up a bright red box.

“Your first gift,” he says.

Before I can protest that it’s too early, something inside the box scratches. Then yowls piteously. I sputter a laugh and pull off the perforated lid to see a half-grown calico cat nestled in a bed of blankets with a toy and treats. Enigma glares at me with baleful green eyes.

“Hey,” I say. “I’m not the one who put you in there.”

Enigma continues to glare until I pick her up. Then she settles in on my chest and accepts my petting, even deigns to purr a little.

“I spent all afternoon trying to catch her.” He rolls up his sweater sleeves, revealing a criss-cross of scratches down both arms. “Ungrateful little

beast. I told her you were coming home, but did she listen? No. Just wanted to chase mice through the barn.”

I set Enigma on my desk chair. Then I put my arms around William’s neck, leaning back for a kiss. Instead, he scoops me up in his arms.

“There will be none of that,” he says. “You have missed your chance and will need to wait for next Christmas. Do you know how much time I spent crafting that kissing ball? Holiday decorating is exhausting. I cannot imagine all the bother other people go to, putting up trees and hanging wreaths. I hope you’re quite content with that single ornament.”

He knees open the office door. Something smacks the top of it, and I crane my neck up to see a sprig of greenery hanging from a red ribbon.

“Wait,” I say. “Is that more—?”

“More what?” he says, deftly swinging me around so I can see it. “Stop squirming, Lady Thorne. You’re worse than that kitten of yours.”

“Also much, much heavier,” I say. “I’m going to suggest you put me down before we reach the top of the stairs. I’m carrying a few extra pounds these days.”

“So I’ve noticed. I’ve always encouraged your obsession with scones, but you may want to curb your intake. You seem to have developed a bit of a . . . belly.”

“Pretty sure I’ve always had one.”

“No, you have a lovely, lush figure, which is currently somewhat unbalanced in the center. I blame scones.”

“I blame you.”

“Me? I’ve been in Yorkshire all these months, unable to feed you a single biscuit or other sweet treat.”

“You just have Freya help you mail them to me. In large boxes. Which are much appreciated but still . . .” I lay my hands on my bulging stomach. “Even those treats are not responsible for this. Now set me down—”

“Too late.”

He takes a step down the stairs. I shake my head and go very still, which isn’t necessary

The Victorian country lord’s lifestyle is active enough. Add an insistence on doing one’s own property work, and the result is a man who has little difficulty carrying his not-small-even-when-not-pregnant wife down the stairs.

When we reach the bottom, he turns me around again, so I can’t see where we’re going. I don’t miss the kissing ball over the next doorway either, though he pretends not to see it.

“May I walk now?” I say.

“Certainly not. It’s pitch black and freezing, and I fear the cats have eaten our supper.”

“So I’m imagining the candlelight?”

“You must be.”

“And the crackle and heat of a blazing fire? The smell of a hot meal?”

He frowns down at me. “You didn’t catch a fever in that airplane, did you? You appear to be suffering from the most dreadful hallucination.”

“Including the smell of a pine tree?”

“Indoors? Dear lord, who would do such a thing?”

He takes another step and then pauses, his foot moving something that swishes over the carpet. I twist to see a brown-paper wrapped box with a bow on top.

“That’s not a gift, right?” I say.

“Certainly not. Someone has dropped a parcel on the floor.”

My gaze drifts over a pile of boxes. “Quite a few parcels, apparently.”

He sighs. “I cannot keep up with the post. Boxes upon boxes of saddle soap and shoe polish. Thank goodness you’ve finally arrived to tidy up after me.”

He deposits me on the sofa, and finally moves aside for me to see the room.

I gasp. I can’t help it. Yes, after seeing the kissing balls, I suspected he’d done a bit of decorating. Yet this is beyond anything I imagined.

There’s a magic to Victorian Christmases, even if it’s just our twenty-first century fantasy version, one that didn’t actually exist outside a few very wealthy Victorian homes. The appeal for us is the simplicity of the decorations and the emphasis on nature. Brown-paper parcels with bright scarlet bows. A real tree, smelling of pine and blazing with candles. Wreathes and holly and ivy and mistletoe, none of them mass produced in plastic. It’s a homemade, homespun Christmas.

That is what I see here. The fantasy, as if William pored over modern representations of that Victorian dream and brought it to life.

Brown-paper gifts piled under the tree, each wrapped in bright, curling ribbon. Evergreen boughs woven and draped across the mantel. Victorian holiday cards tucked into the boughs. Sprigs of holly scattered over every surface.

The tree stretches to the high ceiling, and the sharp scent of pine cuts through the perfume of the roaring fire. The tree is bedecked in red bows and ribbons. No candles—such a fire hazard—but hand-blown representations of them instead. The reflection of the roaring fire makes the glass candles dance, as if they’re alight themselves.

When I rise and step closer to the tree, I see pine cones sprayed silver and what looks like silver-wrapped balls, each no bigger than a nickel. William pulls one from the tree and unwraps it to reveal a spun-sugar candy.

He holds it front of my mouth, and I inhale the sweet smell of peppermint.

“It’s a bit early in the century for candy canes,” he says. “I’d hate to accidentally invent them, so I’m hoping these are an adequate substitute.”

I open my mouth to speak, and he pops the candy inside before I can. I laugh and let it melt on my tongue.

“It will do then?” he says, waving at the room.

Tears prickle at my eyes. “It’s . . . it’s . . .”

“Serviceable? Good.

Now I presume you’d like some supper.”

I catch the front of his sweater. “I can think of something I’d like better.”

His brows rise. “Better than sustenance for our unborn child?”

“I ate a scone. The baby’s fine.”

“Well, then . . .” He lowers himself to me. “I suppose that cold supper can’t get any colder.”

“And I don’t care if it does.”

Dinner is not a cold supper. It’s only slightly cool by the time we get to it. Mrs. Shaw knows her employer well enough to leave it in the oven, keeping warm until he finally gets around to eating.

Mrs. Shaw lives in the village, spending semi-retirement with her daughter and grandchildren. Yes, having Lord Thorne alone in his manor house, with only a live-out housekeeper and occasional stable boy is dreadfully shocking, but as I said, the people of High Thornesbury are accustomed to eccentric lords. I’m sure there are plenty of whispers about the fact that his new bride spends so much time in London—while she’s pregnant, no less—but an excuse about an invalid relative needing care has been deemed acceptable enough.

So we have the house to ourselves, which is good, considering that William is currently walking out of the kitchen naked, ferrying plates of food in to me, as I lie in front of the fire in an equal state of undress.

It’s a veritable feast. Holiday food, to go with the ambiance. There’s mincemeat pie, which still contains actual meat in this time period. Plum pudding is served with the meal, being considered more of a solid chutney than a dessert. To drink, there is a peach punch. Victorians love their punch, and being able to make it with out-of-season fruit is the mark of a cook—or housekeeper—who has mastered the art of canning.

The last dish is a tiny plate of sugarplums. William holds one to my lips as he stretches out beside me.

“Dessert before I’m finished dinner?” I say.

“Oh, I apologize. 

You aren’t done yet? You do look very full.” His gaze drops to my belly.

I groan. “You’re going to keep doing that, aren’t you?”

“I must. Freya bought me a book on twenty-first century fatherhood, and it included something called ‘Dad jokes,’ which it defined as repeating a vaguely funny witticism ad nauseam. I’m practicing.”

I roll my eyes and stretch onto my back, taking the sugarplum with me. As a child, I always thought sugarplums were, well, sugar-coated plums. There are no plums involved, just lots and lots of sugar, this particular one having an anise seed at the middle, rather like a jawbreaker.

As I enjoy the comfit, William runs a hand over my belly. I look down to see his face glowing in the candle light.

“Bigger than when you saw me in October?” I say.

“Wonderfully bigger.” He leans down to kiss my stomach. “You look well and truly pregnant now.”

He’s moving up beside me when he stops short, his hand on my belly.

“Was that a kick?” he asks.

“Probably food digesting. I was a bit hungry.”

I feel a tell-tale twitch inside me and glance down to see something briefly protrude from my stomach.

“Nope,” I say. “That’s definitely a kick.”

William grins and spends the next few minutes watching my stomach as our baby wriggles and kicks.

“A dancer,” he says. “Like her mother.”

I snort. “About as graceful as her mother, too.”

I finish a second sugarplum and then stretch a hand over my head, fingers brushing a brown-paper parcel wrapped with scarlet ribbon.

William lifts it out of my reach. “None of that.”

As he moves it, the tag—cut from a Christmas card—dangles low enough for me to read. I blink and then sit up, catching the tag to double check the writing.

“To William, with love from Bronwyn?” I say. “Uh, this isn’t from me.”

He frowns. “Are you sure?”

“Positive. Freya is under strict orders not to release your gifts to anyone but me. I also didn’t wrap them in brown paper.”

“How strange. I wonder what it could be, then?”

“One way to find out.” I reach for the box, but he whisks it away.

“Uh-uh,” he says. “You have made the rules very clear. We do not open gifts before Christmas. Possibly Christmas eve, if I have my way, but no sooner.”

“I’m the giver of that one, not the recipient. I want to see what I got you.”

“It’s a surprise.”

I thump back onto the pillow-strewn carpet. “You are ridiculous.”

“Insults will not earn you more gifts.”

I look at the towering pile. “I don’t think I need more.”

“They aren’t all for you.”

I crawl over and plunk down beside the stack to begin reading tags. “For me, for me, for me, for . . . Will Jr? Hoping for a male heir, I take it?”

“Certainly not. I picked a name suitable for either sex.”

“We’re going to call our daughter William?”

“Willa. Will for short.”

“Which won’t be confusing at all.”

He crawls over to sit beside me. “I would love to choose a proper name, ...