Snippets

Please note your character can overhear things happening in snippets, unless it's specifically stated that no one else is around. I’d also love to add that despite how well you might be hidden, you face the consequences of being discovered. But, you might also be inclined to overhear something without being sure if you know who said it.

However, I do encourage occasional risk, as long as we know that things might happen.

The point, I guess, is to have some fun with it.

December 24th, early morning, the Old Stone Folly, Robin & Miles (finally)

A couple of winters past, earlier in the month than this, when the air still held promise rather than mourning, and Thomas yet lived, hale and untroubled, Robin Monteil had last made his way through the snow toward the old stone house, his purpose then far lighter than the one which carried him there now. Snow fell again today, soft and relentless, muffling the world until it appeared all but erased, swallowed by a vast and reverent white. And yet, through the stillness, he heard it: the unmistakable neigh of another horse somewhere behind the house.

The scene before him was precisely what he had anticipated, and yet, in some indefinable way, not at all.

Miles Seymour stood beside his mount, gloved hand resting at the reins. When he turned, there was a smile upon his face, somewhat practised, perhaps, or born of habit, appearing almost without his consent as Robin drew to a halt and dismounted.

“I wish our meeting could have been arranged somewhere warmer,” he began, the smile lingering still. “But alas, warmth generally implies—”

“Ears. Eyes,” Robin finished with a nod. There followed a brief, delicate pause. “I wish we might have done this sooner.”

“I had fully intended to arrive a day earlier,” Miles said, “but my mother—”

“It is quite all right,” Robin replied gently. “Everything occurs precisely when it ought to.” The words rang true enough until their implications settled heavily between them.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet me,” Miles continued, a curious sensation passing through him. Relief, certainly, but also something more unsettling, a quiet overwhelm he could not quite name.

“I believe it was long overdue,” Robin said, his tone steady, reassuring. Something within it eased Miles at once, and he found himself smiling in return. “Shall we continue on? Walking, perhaps.”

“Further into the forest?”

“It is still early,” Robin replied, “and I suspect we have rather a great deal to discuss.”

Indeed, they were not the only ones engaged in conversation that morning.

An hour later, as they returned their horses to the stables side by side, passing a party of young gentlemen riding out into the snowy dawn, their shared presence became the season’s first murmur, an almost imperceptible hint of what might yet ripen into scandal.

Those fortunate enough (or indiscreet enough) to glimpse Mr Monteil and Lord Seymour from the drawing-room windows overlooking the stables might have remarked upon the exchanged smiles, fleeting but unmistakably bright. Others, lingering within the Grand Entrance Hall, may have attempted, quite unsuccessfully, to overhear a word of their discourse. Whatever the subject, it appeared most agreeable, for both men wore the unmistakable countenance of those thoroughly enjoying themselves.

And in the end, those counted among the friends of either gentleman would later hear it said that matters concluded most satisfactorily on Christmas Eve, though, as any astute observer might suspect, they were only just beginning.

December 25th, morning, heading from Church, Alaric x Leone

From his earliest boyhood, Alaric had found religion an exercise in polite bewilderment. Long before his inclination toward science declared itself, indeed, before he was old enough to articulate the thought, he could not reconcile the notion of a singular man seated comfortably upon a cloud, somewhere above the heavens, who found both the time and the inclination to monitor the conduct of every soul upon the earth, much less tally their merits as though life were a ledger to be balanced.

As he grew older and permitted himself the luxury of reflection, the matter did not improve. On the contrary, it grew increasingly illogical until his private contemplations hardened into opinions that, if spoken aloud, might be labelled, without exaggeration, heresy.

Heresy, Alaric knew, was not an ornament one wished affixed to one’s name.

Thus, even now, he made appearances at church whenever social obligation demanded it, attributing his otherwise conspicuous absence to the tireless claims of work. It was a convenient excuse, and one few felt inclined to challenge.

“Did you find the service agreeable, Mr Jaxley?”

Alaric inclined his head, arranging his most convincing smile upon his features. “Quite,” he replied smoothly. “Remarkably lively, in fact, so many unfamiliar faces in attendance.” He paused, turning the question with practised courtesy. “And yourself? I imagine this must be your first service since arriving in England?”

“Indeed it is,” Leone answered. “Though devotion is hardly lacking in my homeland, our clergy occasionally leaves one… wanting.”

Alaric permitted himself a small, knowing smile. “You need not trouble yourself to catalogue Rome’s failings to an Englishman,” he said lightly. “Even during my studies, we examined at length the admirable deeds of the Roman Church, though, regrettably, the missteps proved far more numerous.”

“And those missteps,” Leone ventured, “were they not the seeds of division?”

“They may well have been,” Alaric replied. “Yet the law, my lord, is a matter of reason and order. Religion, I fear, is seldom governed by either.”

“Perhaps that is its nature,” Leone mused. “Do you believe so?”

“I do,” Alaric said without hesitation. “And though I would never deny that the Church has accomplished good—”

“On a grand scale?”

“—I was not fashioned to observe the world only from such heights,” Alaric interrupted gently. “What place I occupy has been earned through my own efforts. Still, it would be dishonest to pretend there were no moments when our parish eased the path.”

As they reached the Rosewood doors, Leone smiled. “What I hear,” he said mildly, “is that you place greater faith in men than in heaven.”

“One might say that,” Alaric agreed. “Yet one might also observe that the Church is made of people, and people, in turn, are the Church.” He shrugged faintly. “Who, then, is to insist upon the distinction?”

December 26th, afternoon, Morning Room, Margot & Julian

Please note that you cannot be present for this snippet.

A year ago, perhaps a year and a season, for time had a way of rearranging itself when one was miserable, Julian would have flourished in a house where doors were never shut, and one could not cross a corridor without being intercepted by conversation. He had worn society like an easy coat, shrugged it on and off at will, and laughed at those who found it heavy.

Now he welcomed solitude as though it were a penance he had earned.

He had always fancied himself above the ton’s pressure, above the petty cruelties and grander injustices it dealt with such pretty gloves. He believed he could slip free of its shackles, as a man of sense and will ought to do. And yet his mind, a traitorous thing, returned, again and again, to Sophie. To what he might have seen sooner, what he might have said louder, what he might have done.

His brother lay in the ground as well, though the circumstances were simpler in their brutality. War had taken him, as war so often did: with noise, with drums, with the world’s permission to call it honour. Sophie, however, had been taken by a slower violence. A lifetime of quiet. A lifetime of being told to swallow the truth until it choked her.

It made no sense at all that he could find reason in the one death, and none in the other.

“Your thoughts are dragging clouds above us,” Margot said, stepping into the room with the air of a woman who meant to accuse him of precisely what she herself was doing.

Julian did not look up at once. “Are they clashing with yours?”

“I keep mine bottled,” she replied, as though this were a virtue. She opened the door wider; a maid slipped in behind her and placed a tray between them. Tea for two, as if the world could be steadied by porcelain and habit.

Margot did not sit until the maid had gone and the door had been closed again, firmly, like a decision. “Make a note,” she added, voice crisp, “that no one is to disturb me while I work.”

Julian turned only as she settled opposite him.

“Are they even aware of what you—”

“Why would they be?” Margot’s question landed like a curse, sharp, tired, and edged with disbelief, as though he had proposed parading grief through the streets for inspection.

She poured the tea with careful hands. The scent of it warmed the air; a drop of milk fell into each cup like a small surrender. Margot closed her eyes, an indulgence she had not allowed herself in more than a fortnight, and for the first time since Sophie’s passing, she let memory take her willingly.

Vienna returned in a rush of cold mornings and familiar rituals. The morning Sophie died, Margot had been downstairs making tea for the second time, because Sophie liked it that way in winter, liked the comfort of repetition. Tea, biscuits, jam spread thickly over sliced toast: a little English stubbornness that no one in Vienna quite understood, and that made them both laugh. It had been theirs.

Sophie had missed home. She had missed her brothers, her mother, and on the darkest days even her father - the same father, the one who had banished her the moment he found the letters and understood what they meant.

“You are blessed,” Sophie used to tell Margot, half in jest, half in envy. “You never knew a family close enough to haunt you.” She spoke as though nostalgia were a gentle thing. Margot, especially toward the end, had never had the heart to say that love was not love when it arrived with conditions, nor that Sophie’s “good days” had been good only because Sophie had hidden herself away to earn them.

“Perhaps,” Julian said now, pulling her back to Rosewood, “it is because you once spoke so highly of being true to yourself.”

Margot’s eyes opened. “Weren’t we all, in Vienna?”

He nodded. He had been, long before she and Sophie had come to him, long before the scandal, long before the exile, long before Sophie’s name became something the family spoke only in lowered voices.

“Rosewood is not Vienna,” he said quietly. “Despite Evelina. Despite Thomas.”

That much was true. Evelina and Thomas had built themselves a partnership when the world expected a cage: married on paper, free in every way that mattered, turning Rosewood into a sanctuary disguised as respectability. An illegitimate daughter raised under the mistress’s roof; a mistress who did not produce an heir; a household that welcomed travellers, thinkers, and those who refused to live by the ton’s narrow script. A married woman who went where she pleased and returned as she pleased, always with her husband’s name as a shield, and her own will as a sword.

When Sophie first fled, Evelina and Thomas had opened their London home without question. Later, they sent what was needed to Vienna, money, arrangements, protection, because who Sophie was mattered more to them than who she loved.

“There are rumours,” Margot said at last, as if tossing a pebble into still water to see what it disturbed.

Julian’s mouth tightened. “About what?”

“Your departure.”

“I have made no plans,” he admitted. “Fabrications.”

“Shame,” Margot said, and there - there was the smallest crack in her composure. “I would have loved to come with.”

Julian’s gaze lifted sharply. The room, for a moment, felt too small for the truth in it.

“Then perhaps,” he said, and his voice softened into something dangerous in its gentleness, “my plans can change.”

He reached for her hand and drew it into his. To any passer-by, any footman with an errand, any gossip hungry for a shape to hang a story upon, it might have looked like romance.

But Julian and Margot knew better.

There were bonds closer than flirtation, closer even than desire: the fierce connection of two people who had loved the same person, profoundly, and had been left behind when she was taken too soon.

December 29th, Orchard, Sebastian & Arabella

They meet at the orchard, where he politely explains the tradition that is to come, singing to the fruit trees, and the comparison is rather on the nose - how all living things thrive with love.

January 1st, Winter Garden, Ginny & Countess

Evelina knows Ginny is up to something, and warns her that the path she is to take is not the safest one, but she does not discourage her. At all.

January 5th, Lake, Ellie & Constantine

Flirting, uncertainty, how dependent she is on this season, while he can go along and do whatever he wishes after it.

I promise to try to finish these, but I am swamped by endless tasks and while ideas are here, the execution keeps coming out flat. I added the description for the last three, but I will do my best to make them in the end.

Last edited by Zaralee (Yesterday at 22:26)

Grace is my weapon, ambition my victory.

Name: Lady Bianca Cattaneo

FC: Deva Cassel (as Angelica Sedara)

Age: 24; 12th September

Traits:

Vain and unapologetically arrogant, convinced she deserves admiration. Spoiled by comfort and used to getting her way. Fiercely ambitious, always reaching for more. Takes freely, but rarely gives anything in return. Boldly confident, with sharp intelligence to back it up. Subtle in her manipulation, preferring whispered influence over open force. Proud to a fault, too stubborn to admit weakness or wrongdoing. Charismatic and captivating, able to charm anyone she chooses. Seduction delivered as art: poised glances, velvet laughter, promises unsaid. Social and energetic, though she periodically craves solitude. Chooses her circle carefully; only the exceptional earn a place near her. Possessive, easily jealous, and reluctant to share what she claims as "hers". Impulsive in pursuit of what she wants, driven by passion and instinct. Cunning and strategic, always looking for an advantage.

Personality:

Bianca is a striking mix of elegance, confidence, and calculated ambition. She carries herself with an air of effortless superiority, fully convinced that admiration is her due. Raised in comfort and accustomed to indulgence, she moves through the world expecting doors to open... and they usually do.

Driven by fierce ambition, Bianca is always reaching for the next height, rarely satisfied with what she already holds. Her intelligence is razor-sharp, and she wields it with subtlety... manipulation delivered through soft words, suggestive silences, and well-placed influence rather than open conflict.

Charismatic and captivating, she knows how to turn attention into a weapon. Seduction is something Bianca practices like an art form... measured glances, velvet laughter, promises she never needs to speak aloud.

Despite her social energy, she protects her inner world. She selects her circle with care, allowing only the exceptional to stand close. And once Bianca claims something - or someone - she becomes deeply possessive, quick to jealousy and reluctant to share.

While outwardly poised, Bianca is ruled by impulses when her desires ignite. Her passions drive her into bold, sometimes reckless pursuits. Yet beneath every action lies a mind that is strategic and cunning, constantly scanning for advantage.

Pride anchors her, for better or worse. She refuses to show weakness, apologise, or bend once she has taken a stance. But that same pride fuels a magnetic presence... one that can enthral, intimidate, or inspire, depending on how she chooses to wield it.

History:

Born as the youngest child of Ercole and Laura Cattaneo, her childhood was a warm, sun-lit chapter spent in the family’s estate in the Lombardy, far from the harsher intrigues of court life. With a spirited temperament and wide, curious eyes, she quickly attached herself to her older brother, Leone, trailing after him through gardens, corridors, and lessons alike. In those early years, before Leone grew occupied with the responsibilities of becoming the next Duke of Mantua, the siblings were nearly inseparable... Bianca his shadow, and he her first great hero.

Her tutors discovered early that Bianca possessed a talent for languages... she mastered English, French and even the delicate complexities of Greek. But unlike many young noblewomen, she excelled in none of the musical accomplishments expected of her. Singing, instruments, even simple melodies... none suited her ear or her temperament. Her teachers eventually learned that no amount of patience or guidance could make music take root in her; it was the only art that refused her entirely.

Instead, she found her devotion elsewhere..  poetry and art, in which she felt truly alive and where her imagination flourished without constraint. She spent hours at her desk or in the gardens with charcoal in hand, far happier with a quill or brush than she ever was before a pianoforte. Sketchbooks and ink-stained fingers became her constant companions throughout childhood, and as she blossomed into a young lady, she would lose herself for hours—sometimes entire nights—in her small studio, refusing to step away until she had coaxed her imagination onto the canvas.

Bianca’s world remained largely centered around the Cattaneo family home, a place of familiar rhythms and quiet privileges. Unlike other noble young ladies, who were whisked through courts and salons, she grew up mostly sheltered from the wider world. Only on rare occasions did she travel, accompanying her mother on visits to distant relatives or brief stays in Italian society. These journeys were enchanting to her... fleeting glimpses of a broader stage she longed to step onto, yet never fully reached.

As she grew into young womanhood, Bianca retained the blend of refinement, curiosity, and restless ambition that had defined her since childhood. Though her upbringing had been comfortable and carefully curated, she carried within her a spark... an eagerness for admiration, achievement, and the freedom to shape her own destiny. And beneath the polished manners expected of a noble daughter, there remained the girl who once ran after her brother through sun-drenched halls, dreaming of something more.

Bianca had long been promised to Alessandro Gonzaga, heir to the Duchy of Monferrat... a match arranged when she was still a girl, more political than personal. Yet since her twenty-first birthday, the agreement has lingered in silence. No formal negotiations, no official letters, no mention of a wedding date. The promise still exists in name, but its future grows increasingly uncertain… and Bianca is left to wonder whether she has been forgotten, dismissed, or intentionally kept waiting.

When an unexpected invitation arrived from her distant cousin, Evelina Adair, asking her to spend Yuletide at Rosewood Hall in England, Bianca accepted without a moment's hesitation. The prospect of travelling beyond Italy thrilled her: England's winter festivities, its manners, its courtly intrigues... everything promised novelty and delight. Though the visit was meant to last only through the holidays, Bianca quietly hoped for more. She longed to linger, to observe English society, and to experience for herself the world she had only encountered in books and whispered conversations. The journey felt like the beginning of something... an opening chapter rather than a simple holiday.

Relationships:

Brother — Leone Cattaneo:
Leone’s protectiveness can be both comforting and exasperating, yet Bianca treasures him all the same. Their bond is undeniably strong, though she keeps certain parts of her life veiled from him, knowing he would fret - or interfere - more than she prefers.

Cousin, twice removed — Evelina Adair:
Bianca has only met Evelina a handful of times, yet she has always found her irresistibly intriguing. So when an invitation to spend Yuletide at Rosewood Hall arrived, Bianca accepted at once, eager for the change of scenery... and the promise of Evelina’s company.

Parents — Ercole and Laura Cattaneo:
Her relationship with her parents is a complex one. She loves them deeply, but she has grown weary of the weight of their expectations and the demands they place upon her. Their affection is unquestionable...  yet often stifling.

Reason for being at Rosewood Hall: Visiting for Yuletide with the idea of staying a bit longer. Bianca is quite curious to learn more about England, and the thought of staying for the season is tempting.

Trivia:
While she speaks English fluently, she tends to slip into Italian during conversations. Loves art and poetry but has no musical talent. Loves to wear dark colours. She never finishes a sketchbook. Bianca sketches people when they aren't looking... keeping the sketchbook hidden between volumes of Italian poetry.

Interests: Robin (romantic), Constantine (flirty & playful), Miles (playful friends)
Activities:
❄︎ December 24 - Christmas Eve
❄︎ Tree trimming - Ballroom tree
❄︎ Yule Feast

❄︎ December 25 - Christmas Dinner
❄︎ Gift giving to Leone (leather-bound notebook) , Robin (a pair of leather gloves with a small flourish embroidery), Miles (a deck of fine playing cards), Constantine (a pair of cufflinks) and Countess Adair (a delicate hand-painted fan)


❄︎ December 31 - New Years Eve Masque Ball

❄︎ January 1st - Small token exchange
❄︎ Leone (a leather bookmark), Robin (a pressed flower in a book), Miles (a token “for a future wager”), Constantine (a ribbon tied to a playful remark) and Countess Adair (a small posy tied with silk ribbon)

❄︎ January 5th - Ice Skating


Cred to Nina

The Yule Festivities

Christmas morning, soft with quiet joy

The late-morning air carried the crisp bite of deep winter, but Bianca welcomed it. After the warmth and hum of the hall, stepping outside felt like letting her thoughts stretch. Frost glittered across the grounds, catching the sinking sun in quiet flashes as she wandered along the path toward the little rise overlooking the paddocks.

A distant rhythm broke the stillness... hooves drumming over packed snow.

She slowed, shading her eyes just as a dark bay horse swept into view, its breath clouding like smoke. And there he was... Robin, leaned slightly forward in the saddle, entirely at ease, the picture of controlled speed and something dangerously free beneath it.

The grin that crossed his face was immediate, bright, unmistakably pleased.

With a pull on the reins, he guided the horse into a slowed trot, then an easy walk, drawing nearer until he was just a few steps away. "Lady Cattaneo." His tone carried amusement, as though he’d found something delightful without even trying. "I hadn’t realized Rosewood employed such enchanting landmarks along its paths."

She raised a brow, unable to keep the smile from tugging at her lips. "If you start calling me part of the scenery, I may take offense."

"Oh?" His gaze dipped, warm and too knowing. "Then allow me to clarify... I meant you are the sort of sight that makes a man slow his horse without thinking."

Bianca felt the faintest flush rise to her cheeks, though she disguised it with a light scoff. "Flattery so soon after nearly riding me down? Bold."

"My aim was excellent," he countered, laughing softly. "I stopped precisely where I meant to."

"Convenient," Bianca murmured. "Had you missed by even a foot, my brother would have had your head."

"Then I’m fortunate I was highly motivated to stay on course."

She folded her arms, teasing. "Motivated?"

Robin leaned slightly in the saddle, lowering his voice just enough. "Well… you were here."

Her breath caught... just for a heartbeat—before she forced an airy tone. "You’re in an awfully good mood today."

"Fresh air. A fast horse." He tilted his head, eyes lingering on her with that slow, deliberate ease of his. "And unexpected company."

Bianca looked up at him, amused and helplessly charmed despite herself. "You do realize you’re insufferable when you’re this pleased with yourself?"

"Entirely," he replied. "But I’m happy to suffer your company if you’ll walk with me a moment."

She nodded toward the path ahead. "At your horse’s pace, or yours?"

"Whichever keeps you beside me longer."

Bianca shook her head, smiling as she began walking, Robin nudging his horse forward so he moved along with her... close enough that she felt the warmth of his presence even from the saddle. The fading sunlight cast everything in gold, and the quiet between them felt… comfortable.

She glanced up. "You were riding quite fast before. Practicing anything in particular?"

Robin flashed another grin... quick, rakish. "Trying to outrun a thought."

"Oh?" Bianca asked lightly. "Did it catch you?"

Robin’s gaze flicked to hers, softening for a moment. "I think it just did."

Her heart skipped... far too noticeable for her liking.

She looked ahead again, breath curling in the cold air. "Well… I hope it wasn’t a terrible one."

"No," Robin said, voice low and sincere. "Not terrible at all."

They continued along the frosted path, his horse’s slow, steady steps crunching softly beside hers.

After a few moments, he exhaled as if making a decision. "Hold a moment," he said, drawing the reins in gently.

Bianca paused as he brought the horse to a stop. Without a word, he swung one leg over and slipped down from the saddle with easy grace, boots landing in the snow. He ran a hand along the horse’s neck before guiding it to follow behind them on foot.

Bianca arched a brow, amused. "Decided riding wasn’t efficient enough a way to bother me?"

Robin shot her an indignant look... or tried to. The amusement tugging at his mouth ruined it. "I thought I’d spare the poor creature from trying to keep up with my charm."

"Your charm?" She laughed softly. "Your confidence truly knows no bounds."

He stepped closer... not too close, but close enough that she felt his presence like a warmth against the cold. "Confidence is simply truth spoken plainly," he said.

Bianca fixed him with a look. "Oh, I see. And what great truth are you speaking now?"

"That you…" He hesitated, only a fraction, but enough to prove he did not choose the next words lightly. "Have a way of making winter feel less… empty."

Her breath caught, subtle but undeniable. She looked away toward the frost-covered hedges as they resumed walking, partly to hide her smile, partly to steady herself. "You say things no one else does."

"I’ve noticed," he said with a hum of amusement. "Most people prefer safer words."

"And you don’t?"

Robin shook his head, glancing at her. "Not with you."

The air between them shifted... just slightly, just enough for her pulse to pick up. She tucked her hands into her muff, gathering herself.

"Is that why you dismounted?" Bianca asked lightly, trying to tip the balance back toward teasing. "So you could deliver more… unsafely honest statements?"

"Partly." His tone dipped, teasing yet threaded with truth. "And partly because it felt wrong to be above you."

Bianca blinked at him, taken aback in the most inconvenient, fluttering way. "Above me?"

Robin gestured vaguely to the saddle. "Looking down at you while you looked up. It didn’t feel like…" He paused, searching for the right word. "A conversation."

Slowly, she nodded... surprised at how thoughtful, how earnest the explanation was. "You’re full of unexpected notions today."

"I have more," Robin warned.

"Should I be concerned?"

A grin curved across his face. "Possibly. I am, after all, a man walking beside a woman... very tempted to keep being distracted."

She shot him a sidelong look. "Distracted from what?"

"Everything else."

Warmth pooled in her chest... dangerous, dizzying. She inhaled quietly, the cold air sharp in her lungs. "You’re in quite the mood," she managed.

Robin met her gaze, eyes bright with something playful and something deeper beneath it. "Maybe it’s the company."

Bianca looked away, unable to fight the shy, almost disbelieving smile that tugged at her lips. "Careful," she murmured. "If you speak like this too often, I might begin to expect it."

"Then I will simply have to exceed expectations," he said, as though that were the easiest promise in the world.

They walked slowly, as though neither wished to reach the end of the path too soon. Frosted branches arched overhead, catching the last threads of sunlight, turning everything around them faintly golden.

Robin nudged a small stone aside with the tip of his boot. "You’re quiet," he observed, though not accusingly... more like he was studying her with that attentive curiosity he rarely let people notice.

Bianca glanced up. "Am I?"

"Mm." His mouth tilted. "Not unhappily quiet. Thoughtfully quiet."

"Is that something you can read so easily?" she teased.

"Yes," he said simply. "At least when it comes to you."

Her pulse fluttered... because he said it without charm, without theatrics, and somehow that made it far more dangerous.

Bianca cleared her throat lightly. "I was only thinking… it’s unusual to find you out here alone. You’re often surrounded by someone."

"Someone or many someones," he admitted with a dramatic sigh. "Imagine my shock... a moment of solitude. Utterly dreadful."

She laughed beneath her breath. "You jest, but I suspect you enjoy it more than you admit."

He paused, then gave a half-smile that didn’t quite reach mischief. "Perhaps. It depends who I end up finding in that solitude."

Heat warmed her cheeks again... she hoped the cold would mask it.

Before she could answer, he added softly, "I like you better like this."

Bianca blinked. "Like what?"

"In the quiet." He kicked another stray pebble. "When you’re not surrounded. When you aren’t performing for anyone... not even yourself."

She swallowed. "I don’t perform."

He gave her a very gentle, very knowing look. "Everyone does. Including me."

Bianca looked down at the snow beneath her boots. "And what am I performing?"

"A woman who has everything neatly in hand," he said. Not critical... almost fond. "When in truth, you feel far more than you pretend to."

Her breath hitched, surprised he could see her so clearly. She stopped walking, just for a moment, turning toward him. Robin stopped too, the horse behind him letting out a soft huff.

"And what about you?" she asked softly. "What do you pretend?"

A flicker passed through his eyes... something honest, unguarded, startling in its vulnerability.

"That I don’t mind when things matter," he said.

The words landed between them... heavy, delicate, dangerous.

He looked down at the snow beneath his boots, then back at her, earnest now, the playfulness of earlier replaced by a rare sincerity. "Do you ever wonder," he asked softly, "what we might have been if we’d taken different paths? If we’d… spoken sooner, acted differently?"

Bianca’s fingers tightened around her muff. "Often," she admitted. "I think about the chances I didn’t take. The words I didn’t say. Moments I let slip by."

Robin’s gaze softened. "I do too. And yet… I find myself here. Walking with you. And somehow, that makes me feel like some things… were meant to be found in their own time."

Her heart skipped, the warmth of his words curling around her in a way that no teasing could. "I’ve never… I mean, I don’t usually talk like this with anyone," she confessed, her voice quiet, almost hesitant.

"I know," Robin said, voice low. "That’s why I value it. Why I wanted this moment." He hesitated, letting the silence stretch comfortably, as if giving her space to absorb what was being said.

For a heartbeat, neither moved. The winter air suddenly felt warmer, thinner, too full of something she didn’t dare name.

Bianca looked away first, gathering herself. "We should head back," she murmured.

"Yes," Robin said... though his tone carried the faintest resistance, a reluctance to break the connection they had just shared.

They resumed walking, slower than before, as though both were aware the moment was slipping from them.

When the path curved and the roofs of Rosewood Hall came into view, Robin exhaled quietly. "Lady Cattaneo."

She looked up.

He hesitated... not long, but long enough that she felt the weight of whatever he wasn’t saying. His gaze held hers, warm and unreadable all at once.

"When we walk like this…" He searched for the rest of the sentence, then abandoned it with a faint huff of laughter. "Never mind."

Bianca stepped a little closer, her voice gentler. "Mr Monteil."

He met her eyes again... for a moment too brief and too charged.

"…Another time," he said softly. But his tone made it clear there would be another time, or he would find one.

She felt it... the pull, the ache of something just out of reach.

"Good morning, then," Bianca murmured.

"Not nearly as good as it was a moment ago, he replied under his breath... almost playful, but not entirely.

They exchanged a final lingering look... the kind that held far more than words before she turned toward the hall and he toward the stables.


Bianca closed the door to her room and leaned against it for a moment, the warmth of the fire doing little to chase away the chill that had settled into her bones. Yet it wasn’t the cold that made her shiver. It was him.

Robin’s grin. His quiet, searching questions. The way he had looked at her, truly looked at her, in a way no one else seemed to bother with. And then the words — the ones that had slipped past the teasing, that had landed softly, almost dangerously, between them.

She paced a little, her gloves still in hand, and let herself replay their conversation. The flirty banter, the playful back-and-forth… and then the sudden shift, the honest talk about dreams, wishes, regrets. That rare, unguarded side of him had caught her entirely off-guard.

Her fingers tightened around the edge of her muff. Does everyone see this side of him? she wondered. Or am I the only one who gets these moments?

She sank into the chair by the window, watching the snow glint in the lamplight outside, and thought of how he had looked when he admitted the things he might have done differently, how he had spoken of her as if he could see through all the layers she usually kept carefully in place.

A small, reluctant smile tugged at her lips. Dangerous, she thought, utterly dangerous. And yet… thrilling.

Her mind lingered on the moment at the path’s curve, when they had parted... the hesitation in his voice, the way his eyes had held hers. The tension had been almost unbearable, a quiet promise that he would not let things stay so… paused.

She exhaled, a little sigh escaping her lips. "Why does he have to be so infuriating?" she whispered to the empty room, though it was more a question of herself than of him.

Pulling a shawl around her shoulders, she leaned back and closed her eyes, feeling that curious ache that came with desire unspoken, with words left hanging, with hearts slightly, tantalizingly exposed.

And beneath it all, an undeniable certainty settled in her chest... she would see him again.


❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎

The ballroom smelled faintly of pine and beeswax, the towering fir standing proud at its centre, its branches still bare and waiting. Crates of ornaments lay open around it... ribbons, gilded apples, glass baubles catching the candlelight. The trees, Bianca had heard, were a gift from Queen Charlotte herself, sent ahead of the festivities.

Bianca was fastening a strand of ribbon when a shadow fell beside her.

"I should warn you," Robin murmured, appearing at her shoulder with a small wooden box of ornaments, "I have very strong opinions on the correct placement of garlands."

She glanced up, amused. "How fortunate for the tree. It would hate to disappoint you."

He smiled, setting the box down. "It would be unkind of me not to intervene."

Bianca laughed softly and reached for a glass bauble he handed her. Their fingers brushed - brief, almost nothing - yet his hand lingered just long enough for her to notice before he stepped back.

Across the room, servants moved quietly, and a small group nearby debated whether silver or gold suited the branches better.

"You’ve done most of this already," Robin observed, studying the tree. "I feel as though I’m joining in far too late."

"I wanted to help," Bianca replied. "It seemed wrong to stand aside when something meant to be shared was taking shape."

He regarded her thoughtfully. "You like to be part of things. Not merely present."

She smiled at the accuracy. "I suppose I do."

She reached higher, stretching slightly to secure a ribbon near the middle branches. The step stool was just out of reach, and she wavered for a moment.

Without a word, Robin stepped in behind her and steadied the branch - and her elbow - with a careful hand. It was nothing improper, barely a touch, but the warmth of it travelled straight through her.

"Thank you," she murmured, not turning.

"Any time," he replied quietly, then added, lighter, "I would hate for the tree to claim its first casualty."

She laughed under her breath and tied the ribbon neatly before stepping aside. When she turned, she found him closer than before... not too close, but nearer than strictly necessary.

Robin handed her another ornament, a small gilded apple. "Do you think this one should be higher?"

"I think," Bianca said, considering, "it suits the middle. Something too precious shouldn’t be placed out of reach."

His gaze lingered on her a moment longer than the ornament required. "A sensible philosophy."

They moved around the tree slowly, adding decorations as they went. The quiet bustle around them continued - footsteps, soft laughter, the faint scrape of a chair being moved - a comforting hum of life.

Robin broke the silence. "Do you always enjoy things like this?"

"Moments where everyone is busy together?" Bianca asked. 'Yes. They feel… honest. No expectations, no performances."

He nodded slowly. "I understand that. It’s easier to speak plainly when your hands are occupied."

She glanced at him. "Is that why you’re here?"

"Perhaps," he admitted. "I find myself more candid than usual today."

She hesitated, then said softly, "I didn’t mind it. Earlier. When you were."

His smile softened... not playful now, but sincere. "Nor did I."

A voice nearby called for more ribbon, and Bianca turned briefly to answer, returning with another length of silk. As she passed it up to him, their hands met again... this time a little firmer, a little longer. Neither commented on it.

"You have good taste," Robin said as he looped the ribbon carefully. "The tree feels… balanced."

"So do our conversations," she replied, surprising herself.

He looked at her then, openly, warmly. "I was thinking the same."

For a moment, neither of them moved. Then Bianca reached for another ornament - a small glass star - simply to give her hands something to do.

"Well,' she said lightly, "it’s reassuring to know we agree on something."

Robin’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. "More than one thing, I suspect."

Bianca lifted the star toward a higher branch and hesitated. "Would you…?"

He stepped in without comment, holding the branch steady again. This time, she was very aware of how close he stood... close enough that her shoulder brushed his sleeve when she leaned forward. Not enough to draw notice, but enough that she felt it all the same.

"Careful," he murmured, just for her. "That one’s delicate."

"So am I," Bianca replied, a quiet tease, before glancing sideways at him.

His eyes met hers, amused... and something softer beneath it.

They moved on, circling the tree once more. Bianca handed him a ribbon, and as he took it, his fingers brushed the inside of her wrist. It was accidental, surely... and yet neither of them spoke.

"Do you think," he said after a moment, his tone casual but thoughtful, "that we’d talk like this if there weren’t something else to focus on?"

She considered that as she adjusted an ornament. "Perhaps not. Silence can be rather exposing."

"And yet," he said, casting her a brief sideways glance, "I find I don’t mind it in your company."

Her breath caught, just slightly. She answered without looking at him. "Neither do I."

A burst of laughter nearby broke the moment, and Bianca smiled to herself as she stepped back to assess their progress.

"The tree is nearly finished," she said.

"So it is," Robin agreed... though his gaze lingered on her a heartbeat longer than necessary before returning to the branches. "A pity."

She looked at him again, curious. "You don’t care for finished things?"

"I prefer them… ongoing." He smiled faintly. "They leave room for return."

Her lips curved in response, restrained but unmistakable. "I suppose some things are better left with a little room."

They stood side by side now, not quite touching, yet close enough that she could feel the warmth of him even through the layers of winter fabric. When she shifted her weight, their sleeves brushed... this time undeniably. Neither stepped away.

A servant approached to collect the empty box, and they both moved aside at once, exchanging a quick glance... shared, knowing.

Robin cleared his throat softly. "It seems we’ve done our part."

'Yes," Bianca said. "Though I rather enjoyed it."

"As did I," he replied. Then, lower, meant only for her, "More than I expected."

She met his eyes - just briefly - before someone called her name from across the room.

"I should go," Bianca said.

"Of course," Robin replied, polite again, composed.

As Bianca turned to join the others, Robin spoke again... low enough that only she could hear.

"Some things," he said gently, "are worth taking time over."

She glanced back once, just over her shoulder. Their eyes met.

Nothing more passed between them - no words, no gestures - but it was enough.
She paused for half a heartbeat, then continued on, the warmth of his words following her long after the lights of the ballroom faded... settling not in her ears, but somewhere deeper, where she knew she would return to it again and again.

Christmas Eve, hushed and glowing with promise

The long table glowed with candlelight, beeswax tapers casting a soft shimmer over silver and evergreen garlands. Voices rose and fell around them, laughter braided with the clink of cutlery, but Bianca and Leone had settled into their familiar pocket of quiet mischief at one end.

Leone leaned back in his chair, studying her plate. "You’ve rearranged that pheasant three times," he observed lightly. "If you’re hoping it will flee, I fear it’s already met its fate."

Bianca smiled despite herself. "I’m considering mercy," she replied. "It’s the season for it, after all."

"The season for pretending," Leone countered, reaching for the bread. "You’ve always preferred honesty. Which is why"—his tone softened—"you’ve gone rather quiet."

She paused, fingers stilling around her glass. For a heartbeat she considered deflecting, offering him something bright and effortless. Instead, Bianca exhaled. “m"It’s nothing new," she said, quietly. "The engagement. It sits there, Leone. Like a door I cannot open or close. I hate… not knowing. I hate feeling as though my life is being decided somewhere else."

Leone’s expression shifted, the teasing edge giving way to something steadier. "You are allowed to be tired of it," he said. “?"Even at a Yule feast."

Her gaze drifted then - only briefly - past the candles and faces, catching on Robin across the table, his profile half-lit, half-lost to shadow as he laughed at something said beside him. The sight tugged at something unnamed. Bianca looked back to her brother, schooling her expression.

"I know," she murmured. "I just wish wanting more did not feel like asking for too much."

Leone reached over, nudging her shoulder with his own. "You’ve never asked for too much," he said, with quiet certainty. "You’ve merely been patient longer than most."

Bianca tilted her head, offering him a small, grateful smile. "Careful," she said. "Say things like that and I might start believing you."

"Please do," Leone replied, lifting his glass. "Otherwise I’ll have to start delivering speeches, and no one wants that during supper."

Bianca laughed then - soft, genuine - and the candles seemed to burn a little warmer for it.

Bianca’s laughter faded into a quieter smile as she reached for her glass. "If you begin delivering speeches, I’ll claim it’s the wine and have you escorted out," she said lightly.

Leone scoffed. "Cruel. I defend your honour and this is my reward?"

"You defend your own peace," she corrected. "You simply prefer to pretend it’s about me."

Leone placed a hand over his heart in mock offense. "Untrue. Entirely untrue. I suffer greatly on your behalf."

She arched a brow. "Do you? Because you look remarkably comfortable for a man in distress."

Leone leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Years of practice. Besides, someone must remain composed while you brood dramatically beneath candlelight."

"Brood?" Bianca echoed. "I do not brood."

"You absolutely brood," Leone said, smiling. "You go quiet, your eyes wander, and suddenly the pheasant becomes your greatest adversary."

She huffed a laugh. "You make it sound terribly romantic."

"Everything looks romantic by candlelight," Leone replied. "Including existential dread."

That earned him a soft, genuine smile. Bianca toyed with the stem of her glass. “I suppose I’m afraid that if I stop being patient - if I push too hard - I’ll be punished for it."

Leone studied her then, more serious once again. "You are not difficult for wanting clarity," he said. "And you are certainly not wrong for wanting… choice."

Bianca’s gaze flicked briefly, almost unconsciously, back toward Robin - just long enough to notice the way he was listening rather than speaking now - before she returned to Leone. "Choice," she repeated. "It sounds indulgent when you say it like that."

"It sounds human," Leone countered. "And last I checked, you are still allowed to be that."

She smiled, softer this time. "You should stop being reasonable. It makes it harder to argue with you."

Leone grinned. "I’ll take that as my greatest triumph of the evening."

Bianca reached out, nudging his arm beneath the table. "Thank you," she said quietly.

"For what?"

"For reminding me I’m not invisible," she replied.

He nudged her back. "Never,” he said. “Not even if you try."

Leone watched her for a moment longer, the playful glint in his eyes dimming just enough to suggest he was no longer teasing. He turned his goblet slowly between his fingers. "And is that truly all?" he asked. "Or is the engagement merely the most convenient culprit?"

Bianca inhaled, then let the breath out in a quiet laugh. "You always do that," she said. "Circle until I trip over the truth myself."

"I prefer to think of it as giving you room to speak," Leons replied mildly.

She considered her words, gaze drifting once more across the table... not lingering, not searching, merely acknowledging. When she looked back at Leone, her expression was thoughtful, almost vulnerable. "There have been… conversations," she admitted. "Moments that made me realize how narrow my world has become. How much I’ve accepted simply because it was expected of me."

Leone nodded, encouraging but silent.

"It’s unsettling," she continued. "To suddenly see that things could be different. That I might want them to be." Her mouth curved wryly. "Perspective is a dangerous thing."

"It is," Leone agreed. "Once acquired, it has the unfortunate habit of staying."

She smiled at that. "I don’t regret it," she said quickly, as if surprised by her own certainty. "But it has made pretending harder. Smiling, agreeing, waiting. I feel as though I’ve been handed a glimpse of something… honest. And now I don’t know what to do with it."

Leone studied her face, then chuckled softly. "Well, that explains the melancholy," he said. "Nothing ruins complacency like sincerity."

Bianca laughed under her breath. "You make it sound terribly inconvenient."

'Oh, it is," he said cheerfully. "For everyone else."

She reached for another bite at last, shaking her head. "I haven’t done anything," she added, more quietly. "I only… listened. And felt seen."

Leone’s expression softened. "That can be enough," he said. "Enough to change the weather entirely."

Bianca met his gaze, warmth and uncertainty mingling in her eyes. "I suppose I’m afraid of what that says about me."

"That you are awake?" Leone offered. "Tragic indeed."

She smiled, nudging him again beneath the table. "You are impossible."

"And yet," Leone said, lifting his glass once more, "remarkably good company at a Yule feast."

Bianca lifted her own glass to meet his. "That," she said, "I will gladly accept."

❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎

The drawing room was alive with low conversation and movement, the afterglow of the Yule feast lingering in the warmth of firelight and mulled wine. Bianca drifted along the edge of it all, unhurried, letting the hum of voices pass over her as she traced the familiar patterns of the room.

That was when she noticed him.

Robin stood at a small table near the windows, sleeves loosened, posture relaxed but intent, surrounded by a loose circle of onlookers. Cards were laid out before him, coins and counters scattered in casual disorder. He was smiling—not broadly, not for show—but with that focused, private satisfaction she recognised now.

I love a good challenge, he had told her once. And I love winning.

She paused without quite meaning to.

He played with an easy confidence, fingers quick and precise, eyes sharp as he tracked every shift at the table. There was no hesitation in him, no false modesty... only attention, calculation, and the quiet pleasure of the game itself. When someone across from him attempted a bold move, Robin’s brow lifted just a fraction, as though amused rather than threatened.

Bianca felt warmth bloom low and unexpected, spreading through her chest.

He was exactly as he’d said he was.

A final card was turned. A brief silence followed... then groans, laughter, reluctant admiration. Robin leaned back slightly, victory settling around him as naturally as breath. He accepted it with a grin and a shrug, as though winning were simply the logical conclusion of having paid proper attention.

Bianca smiled to herself.

There was something deeply grounding in watching him like this... unapologetic, alive, utterly present. No performance, no careful restraint. Just him, enjoying the moment he’d earned.

As the small crowd shifted and reset for another round, Robin glanced up... and for a fleeting second, his gaze found hers across the room. The smile he gave then was slower, warmer, unmistakably shared.

The small crowd began to disperse, laughter trailing off as coins were gathered and the table cleared for the next hopeful challenger. Bianca lingered just long enough for the moment to settle - long enough to enjoy the easy confidence still radiating from him - before she stepped forward.

"Well," she said lightly, her voice cutting through the last murmurs, "I see you weren’t exaggerating."

Robin looked up, surprise flickering into recognition..  and then into something distinctly pleased. His smile curved, slow and unmistakably smug. "About which part?" he asked. "The winning, or the warning?"

Bianca glanced at the table, then back at him. "You told me not to challenge you unless I enjoyed losing," she said, folding her hands behind her back. "I’ve come to determine whether that was confidence… or fiction."

He laughed softly, pushing his chair back just enough to give her his full attention. "And?" he asked. "What’s your verdict so far?"

Bianca tilted her head, studying him with open curiosity. "You spoke the truth," she admitted. "Rather annoyingly so."

Robin’s eyes brightened. "Careful," he said. "That almost sounds like admiration."

"Don’t flatter yourself," Bianca replied, though her smile betrayed her. "I merely appreciate honesty. Especially when it’s earned."

He rose then, easy and unhurried, stepping closer in a way that felt deliberate without being presumptuous. "I did warn you," he said, lowering his voice just a touch. "I don’t lose often. And when I do, it’s usually because I chose the wrong opponent."

Her gaze held his. "And would I be the wrong one?"

Robin considered her for a beat, eyes warm, intrigued. "No," he said finally. "You’d be… interesting."

Bianca laughed softly. "That doesn’t sound reassuring."

"It’s meant to be tempting," Robin replied. "But you don’t strike me as someone who backs away once curiosity takes hold."

She glanced once more at the table, then back at him, eyes alight. "Perhaps," she said. "But I like knowing the odds before I sit down."

His grin widened. "Then stay,: he offered. "Watch a little longer. Or—" his gaze dipped briefly to her hand "—test your luck. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you."

Bianca met his smile, the warmth from earlier settling comfortably in her chest. "We’ll see," she said. "I may enjoy losing more than you think."

Robin pulled out a chair for her with an exaggerated flourish. "Very well," he said. "Since you insist on proving me right... or wrong."

Bianca arched a brow as she took her seat. "Do try not to look so relieved. I might yet surprise you."

"I hope you do," Robin replied easily, settling opposite her. "There’s nothing duller than a predictable victory."

She accepted the cards, glancing at them only briefly before meeting his gaze again. "You say that now," she said. "Men who enjoy winning rarely mean it."

He laughed, low and warm. "Fair. But I enjoy the game first. Winning is merely a pleasant side effect."

The first round passed quickly, Bianca playing cautiously, testing the rhythm rather than the rules. Robin watched her with open interest, as though the cards mattered less than the way she considered each move.

"You’re holding back," Robin observed.

"Am I?" she asked lightly, placing her card with care. "Or are you simply unused to someone not panicking under your stare?"

His lips curved. "Touché."

By the second round, the small audience had returned... drawn by curiosity, not volume. Bianca leaned back in her chair, confidence settling in as she claimed a modest win. She glanced up at him, eyes bright. "I believe that was mine."

Robin studied the table, then inclined his head. "It was," he admitted. "I see now. You lull your opponents into complacency."

"Hardly," she replied. "I merely listen."

He smiled at that, genuinely impressed.

The game tightened after that... each move sharper, each loss met with a grin rather than frustration. When Bianca lost a round, Robin leaned closer. "Still enjoying losing?" he murmured.

She smiled sweetly. "I haven’t decided yet."

The final round came down to a single, decisive moment. Bianca played her card without hesitation, heart steady, eyes never leaving his. Robin’s expression shifted - surprise, then admiration - before he laughed and leaned back.

"Well," he said, hands raised in surrender, "it appears I’ve been challenged properly."

Bianca exhaled, then laughed, the sound bright and unguarded. "You spoke the truth," she said. "Just not the whole of it."

Robin rose, offering her a small bow. "I’ll concede this one gladly," he said. "But only on the condition that you allow me a rematch."

She placed her hand in his briefly as she stood. "Perhaps," she said. "If I’m in the mood to lose next time."

Robin remained standing close as the table was cleared, the murmur of the room swelling again around them. "You’ve just upended my reputation for the evening,",he said lightly. "I believe that entitles me to a restorative drink."

Bianca smiled, still warm from the game. "To recover your pride?"

"To celebrate my discernment," he corrected. "I chose a worthy opponent."

Bianca laughed and inclined her head. "In that case, it would be rude to refuse."

They fell into step together, moving away from the gaming table and into the broader sweep of the drawing room. Candlelight followed them in soft halos, catching in the glassware and gilded frames along the walls. Robin offered his arm - not formally, not insistently - just enough of an invitation to be declined or accepted.

Bianca took it.

His hand settled lightly over hers, warm through the fabric of her glove, and for a moment neither of them spoke. It was an easy silence, unhurried, the sort that didn’t ask to be filled.

"You play more boldly than you let on," Robin said at last, glancing at her. "I noticed it partway through."

Bianca met his gaze. "And you watch more closely than you pretend."

A corner of his mouth lifted. "It would be a shame not to."

They slowed near the sideboard where decanters stood ready, the air scented faintly with spice and citrus. As he reached for two glasses, his fingers brushed hers... unavoidable, lingering just a heartbeat longer than necessary.

Bianca felt the contact all the same.

"Thank you," she said quietly, as he handed her a glass.

"For the game?" he asked.

"For not making it about winning," she replied.

He studied her then, expression softer, more open than it had been at the table. "Some moments deserve to be met," he said. "Not conquered."

Their shoulders nearly touched as they turned back toward the room, glasses in hand. Around them, the feast continued... laughter, music, movement but the space between them felt carefully held, intimate without being hidden.

Bianca lifted her glass slightly. "To honesty," she said.

Robin echoed the gesture, his gaze steady on hers. "And to choosing when to be brave."

They had slowed without quite realizing it - conversation tapering, steps faltering - until they came to a gentle stop near the center of the room. The light above them shifted, softened.

Robin was the first to notice.

His gaze lifted, just slightly, and then he huffed a quiet, almost incredulous laugh. "Well," he murmured.

Bianca followed his eyes.

Hung from one arm of the chandelier above them was a kissing bough... evergreen woven with ribbon, dried oranges, and a small cluster of mistletoe, swaying faintly with the warmth of the room. Festive. Deliberate. Entirely unforgiving.

"Oh," she said softly, amusement threading through the word.

They stood there a moment longer than necessary, neither stepping away. Around them, the drawing room carried on - voices rising, a burst of laughter near the fire, the faint scrape of chairs - but the space beneath the bough felt oddly set apart.

"How unfortunate," Robin said lightly. "We seem to have been… trapped."

Bianca smiled, eyes flicking back to his. "You don’t sound particularly distressed."

"I’m assessing the risk," he replied. "You’ve already proven yourself dangerous this evening."

She laughed under her breath. "And you warned me not to challenge you."

"True," he said. "But I didn’t say I wouldn’t enjoy it."

His hand shifted on his glass, knuckles brushing hers again... this time not accidental, not hurried. The contact was gentle, grounding, as though asking rather than claiming.

Bianca felt her pulse quicken, though her tone remained light. "There will be witnesses," she said, glancing vaguely toward the room.

"Eventually," Robin agreed. "But not just now."

For a heartbeat, neither moved. The bough swayed faintly above them, evergreen scent sharp and clean. His expression held that familiar blend of playfulness and sincerity... no bravado, no push. Just attention.

"If you’d rather step away," Robin said quietly, “I will.”

Bianca searched his face, then smiled... soft, certain. "I didn’t say that."

For a heartbeat longer they remained still, the world narrowing to candlelight and evergreen and the quiet awareness of one another. Then - almost at the same moment - they moved.

It was not rushed. Not claimed.

Robin’s hand lifted first, settling lightly at her waist as if to steady her rather than draw her closer. Bianca’s fingers found the front of his coat, curling there with a hurry that surprised even her. When their lips met, it was soft... unassuming, chaste in every visible sense.

And yet.

The kiss lingered just long enough to register... the warmth of him, the careful restraint, the way he did not deepen it though he could have. His lips brushed hers once, twice, unhurried, as though committing the feeling to memory rather than seeking more.

Bianca felt it immediately... the ache blooming low and insistent, a quiet wanting sparked precisely because he stopped when he did.

When they parted, neither stepped back at once. Their foreheads hovered close, breath shared, the bough above them swaying faintly as if conspiring.

Robin’s thumb moved once at her waist, a barely-there pressure. "I suspect," he said softly, a smile threading his voice, "that was unfair of us."

Bianca laughed under her breath, though her pulse had not yet slowed. "I was thinking the same," she replied. "Dangerous, even."

His gaze held hers... warm, steady, unmistakably awake. "We seem to share a talent for that."

Around them, the drawing room continued as if nothing had happened at all. But as they finally stepped apart, Bianca carried the kiss with her... not as something finished, but as something deliberately unfinished.

And that, perhaps, was the most unsettling part of all.


❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎

The larger drawing room glowed with warmth and motion... laughter rising and falling, silk skirts whispering over polished floors, candles reflected in the tall mirrors. Bianca paused just inside the doorway, her gaze drifting idly until it caught.

Constantine stood near the hearth, one arm resting easily along the mantel, his attention fixed on a young debutante at his side. She was pretty in the effortless way of first seasons, cheeks flushed with excitement, her smile quick and unguarded. He was listening to her with that familiar ease, head inclined, eyes bright, the corner of his mouth curved in quiet amusement.

Something in Bianca’s chest tightened.

It was nothing improper. They weren’t touching. Yet the intimacy of the scene... the way he seemed entirely present, the way the girl leaned in as though the rest of the room had ceased to exist set her nerves alight. She told herself she was imagining it. That Constantine always looked like that. That it meant nothing.

And yet—

The Orangerie rose unbidden in her mind... moonlight through glass, the hush of leaves, the warmth of his hands, the kiss she had not allowed herself to forget. Soft, yes... but charged. Promising. Dangerous.

She watched as Constantine laughed quietly at something the debutante said, a sound Bianca knew too well. Jealousy surprised her with its sharpness, pricking beneath her ribs, followed swiftly by unease. She felt suddenly exposed, as though that kiss had marked her in some invisible way while he moved on untouched.

As if sensing her gaze, Constantine looked up.

For a fleeting moment their eyes met across the room. His expression shifted - subtle, unreadable - before he inclined his head in polite acknowledgment and returned his attention to his companion.

Bianca looked away at once, forcing herself to breathe, to smile when someone spoke to her. But the warmth of the room had dulled, and no amount of candlelight could chase away the quiet, unwelcome truth settling in her chest... she was jealous.

Bianca told herself not to look again.

She failed almost immediately.

Her attention kept drifting back to them, unbidden, as though drawn by some quiet, inexorable pull. Constantine had shifted closer to the debutante now, not in any way that could be remarked upon, but enough that Bianca noticed. He listened with that familiar intensity, the world narrowing until it seemed to hold only the person before him. It was a talent of his - one she had felt keenly herself - and seeing it turned elsewhere stirred something restless and sharp inside her.

You have no claim, she reminded herself.
The thought did little to soothe her.

Each time the girl laughed, Bianca felt it like a small affront. Each time Constantine smiled, a treacherous part of her wondered whether he had smiled the same way in the Orangerie..  or whether that moment, held so carefully between them, had already been folded away and forgotten.

She searched his face for signs - distance, disinterest, anything that might reassure her - but found only ease. And that, somehow, unsettled her most of all.

Then, without ceremony, Constantine straightened. He murmured something to his companion, polite and low, before stepping back. The debutante lingered, watching him go with an expression Bianca recognised too easily.

He moved toward the terrace doors, glass panes misted faintly by the cold beyond. The moment he slipped outside, swallowed by darkness and winter air, Bianca’s breath caught.

She hesitated - only a second, perhaps two - long enough to convince herself she was being foolish. Then she set her glass aside and followed.

The corridor leading to the terrace was quieter, the music muffled, the warmth of the house falling away with every step. She pushed open the door and stepped into the cold, the night sharp against her skin.

Constantine stood a short distance away, back turned, breath faintly visible in the air as he looked out over the gardens.

Bianca stopped just behind him, heart unsteady, the echoes of candlelight and laughter far behind her... aware, suddenly, that whatever she was about to do might be impossible to undo.

Bianca smoothed her expression before she closed the last few steps between them, drawing on charm the way she might a familiar shawl... easy, practiced, and just daring enough.

"Escaping already?" she asked lightly. "I was beginning to think the drawing room had swallowed you whole."

Constantine turned, surprise flickering only briefly before his smile slid into place... lazy, amused, unmistakably pleased to see her. "I prefer my air cold and honest," he replied. "Far less suffocating than polite conversation." His gaze swept her with open appreciation, unhidden. "Though I might have stayed longer had I known I’d be followed."

Bianca laughed softly, stepping closer, close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed. "Followed is such a dramatic word," she said. "I thought you looked lonely."

"Ah," he murmured. "Your charity is legendary."

For a moment the exchange flowed easily... quick glances, shared warmth against the winter chill, the familiar rhythm of wit meeting wit. But beneath it all, something tight pressed at Bianca’s chest, refusing to be ignored.

"So," she said, a little too casually, "your young admirer inside seems quite taken with you."

Constantine’s brow lifted. "Does she?"

"She certainly laughed as though you’d invented wit itself," Bianca replied, her smile sharp around the edges. "You do have a way of encouraging such devotion."

He chuckled, unbothered. "If listening politely is flirting, then I fear I’m guilty of crimes far more often than I’d realised."

You make it sound so innocent," Bianca said, eyes narrowing just slightly. "And yet—"

"And yet?" he prompted, stepping nearer, voice dropping.

'And yet you looked entirely at ease," she finished. "As though you rather enjoyed it."

Constantine’s smile faded... not into irritation, but into something firmer. "Enjoyed the conversation, perhaps. Nothing more." He met her gaze squarely. "If you mean to suggest I was courting her, you’re mistaken."

Bianca tilted her head, searching his face, her boldness faltering just enough to reveal the truth beneath. "You deny it so readily."

"Because there is nothing to deny,",he said, evenly. "I don’t flirt without intention."

The words landed heavier than she expected. The cold seemed sharper now, the space between them suddenly charged. Constantine studied her then, eyes keen, a hint of challenge threading through his tone.

"But," he added softly, "I do wonder why it matters to you."

Bianca’s breath caught, her charm wavering as jealousy and something far more dangerous pressed close... standing with him in the cold, suddenly uncertain which of them had truly stepped too far.

Bianca laughed... quick, light, and entirely unconvincing.

"Why it matters?" she echoed. "How very dramatic of you. I was merely observing. One is allowed to notice things at a house party."

"Of course," Constantine said smoothly, the corner of his mouth lifting. "You do notice quite well." He shifted closer, not crowding her, but close enough that she felt the heat of him cut through the cold. "I should be careful, then. Wouldn’t want to give you cause to take notes."

She rolled her eyes, though her pulse betrayed her. "You flatter yourself. I hardly catalogue every charming smile you bestow upon unsuspecting debutantes."

"Hardly," he repeated, amused. "And yet here you are, having followed me into the night."

Bianca’s chin lifted. "Someone had to ensure you didn’t freeze to death. It would be terribly inconvenient for the season."

“A selfless act,” he murmured. "Though I’d have thought you’d prefer me indoors—where I’m apparently so… distracting."

She shot him a look. "You enjoy provoking people."

"I enjoy honesty," he countered lightly. "And reactions."

He leaned in just enough to lower his voice, playful but pointed. "Tell me... did my innocent conversation truly trouble you so? Or was it something else entirely?"

Bianca opened her mouth with a ready retort, then closed it again. The easy deflection hovered on her tongue, but it felt thin, inadequate. His nearness, his certainty, the memory of the Orangerie pressing insistently at the edges of her thoughts—it all made maintaining composure suddenly exhausting.

She exhaled, slower this time. "You have a way of making it seem," she said carefully, 'as though everyone is replaceable."

Constantine’s smile softened, but his eyes sharpened. "Do I?"

"Yes," she said, meeting his gaze at last. "And I dislike discovering how little I enjoy being reminded of it."

The admission slipped out before she could stop it... not quite jealousy, not quite confession, but close enough that her breath hitched afterward. Constantine didn’t interrupt. He simply watched her, the silence stretching, inviting more.

She shook her head faintly, almost to herself. "It’s absurd," she added, quieter. "I know that."

"Absurd things are often the most interesting," he replied gently.

Bianca swallowed, the last of her defences thinning under his steady attention. "You shouldn’t look at people like that," she said at last. "Not when you don’t mean anything by it."

"And if I do mean something?"

Her heart thudded. She didn’t look away this time. "Then you shouldn’t pretend it was nothing," she said softly.

Bianca didn’t step away, and that, more than anything, made the air between them thicken with something she couldn’t quite explain. Her heart beat faster, an unsteady rhythm that matched the sharpness of his gaze.

He was too close. And still, he didn’t move away.

She tilted her head slightly, not quite studying him, but feeling the magnetic pull of him like a physical thing. "You really have a way of making people feel like they’re the only one in the room, don’t you?" Her voice was low, a little softer, laced with something unspoken. "And I don’t think you’ve even noticed."

Constantine’s smile deepened, a glint of amusement in his eyes, but there was something more behind it... something that suggested he knew exactly what was happening, exactly what she was hinting at.

"I notice," he said softly. "I always notice when someone seems… compelled."

Bianca’s breath caught, and the temptation to close the distance between them was suddenly unbearable. Her hand twitched at her side, almost instinctively, and before she could stop herself, her fingers brushed the edge of his coat sleeve, her touch lingering for just a heartbeat too long.

He stiffened, just slightly, his jaw tightening as he turned his full attention to her, no longer amused. His eyes locked onto hers, a steady fire burning beneath their surface.

"You shouldn’t touch me like that," he said quietly, his voice like velvet, low and dangerous. But his words didn’t feel like a warning. They felt like an invitation.

Bianca’s pulse surged at the warmth of him, her fingertips still lingering against the fabric of his coat. She took a step closer, her breath shaky. The moment was ripe, too close to ignore, too magnetic to break.

And then, with a sudden clarity, Constantine stepped back. His hand reached out, a soft but firm touch against her wrist, gently pulling her away.

"It’s not the best place," he said, his tone steady, though there was something in his eyes that suggested he wasn’t as unaffected as he wanted to appear. "Not when we’re standing on the edge of being caught."

Bianca blinked, momentarily lost in the space between them. She hadn’t realized how much she had been leaning into the moment until he pulled back. She wanted to push forward again, to close the gap he’d just created, but the sensible part of her caught up with the situation. There were eyes in the house.

"Always so cautious," she murmured, her voice a little breathless, trying to regain her composure. "And here I thought you were the one who preferred a good risk."

Constantine’s mouth twitched with a fleeting smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes in the way it usually did. "Some risks," he said, almost absently. "But not when I’m about to ruin a perfectly good evening with you."

Bianca’s heart fluttered at the sharpness of his words, the vulnerability disguised beneath them. "You are impossible," she said with a soft laugh, though the words didn’t carry the same weight they had before. She was acutely aware of the space he had just put between them.

"Only to those who can’t seem to stay away." His voice was teasing again, but there was something behind it... something in the way he looked at her.

Christmas Day, gifts shared and smiles unwrapped

Morning light filtered softly through the tall windows of Bianca’s bedchamber, pale and wintry, glancing off gilt frames and the pale silk laid out for the day. She stood before her dressing table, hair only half-pinned, allowing herself the quiet luxury of routine after the excesses of the Yule Feast.

A knock came at the door.

"See to it, please," Bianca said lightly, not turning as her maid moved to answer. She continued her toilette, selecting a ribbon, smoothing lotion into her hands... mundane motions anchoring her thoughts, which still wandered far too easily to candlelight, laughter, and stolen glances from the night before.

The maid returned moments later, holding a modestly wrapped parcel.

"This was brought for you, my lady," she said. "From Lord Rochford’s footman."

Bianca stilled.

'For me?" She turned then, carefully schooling her expression. "How… thoughtful."

The parcel was set upon the table. Bianca did not touch it at once.

'Tell him I am most obliged," she said calmly. Then, after a moment’s consideration, she opened a small drawer and withdrew a few coins. "And see that he is thanked properly."

The maid curtsied, took the coins, and hurried away.

Only then did Bianca allow herself a breath.

She drew the parcel closer and unwrapped it slowly, as though the deliberation might dull the sudden quickening of her pulse. Inside lay a book... bound neatly, unassuming at first glance.

The Caledonian Bandit, by Mrs. Smith.

Her brows lifted. Curious now, she opened it... and almost immediately felt warmth creep up her neck. The prose was lush, unapologetically dramatic, shadows and storms and longing woven together with a boldness that was… unmistakable. A few pages in, it became very clear that this was not a novel meant for polite morning reading.

Bianca closed the book for a moment, pressing it lightly to her chest as she exhaled a breathless laugh.

"Constantine," she murmured, equal parts scandalized and delighted.

She opened it again, flipping through with growing fascination. Dark glances. Dangerous proximity. A heroine who felt far too much and did far worse. Bianca’s cheeks warmed, her pulse betraying her as vividly as the text itself.

It was daring. Imprudent. Entirely intentional.

She shut the book once more, this time smiling to herself... flushed, exhilarated, and very much aware that her morning had taken a decidedly improper turn. The day stretched ahead of her now, full of possibility… and the faint, thrilling knowledge that Constantine Rochford knew exactly what he was doing.


❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎


Gift giving... bit of Robin... bit of her dear brother... and bit of Constantine

A rare hour of unguarded words

At first, it felt almost ordinary.

Bianca dreamed she was walking beside Robin, their steps unhurried, the world around them softly blurred as though it had decided not to intrude. The place itself hardly mattered... there was warm light, the suggestion of evening, a quiet that belonged only to the two of them.

"You have that look again," Robin said, glancing at her sideways, amusement dancing in his eyes.

She smiled, unrepentant. "Which one?"

"The one that says you’re about to pretend you weren’t listening." His shoulder brushed hers as they walked, casual and easy. "And that I should be mildly offended."

She laughed, light and genuine. "You’ll survive."

"I usually do," Robin replied, mock-sighing. "Though not without effort."

Their banter flowed effortlessly, the kind that required no thought, only attention. She teased him about his choice of words; he countered by pointing out her selective innocence. Every now and then their hands brushed... brief, incidental touches that lingered just a fraction longer than necessary before parting again.

At one point, he reached out to steady her as she stepped aside, his fingers resting at her elbow. "Careful," he said lightly.

"I am," Bianca answered, though her gaze lingered on his hand.

He noticed. Of course he did.

Something shifted then... not sharply, but undeniably. The space between words grew quieter, weighted. His hand fell away, but the warmth of it remained, echoing through her awareness.

"You know," Robin said more softly, slowing to a stop, "you’re very distracting when you look at me like that."

She raised her brows, feigning innocence even as her pulse quickened. "Like what?"

"Like you’re deciding something."

Bianca held his gaze, suddenly aware of how close they were standing. Close enough that she could see the faint smile at the corner of his mouth, close enough that the air between them felt charged, expectant.

"Maybe I am," she admitted.

Robin’s expression changed... not darker, but deeper. His tone gentled, his confidence quiet rather than playful. He lifted his hand again, slower this time, giving her every chance to move away before his fingers brushed her wrist.

The contact was light.

Intentional.

Bianca felt warmth bloom where he touched her, spreading outward, settling low and steady. She didn’t pull back. Instead, her fingers curled slightly, catching his as if by accident.

Robin stepped closer - not rushing, not claiming - his voice barely above a murmur. "If this becomes more," he said, eyes searching hers, "you should know I won’t pretend it doesn’t matter."

Her breath caught, the innocence of the moment slipping quietly away. The warmth inside her deepened, turned heavy, insistent, as she realized the truth of it... not just the dream, but the feeling.

This was no longer playful.

Robin didn’t withdraw his hand this time.

Instead, his fingers lingered at her wrist, thumb brushing lightly over her pulse as if he had felt it quicken and was quietly pleased by the confirmation.

Bianca’s breath hitched - not enough to give her away, she hoped - but enough that his gaze sharpened, amusement flickering back into his eyes.

"You’re very still," he remarked lightly. "Have I startled you?"

She tilted her head, letting her free hand rest against his forearm, the contact deliberate now. "Hardly. I was simply wondering how long you intended to keep holding me like that."

Robin’s smile turned unmistakably flirtatious. "I was hoping you wouldn’t mind."

"I don’t," she said at once, then added, softer, "But if you continue, I may begin to suspect you’re doing it on purpose."

"Oh, I absolutely am." His tone was gentle, teasing, as though confessing to the smallest mischief. His hand slid a little higher, from her wrist to the inside of her forearm, the touch still light but undeniably intimate. "You make it rather difficult not to."

Bianca laughed quietly, warmth spreading through her as she stepped closer... so close their bodies nearly brushed. "You say that as if I’ve done something terribly provocative."

"You’re standing here," Robin replied simply. "That’s quite enough."

The banter softened then, settling into something quieter, heavier. Her hand remained on his arm, fingers idly tracing the seam of his sleeve, while his other hand rose as though on instinct, hovering near her waist before settling there with careful restraint.

The world seemed to dim around them, the dream narrowing until it held only the two of them and the charged silence between words.

Robin leaned in, not all at once... just enough that she could feel his breath, just enough to make the space between them feel impossibly small. "Tell me to stop," he murmured, eyes searching hers, still playful but threaded now with something sincere.

She didn’t answer.

Instead, she tipped her chin up, closing the distance herself.

Their lips met gently at first... barely a kiss at all, more a promise of one. It lingered, soft and tentative, before deepening as her hand slid to his shoulder and his grip at her waist tightened just slightly. The warmth of it spread through her, steady and intoxicating, until the innocence of the moment slipped away entirely.

The kiss grew surer, slower, filled with unspoken intent... enough to leave Bianca breathless, fully aware that whatever this dream was becoming, it was no longer pretending to be harmless.

He didn’t pull away this time.

If anything, Robin moved closer, the last trace of restraint giving way as his hand slid more firmly to her waist, drawing her into him. The second kiss was deeper, fuller... no longer tentative, no longer careful. It carried want in it, unmistakable and warm, as though he had finally stopped pretending it wasn’t there.

Bianca responded without hesitation.

She leaned into him, fingers tightening at his shoulder as the kiss lingered, slow and unhurried. Her lips parted just enough to deepen it, to savour the closeness, the heat, the way the dream seemed to sharpen around them with every shared breath. She felt wonderfully, achingly aware of him... of the steady press of his hand, the warmth of his body, the quiet intensity with which he kissed her.

It was not rushed. That was what undid her most.

The kiss unfolded gradually, growing richer, heavier, filled with the kind of desire that settled low and stayed there. Bianca sighed softly against his mouth, completely unguarded now, enjoying every second... the tenderness, the pull, the sense that she was exactly where she wanted to be.

Robin’s thumb brushed along her side in a small, absent motion, as if grounding himself, as if resisting the urge to ask for more even as the kiss deepened further. When he finally drew back just enough to breathe, his forehead rested briefly against hers, his breath uneven.

Bianca’s cheeks were warm, her pulse unsteady, her lips still tingling from the kiss. She didn’t look away. She didn’t want to.

In the quiet that followed, she knew - dream or not - that this was no longer playful curiosity.

This was desire, shared and unmistakable, and she welcomed it fully.

Their lips met again, slow and deep, the kiss unhurried and full of quiet want. Bianca barely realised she had spoken until his name slipped from her mouth, breathed rather than said.

"Robin…"

It was soft, instinctive, carried on her exhale as their foreheads brushed.

He stilled for the briefest moment - just enough to acknowledge it - before answering in kind, his voice low and warm as it wrapped itself around her name.

"Bianca."

The way he said it made her breath falter.

There was no teasing in it, no playfulness left... only certainty, intimacy, as though he were grounding himself in the sound of her. She felt the warmth of it settle deep in her chest, felt herself smile faintly even as she leaned back into him.

She kissed him again, encouraged now, wanting more of that quiet reverence, more of the way he said her name like it meant something.

She woke in the middle of the kiss.

Or rather... she woke because of it.

Bianca’s breath caught as her eyes fluttered open, the warmth of the dream dissolving into the stillness of her bedchamber. Morning light crept softly through the curtains, pale and unassuming, utterly at odds with the way her body still hummed as though Robin’s lips had only just left hers.

Her cheeks burned. Her skin felt warm beneath the covers, far too aware, far too alive.

For a long moment, she didn’t move. She lay there with her eyes fixed on nothing, heart beating faster than it ought to, the echo of the dream clinging stubbornly to her... his closeness, the depth of the kiss, the want that had pooled low and steady rather than flaring and fading.

She exhaled slowly, pressing the back of her hand to her mouth as if she might still feel him there.

Robin.

The name alone sent a fresh wave of heat through her, and she turned onto her side, drawing the covers closer as though that might help her collect herself. It didn’t. The dream replayed itself anyway... the gentleness giving way to something deeper, the way he had kissed her as though it mattered, as though he intended to stop and yet hadn’t wanted to.

Bianca squeezed her eyes shut, flushed and undeniably awake now.

This was not the careless thrill of imagination. This was not idle curiosity. The want lingered too clearly, too insistently, settling into her thoughts with quiet determination.

She swallowed, staring once more at the light on the wall, a dawning understanding taking shape beneath the warmth and the want.

If even her dreams were reaching for Robin like this - if waking had not dimmed the feeling but sharpened it - then she was, without question, in trouble.


❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎❄︎

Another honest open talk with Robin as they walk throughthe frozen gardens... though Bianca might be still troubled frkm the dream

New Year’s Eve, a masque of glittering secrets and midnight promises

Definitely Robin... dancing, talking, flirting

Also something with Constantine... maybe seeing him being flirty with others which makes her jealous... she would seek him out but I still don't know how far I want her to go

Small tokens exchanged, carrying quiet meaning

Small token exchange... sharing a more private conversation with Miles

Twelfth Night, the season’s last sparkle of joy

Ice Skating aka Disaster because Bianca won't be good at it at all

At Rosewood Hall, comfort and charm lingered

Departure day at Rosewood Hall... feeling a bit uncertain about her and Leone staying while the others leave for London

Maybe runs into Robin again

Last edited by schoggettchen (Yesterday at 20:20)

NAME
Mɪss Lᴜᴄɪɴᴅᴀ Fɪᴛᴢᴛʜᴏᴍᴀs, "Lᴜᴄʏ"

THEME SONG TBD; TBD


INTERESTS
Julien | Miles | Sebastian | Ginny



ACTIVITIES
December 24th, Christmas Eve
Tree Trimming - Winter Garden Tree Trimming
Yule Feast Dancing/Games/Kissing Bough

December 25th Christmas Day/Dinner
⭐Evelina — A hand-woven cream shawl, embroidered with dark florals and two Dalmatian silhouettes (made by Lucy in the last year)
⭐Robin - A fine leather knife sheath with a hand-stitched raven motif (stitched by Lucy in the last year)
⭐Margot - A curated memoir book (it includes pressed flowers & Margot quotes/wisdoms Lucy has collected in the last year)
⭐Ginny - A personal writing set: scented paper with monogram & sealing wax
Julian - A compact painter’s travel kit
Miles - A small tortoiseshell pocket mirror
Sebastian - A wooden boar-bristle horse brush
Ellie - A decorative seed box with selected garden seeds
Arabella - A hand-colored satirical print of fashionable ladies (London caricature)


December 31st New Years Eve
Masque Ball

January 1st New Years Day
Small Token gifts - most likely ribbons and pressed flowers for everyone lmao im gifted out from xmas - RL & @Rosewood...

January 5th Twelfth Night
Ice Skating

ROUND 3 - "The Yule Festivities" - TBC

CHAPTER 13 - "Words of Good Cheer" - DONE

I always felt the shift in the house before it fully announced itself.

Not the kind that came with weather, though the snow had been falling since before dawn, soft and persistent enough to make the grounds look newly made. This was different. It was the sense of gathering — of doors opening earlier than usual, of footsteps multiplying, of voices carrying just a little too clearly through stone halls. Christmas Eve had a way of doing that to Rosewood. It turned anticipation into noise before the day had properly begun.

I knew what was coming. The bustle. The cheer. The carefully orchestrated warmth that would arrive when the house was full and determined to celebrate itself.

I needed a moment beyond it before it took hold.

By the time the eastern windows paled from black to pewter, I had already laced my boots, drawn on gloves, and shrugged into my riding habit that smelled faintly of cold wool and stable leather. Hannah would have tried to convince me to eat something first if she had been there to witness the escape. Mother would not have stopped me. Margot would have given me that look, the one that warned but never chastised, before she’d turn away. When I moved like this… when I needed air, they all gave me the space I sought.

I did not ask for permission… I had never been taught to.

Rascal stamped impatiently when I came into the stables, his breath blooming in pale clouds, his ears pricked as if he had been waiting for me and was insulted that I had made him do so. The lantern hung by the tack hooks cast a warm circle over his shoulder, gilding the sheen of his coat and the small scar at the edge of his knee.

“You’re in a mood,” I murmured, reaching for his halter.

Rascal snorted, as if the accusation were beneath him.

I moved through the familiar steps without thinking. Buckle, strap, check the cinch twice. Fingers cold enough to sting when I tightened the leather. The quiet, comforting sound of my own competence. Thomas was not yet about, and neither were most of the grooms. I was slightly surprised that Robin was missing, but for a handful of minutes, the stables belonged to me.

When I swung into the saddle, Rascal surged forward with a contained impatience that always made me smile despite myself. He was difficult with anyone who tried to handle him… he tolerated handlers, endured trainers, but he came alive with motion. And with me, there was never any hesitation. Even at fourteen, the first time I settled into his saddle, we simply understood each other.

I could feel the ache in him to run free as we cut through the orchard lane and onto the wider path skirting Thornmere Lake. Snow whispered down, catching in Rascal’s mane, melting at my collar. The world looked softened, but it did not feel soft. The cold had teeth, and it bit at my cheeks until they tingled.

I welcomed it.

It was easier to feel clean in the cold. Easier to think. Easier to remember that the Season was a thing happening around me, not a net thrown over my head.

I let Rascal take the hill at his own pace, then slowed him at the crest where the lake lay below like a dark pane of glass. The air smelled of pine and distant smoke. Somewhere behind me, Rosewood Hall sat in its white hush, preparing to become noisy again.

Then we turned away from the lake, and I finally let him choose the line.

The trees closed in quickly, the path narrowing into something less courteous than the drives kept for guests. Snow lay thinner here, broken by old tracks and fallen needles, the ground uneven enough that he had to pay attention. He did. His ears tipped forward, his stride lengthened, and when I loosened my hold just a fraction, he surged into it as if he had been waiting for permission all morning.

We ran with an eager certainty of something finally allowed to stretch. The forest rushed past in dark trunks and pale gaps, branches snapping lightly under his hooves. I leaned with him, trusting the rhythm we had learned years ago, trusting his judgment when the ground dipped or rose without warning.

A fallen log appeared half-buried in snow, more suggestion than obstacle. Rascal gathered himself and took it cleanly, the brief weightlessness landing sharp and bright in my chest. I laughed aloud, the sound torn away by cold air before it could echo. He flicked an ear back at me, indignant, and kept going.

This was what he had been missing. What I had.

The house, the guests, the expectations fell away behind us, shaken loose by speed. My mind tried to reach for other things anyway — impressions it had no business rehearsing now. The remembered closeness of a dance, the careless brush of gloves, the unwelcome clarity of a hand at my back, another at my thigh, steadying me when I had not asked to be steadied. Faces surfaced without invitation, half-formed and irritatingly vivid.

Rascal broke them apart for me. The next bend came too quickly, the ground rising, uneven, demanding judgment instead of indulgence. I leaned into it, reins firm, weight balanced, breath matched to his stride. There was no room for lingering, not at this pace. Whatever tried to follow us was left behind, scattered by motion and cold and the simple necessity of staying upright.

We cut deeper into the trees, weaving where the path all but disappeared, grasses snapping cold against my boots. My fingers burned, my cheeks ached, my breath came fast and clean. It felt good to be this present — to be nothing but balance and motion and the simple agreement between us to keep going.

Eventually, he chose to slow. I let him have it, patting his neck, feeling the heat of him through my gloves. We walked for a while, then, steam rising gently from his shoulders, the forest was quiet around us again. His ears flicked lazily now, breath steady, snow clinging to his mane where it had melted and frozen again.

By the time we turned back toward the stables, Rascal felt like himself, spent enough to be agreeable, pleased enough to forgive the morning confinement. I felt the same. Whatever had been crowding my thoughts before had been scattered somewhere among the trees, trampled into the snow, and left behind.

At least… that’s what I wanted to believe. I needed to believe.

I slid down and led him inside, my own pulse still warm from the ride, my thoughts quieter from having tried to outrun them.

Robin was there already, brushing down one of the bays with unhurried strokes. That, in itself, was not unusual. Robin had always gravitated toward the stables the way other people sought drawing rooms. Not that the others in the house didn’t also love the horses, of course, they did. But there was something more meaningful about belonging to this place. Something that always seemed to prove foundation and acceptance.

Suddenly, he stood, and I noticed then that something was different. The edges of concern seemed less pronounced, and his shoulders sat softer now… the tension I’d noticed recently erased. When his gaze locked with mine, he smiled.

Suspiciously, I walked closer with Rascal and began loosening his tack, letting the familiar motions settle us both.

“What have you done?” I asked with a wry look, my lips halfway tilted up as I peeked over the horse’s back. Robin had followed my lead, the brush in his hand now inching down Rascal’s shoulders to the beast's enthusiastic contentment.

“What makes you think I’ve done anything, sweet sister?”

“Oh, nothing…” I wrinkled my nose, “just that look you have every time you’re about to ask me to cover for some idiotic escapade you’ve gotten yourself into.”

“You say that as if you would ever say no.”

I pulled up a bit straighter, my arm resting against Rascal’s neck, “I’m still standing here listening… I think that counts for something.”

“Can’t a man just be in a fine mood without you suspecting mischief?”

I knew he was joking, but the way he said it… with that playful grin on his face. The resemblance suddenly struck. Unbidden and disconcerting.

“I don’t recall that being your preferred mood this past week.”

He laughed at that, low and quiet, and went back to brushing Rascal’s shoulder while I turned away to work at Rascal’s buckles. For a moment, neither of us said anything, but my stomach flipped trying to push that unwanted face from my mind, hating that he kept creeping into my thoughts.

“I spoke to him.”

I shot my gaze at him and froze. My fingers shook so much I couldn’t even finish the girth… it was like they simply no longer seemed to know what they were meant to be doing. Words tripped over themselves in my mind, confusion… deflection… curiosity…

“Oh.” It was pale in comparison.

Unluckily for me, he waited. Looking quite comfortable, and terribly unhurried.

That his brow inched the tiniest bit made me incredibly conscious of every single thing around us. A shovel scraping the walkway outside, a ticking of a clock above the tack wall on the far side of the stable… Rascal’s sudden huff of impatience as we both stood around him with unfinished grooming. I swallowed a little lump and turned back to my task.

“Lord Seymour, I presume?”

“Yes.”

Seconds ticked by, loud in my ears, and leather creaked softly under my fingers as I worked to unfasten the straps. Nothing else came. I released a breath I hadn’t even realized I was holding and peered back at him.

Robin stood now, leaning his shoulder against the stall door, watching me instead of the horse.

“And?” I finally asked.

“It was… better than I expected.” He offered. I would have said unhelpfully, but I didn’t even want to admit the interest to myself. Or hated myself because of it.

I tried. I really did. But as the quiet stretched out, it seemed like the most difficult thing in the absolute world to just let it settle.

“Do go on…” I huffed. “You’re dying to get it off your chest.”

“Mine?”

“Robin…” I said softly, cleared my throat, “better… how?”

His grin was annoying and charming all at once. Very typically Robin… and yet. I shook my head quickly, but thankfully Robin seemed to be in his thoughts, considering my question instead of noticing the flush that crept into my cheeks.

“We talked.” He said, then added. “It was good… uncomplicated. It felt like… well, I don’t think either of us knew how much we  wanted it to be done.”

I considered teasing him about how often I’d suggested they speak, but the words lodged in my throat. I resumed unbuckling Rascal, as my attention drifted. Miles Seymour had never struck me as a man who did anything easily, and hearing otherwise sat strangely against my last memory of him…  moonlit, dismissive, careful to put space where it suited him.

“I’m glad,” I finally said. “I know that’s been weighing on you.”

Robin’s expression softened at that, just for a moment, before he masked it with a shrug, and he sent me another of his arched looks.

“You’re not going to ask for details.”

“Eventually,” I admitted. “But not just yet.”

He laughed, genuinely this time. “A Christmas miracle.”

I glanced at him, but thankfully, he was lifting Rascal’s saddle and moving it towards the nearest rack. Rascal shifted his weight and tossed his head impudently, reluctantly resigned to the end of his freedom for the morning.

I gathered his reins while something faintly unsettling stirred despite myself… not because of what he’d said, but because of what it suggested. That people could be surprising. That maybe some judgments might have been made prematurely. Or that sometimes the things that were thought finished might only have been paused.

I seriously did not like the lane my mind was traveling.

“Well,” I said, with deliberate care, “I’m glad it went as it did.”

“Thank you,” he replied.

I refused to let that be the end of it, because I knew him too well, and perhaps, just a little bit, I wanted to avoid thinking any deeper at that very moment.

“So,” I said briskly, shifting back to familiar ground. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

Robin choked on a laugh while passing Rascal off to a groom who had finally appeared, blinking and half-asleep. The stable began filling with early movement now, the quiet hour ending.

“That miracle ran its course quickly.”

“You look like you did,” I pointed out, without acknowledging his comment.

Robin’s eyes gleamed.

“That’s because you weren’t there to ruin it.”

I narrowed my eyes, then felt my mouth betray me with the beginning of a smile.

“You’re welcome,” I said.

Robin looked pleased with himself for earning it.

Then, because he was Robin and he could never leave a moment unprovoked, he said, “You’re very invested.”

I felt my cheeks heat, immediately and infuriatingly

“I was invested in you not acting like a haunted man every time he breathed in the same building,” I snapped.

“Mmm.”

I glared, but where I expected to find a teasing grin, I found a considerate expression that left me incredibly uneasy. But the house bell rang faintly in the distance, the signal that breakfast would begin soon, and whatever he’d been thinking… whatever I’d started to feel was diminished when he plucked Rascal’s halter from me and started toward the stable door.

“You should go wash your face or something… you look like you’ve given the morning a proper chase.”

I smoothed a curl that had escaped my bonnet, a casualty of my reckless dash through the forest, and exhaled. “You’re impossible.”

He grinned, “That’s why you love me.”

~~~~~~⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️⏺️~~~~~~~


By the time I returned from the east wing, fresh-faced and properly dressed, Rosewood had fully woken.

Breakfast was loud in the way Rosewood always became noisy when Mother wanted it to. Not disorderly or discomforting, just full, warm, and intentionally busy.

I walked into the room and felt the energy immediately. Ginny was practically vibrating in her chair. Ellie’s eyes were bright. In fact, every face in the room looked entertained, as though they’d been handed an unexpected sweet. Mother sat at the head with her usual composure, and I could tell by the calm set of her mouth that she was enjoying herself.

The surprise was delivered with the practiced ease of someone who knew precisely how to make a household gasp without losing control of it. Three tall pines, supplied at the Queen’s directive, stood like newly appointed sentinels in the hallways, their branches dark and heavy with the promise of decoration. The room filled with voices, delighted and bewildered all at once, as if greenery had transformed into a spectacle simply by being called a new custom.

I watched faces. I watched hands reach out to touch needles. I watched people look at Mother as if she had conjured the trees herself. She received it all with that unreadable grace of hers, amused and calm. I felt my own mouth curve despite myself.

It was absurd… and yet it was also strangely lovely, this idea of bringing a living thing inside and insisting it become celebratory.

We were back to building decorations before the morning was out. Holly, ivy, ribbons, twine. Fingers pricked by needles. Laughter when someone dropped a spool, and it rolled away. The house filled again with the scent of evergreen and sap.

I moved through it with practiced steadiness, but I noticed… in the edges of my awareness… that Robin looked lighter. Less guarded. He spoke more. He laughed once, real and sudden, when Ginny declared the Queen had clearly sent the trees as a personal test of their taste. Ellie's and Arabella's heads were drawn together, giggling over something privately.

In another corner, Julian, Sebastian, and Miles huddled together, discussing the attributes of quality twine good-naturedly. Or so it seemed. The truth was, I tried my very best to avoid that direction of the room. It had been only a few days since I’d seen them, since I’d had my night complicated in such strange, unidentifiable ways… but the sting of that night had yet to fade away.

Seeing everyone so well at ease should have been relaxing to me. It certainly pleased my mother. But it left me restless instead. And exasperated.

I was slightly delayed in relocating when the household divided into groups to trim the trees, having decided to oversee the clean-up of the decoration making. But in the end, I decided to make my way to the conservatory, expecting the more ‘refined’ guests to settle into the interior of the manor.

Most notably, him.

The Winter Garden was already warm when I arrived, the air heavy with pine and damp earth, glass panes fogged faintly where breath had gathered and lingered. The tree stood near the center, tall and proud and freshly set into its stand, its lower branches tied back with ribbon to keep them from sweeping the floor. Sunlight filtered through the frosted roof above, pale and diffused, turning the green deeper and the gold accents brighter.

It was, I had to admit, beautiful.

Mother stood near the trunk, directing with effortless authority, her gloved hand occasionally lifting to indicate where an ornament should go or where a branch needed coaxing. Margot hovered nearby with a ribbon looped over her wrist, overseeing supplies with the quiet competence that made chaos behave. Constantine seemed more interested in the lady to his left than in the array of bulbs that needed to be arranged in front of him.

And Miles… was leaning against a crate of ornaments as if the entire affair were unfolding solely for his amusement.

He had his sleeves rolled to his forearms, gloves abandoned somewhere unseen, a length of ribbon dangling carelessly from his fingers. He was laughing at something Mother had said… genuinely laughing, his head tipped back slightly, posture loose, and at ease in a way that made the space feel smaller around him. It was the sort of presence that rearranged rooms without asking permission.

I felt it the moment I stepped inside. But not just that… I also had that infuriating tightness against my ribs that swelled in those first few moments of furtive observation. It was an awareness that I desperately wished was less… aware.

Surprisingly, he wasn’t surrounded by a swarm of devotees and supporters at that moment… and when he looked around, he certainly caught me staring. Quivers raced along my spine, fast and upsetting, when he tossed a grin at me as if he’d been waiting for some way to be entertained. Pride had me lift my chin; memory made me look away.

I almost got away with an escape.

“Ah, Lucy, darling… perfect timing.”

I directed my gaze to Mother, one arm stretched out and a string of ribbon held out… intent obvious. I attempted no further eye contact with him as I answered the summons, my fingers curling around the offering in quiet compliance.

“Miss Fitzthomas,” he said, straightening just enough to be polite. “How kind of you to join us. I was beginning to suspect you’d abandoned all festive duties in favor of solitude.”

“What nonsense, Lord Seymour… decorating the house is one of my Lucy’s favorite things.”

“Is that right?”

I barely managed to keep my expression even, not only at Miles’ obvious false welcome, but at my mother’s exposure.

“Mother knows I’d do anything for my family… including decorating.”

“I admire your dedication.”

He pushed off the crate and crossed the space between us with easy confidence, close enough that I could smell the faint trace of cold still clinging to his coat, but just enough to maintain proper decorum. Especially around a crowd of spectators, ever ready for any tidbit of potential gossip.

Not that I wanted differently, of course. I barely contained my sigh. Why was I so irritated by his rejection that night?

My spine straightened.

And when had I decided he had rejected me?

I was just upset that he’d been the first to step back, that’s all. And that he’d done it in fear of being caught alone with me… a nobody.

“Do you?”

“I do, family can inspire a variety of different sentiments… in my experience.”

I glanced at him then, confused and shamefully curious.

“Miles,” my mother said lightly, “if you intend to converse, you may do it while holding something. You are loitering.”

Miles bowed his head in mock submission. “Countess, I am holding several things. My dignity. My patience. My profound admiration for your hospitality.”

Margot’s mouth twitched once, betraying amusement before she smothered it. I didn’t like that I almost did the same, even avoiding looking at my mother to see her reaction to his ridiculousness. Instead, I stepped toward the tree with the ribbon and began threading it through the branches with deliberate care.

Miles followed and took the other end of the ribbon without asking, his fingers brushing mine in the process. The touch was brief… accidental by circumstance… and still it sent a small, furious shock through my arm.

I hated that my gaze flicked to him. Loathed that his locked on mine, and worse, that he caught the tell in an instant.

He grinned.

If it wasn’t for the expectation hanging over me, I might have raced from the room immediately. I badly wanted to retreat, let him have this moment… a victory of sorts. After the other night, I was not prepared for… well, this reception.

But wasn’t this exactly who he was? Both mysterious, curious… cautious when no one was looking, and a bright, blinding light when we were.

We.

The word caught, sharp and unwelcome. I did not want to be counted among them.

I tried for a calm I did not feel while slipping my end of the ribbon carefully between branches. That he lifted his end easily, looping it over a branch with careless confidence, as if he had been born understanding exactly how to make something look effortless, only added to my annoyance.

I adjusted his line with more precision because I could not help it.

Miles watched my work with the same unsettling attentiveness he always seemed to wield when he chose to be present.

“You like order,” he said.

“I like things done properly,” I corrected.

Miles smiled.

“And yet you keep finding yourself in situations that are… decidedly improper,” he murmured, voice pitched low enough that it felt like it belonged only to me.

My fingers slipped for a fraction, and the garland sagged.

I recovered instantly, jaw tightening.

“You are mistaken,” I said.

Miles’s smile did not fade.

“Am I?” he asked, yet there was no real question in it.

I twisted sharply, slightly relieved that Mother had her head bent over whatever she and Margot were discussing in her little ledger.

“You are incorrigible!”

Miles smiled, utterly unapologetic… as if I had actually offered him a compliment.

“I am,” he agreed. “But not always. Only when you’re looking at me like that.”

My eyes narrowed further.

“Like what?”

Miles’s gaze dropped briefly to my mouth… not lingering long enough to be scandalous, but long enough to be unmistakable.

“Like you’re deciding whether to throw something at my head,” he said. “Or whether to do something worse.”

My breath caught, quick.

Then Miles straightened as if nothing had happened and lifted another length of garland.

“Well,” he said breezily, louder now, perfectly social, “if we’re to make this look as if the Queen herself approves, we’ll need more ribbon. Lady de Vere, do you have any color preference?”

Margot’s head lifted, eyes narrowing in faint suspicion at Miles’s sudden helpfulness.

My mind scrambled to recalibrate.

Because that… that was the problem. He could pivot so easily. The way he could be private and unsettling and then, in the next breath, become excellent company for everyone in the room. He could make me feel as if I were being singled out and then remind me, with practiced grace, that I was not the center of anything. Just an interruption.

I kept my hands busy. I fixed branches. I adjusted ornaments. I listened to Constantine’s charmed anecdotes with half an ear and Mother’s occasional remarks with more regard. I watched Margot’s eyes flick, always tracking, always measuring.

And I tried, with limited success, not to feel the pull of Miles’s presence whenever he moved near me again, whenever his sleeve brushed mine, whenever he said something that was meant to make me glance up.

He did.

Over and over.

Sometimes I answered with sharpness. Sometimes I pretended not to hear.

Sometimes… infuriatingly… I laughed.

And his eyes gleamed with victory every time that happened.

CHAPTER 14 - "When The Bough Breaks" - DONE

Everything changed at Christmas time. It was inevitable. Usually in small ways, always meaningful.

I stood at my looking glass while Hannah tightened the last ribbon at my shoulder, and I tried to persuade myself that my body was composed simply because I had decided it would be. My hair had been pinned into something tidy enough to satisfy Mother’s eye, and my dress was pale, with a dark ribbon just under my bust that made me look more deliberate than I felt.

Hannah stepped back, surveyed her work, and smiled as if she had dressed a woman who belonged to this evening.

“You’ll be a vision, Miss Lucy,” she said, pleased with herself.

Words stuck in my throat for a moment, but finally they choked out, soft and more uncertain than I was used to.

“Thank you, Hannah.”

Once she left, I lingered at the door a moment, gathering the courage I knew I had before stepping into the corridor. The sound of the feast was already gathering below… the scrape of chairs, the lift of conversation, the clink of glass, the low persuasion of music being tuned.

Then I went down.

The fires were higher, the lamps steadier, the corridors scented with beeswax and clove and whatever sweet had been warming in the kitchens since afternoon. Servants moved with practiced speed. Laughter rose and settled again, as if everyone had agreed to be a little kinder for the night.

Mother stood near the threshold, Margot at her side with the faintest smile on her mouth.

I crossed to them before I could overthink it, and whatever composure I’d been clinging to shifted into something simpler.

“Happy Christmas Eve, Mother,” I said, and kissed her cheek.

Her hand came to my face for a brief moment, thumb brushing my jaw with warmth that made my throat tighten. “And to you, my love.”

I turned to Margot and hugged her before she could make her usual attempt at dodging affection. She stiffened for a heartbeat, then her arms tightened around me with quiet firmness.

“You look…”

“Myself, I hope…” I uttered softly, cutting off whatever she might have been ready to say.

She pulled back, hands gripping my arms as she scanned my face. “Of course.”

The statement was firm… more of a reminder than an agreement. It might have been odd to others how those simple words could strengthen my spine.

Mother’s eyes warmed faintly at us.

Her mouth twitched. “You both are expected to enjoy the evening. That is a command.”

I laughed, as did Margot, just a touch more reserved.

Ginny appeared at my elbow as if she had been waiting for the exact moment to interrupt tenderness.

“Merry Yuletide, Aunt,” she grinned broadly, full of exuberance. She added an equally joyful greeting for Margot before linking her arm in mine and making excuses to drag me away. “I’ve been waiting on you!”

“I dare to wonder why…”

She just grinned before allowing her gaze to slide over my dress, then up to my face, softening in a way she rarely allowed in public. “You look lovely.”

Her dress was a shade of blue that made her look like a winter ornament brought to life, her hair pinned with something that caught the candlelight when she moved.

“Thank you, Ginny… but not as delightful as you.”

Ginny beamed. “Thank you. I intend to cause distress.”

“I’m sure you will manage it,” I said, and she laughed.

Her gaze flicked past my shoulder toward the dining room doors, and her grin turned sly. “I suspect your evening will be eventful.”

I arched my brow. “That sounds like a threat.”

“It’s Christmas Eve,” she replied, unbothered. “Threats are seasonal.”

Before I could demand what that meant, she leaned closer, voice dropping into something conspiratorial. “Your dancing is going to be a catastrophe."

“For whom?”

“For you, if you spend it pretending you do not notice anything,” she said. “For everyone else, if you do.”

“Ginny…”

She only smiled. “You have… attention coming at you from several directions. It’s almost impressive.”

My face warmed, partly from the candles, but mostly from her words.

“I’m afraid you overestimate what attention means.”

“Do I?” She hummed softly, guiding me toward the table. “I suppose we will see.”

The Yule Feast had been generous. Too much food, too many toasts, too much laughter building upon itself until it became a kind of noise you could not escape without being rude.

Now the plates had been cleared. Someone had found a fiddle and insisted upon playing it as if we were not in a house full of distinguished guests pretending not to enjoy themselves too much.

I sensed the disruption before I needed to look. The elevated voices… the giggling and loud whispers that seemed to follow him around like a magnetic pull.

I told myself I would not.

I looked anyway.

Miles stood near the hearth with two young ladies, his posture relaxed, his smile bright. He spoke with that effortless charm that made people lean closer, and when one of them laughed again… too loudly and with too much attention, he looked pleased with himself, as if he had earned the sound.

I watched him give attention back in measured doses, each glance offered like a small gift. He touched a lady’s hand briefly as he helped her navigate around a chair, and she flushed as though she had been kissed.

It was ridiculous… and somehow it worked.

Ginny appeared at my side again, elbow nudging mine. “Do not stare,” she murmured.

“I am not staring.”

Ginny’s eyes gleamed. “You are taking inventory.”

I exhaled sharply. “Ginny.”

She only hummed, pleased with herself. “Come. There are games.”

She led me to them, keeping me tethered with her elbow and her commentary.

The adjoining room had been laid out with gaiety and companionship in mind. Chairs were pulled into a loose circle, tables cleared for cards, and little dares that made grown adults behave like children. Someone proposed forfeits. Someone else pretended it to be a scandal and then agreed immediately.

I found myself getting pulled into it by Ginny’s effortless charm. Robin sauntered over, insisting on sitting near enough to offer additional commentary while she kept declaring rules that did not exist. Ellie and Arabella were there as well, laughing with full merriment at the nonsense. Sebastian was quite composed and thoroughly invested… plus skilled enough to mitigate losses against his very respectable winnings. Even Julian lurked near the edge, looking less like he wished to evaporate than he had at other times.

Miles joined at some point, taking a seat across the table like it belonged to him. He accepted a deck of cards with a grin that made several women sigh outright.

He played beautifully. He played like a man who enjoyed winning and enjoyed making others believe they might win first.

When he laughed, the room seemed to answer.

I told myself it was irritating.

My body disagreed.

I had a measure of relief when Ginny finally grew bored with cards and decided dancing was just the thing to relieve that boredom. I would admit only to myself that I noticed the timing seemed to coincide with Lord Cattanoe’s exit from the gaming hall.

Inside, the drawing room was warm with bodies and candlelight. Conversation stacked itself into a pleasant hum. Music drifted from somewhere beyond, the beginning of something that promised rhythm and movement.

A small commotion rose near the chandelier, laughter climbing into something half-shocked, half-thrilled. I heard someone whisper about tradition. I heard someone else reply with delighted disbelief.

Ginny’s eyes flashed. “Oh.”

“What,” I demanded.

Ginny’s smile turned wicked. “We have a bough.”

I followed her gaze upward before I could stop myself.

A sphere of woven branches and greenery hung above the center of the room, heavy with holly and ivy, threaded with mistletoe and ribbon. The berries gleamed pale and bold, as if they had been placed there with full knowledge of the trouble they invited.

A lady was coaxed beneath it by her laughing friends. A gentleman followed, feigning reluctance and then accepting the sport with a grin. The room erupted in applause when he kissed her cheek, then brushed her mouth, quick enough to keep it playful, bold enough to make everyone gasp anyway.

Someone declared that refusing brought bad luck.

Someone else insisted luck mattered on Christmas Eve.

The bough became a magnet.

I stayed at the edge. I found reasons to move away toward safer corners and pretended I had no interest in the entire absurd arrangement.

Sebastian was a relief when he inquired about a dance. He was charming, pleasant company, and his steadiness did something kind to my nerves. His hand at my waist was firm enough to be secure, his gaze level rather than roving.

“You seem settled tonight,” he observed, with a gentleness I appreciated at that moment.

“I wish that were true,” I admitted unwittingly, then blushed. He gave the faintest smile.

“Then you carry it well.”

I released a breath and a soft laugh. “That’s a relief.”

We moved through the set, and Sebastian’s calm felt like a smooth surface beneath the candlelight.

“Your household looks… pleased,” he said after a moment, eyes flicking briefly toward my mother and Margot near the doorway.

“They are,” I replied. “That was the intention.”

Sebastian’s brows lifted slightly. “And yours.”

My intention seemed to fluctuate depending on the moment. “I am learning to tolerate things.”

Sebastian’s expression stayed unreadable, yet something in his eyes softened. “Tolerance is a beginning.”

It was said with such quiet certainty that it made my chest tighten, then ease again.

When the music ended, he bowed, then stepped back without lingering. It left me oddly grateful, as if he had offered me space as a gift.

Robin swept in before I could settle, grinning like a man who had decided the evening belonged to him.

“Dance,” he said, not asking.

“Is that how you speak to ladies?” I replied, though I took his hand.

“It is how I speak to you,” he said, and spun me out with enough exuberance that my skirt flared wider than decorum would have preferred.

Robin danced like he lived… boldly, with too much confidence, with a stubborn refusal to be restrained by anyone’s expectations. He made me laugh, properly, because my body simply gave in to the absurdity of his grin and the joy of his momentum.

“There,” he murmured as he guided me through a turn. “That face. That is the correct one.”

“You are impossible,” I said.

Robin’s eyes gleamed. “And beloved.”

His touch was familiar, the kind of contact that carried no question. It reminded me, fiercely, that love could be simple.

Unguarded, my smile lingered as I watched Robin slip through the crowd to whatever mischief he aimed for at the end of our dance.

Then I froze when I locked eyes with Miles across the room, speaking with a new lady who seemed to be hanging on to his every word. His smile tilted, his gaze brightened. He looked perfectly content, perfectly social, and perfectly at ease.

Shaken, I sought solace at the refreshment table… a cool beverage and perhaps a sweet treat to settle my nerves.

“I am told this night is meant to be joyful.”

The voice was gentle, curious… only slightly startling as it attempted to pull me from my unease.

“You are capable of joy,” I replied, turning toward Julian, who reached for a flute of champagne from the table.

He glanced down at me, amused. “An accusation.”

“A simple observation.”

Julian’s mouth tilted. “You enjoy saying that.”

“I enjoy being accurate.”

He made a soft sound that I was certain was laughter. “How like the Countess you are.”

“Thank you.”

He could give no greater compliment. He actually chuckled.

“You looked as if you were calculating the quickest exit.”

“And you, sir, are being indelicate with your observations,” I muttered. “If someone hears you, I may get blocked in my endeavour.”

“I shall be your greatest defender… none shall delay you under my watch.”

I almost smiled fully. “You are enjoying yourself.”

There was no question. Julian’s gaze slid past my shoulder toward the far side of the room, and something flickered there, a private thought he chose not to voice. When he looked back at me, his tone stayed light. “I am… less miserable than expected.”

Somehow, that felt like enough.

“Good,” I said. “It suits you better… less misery.”

“Miss Fitzthomas… Lockwood…”

The hairs on the back of my neck prickled madly at the voice suddenly behind me. My stomach coiled into a taut knot and I hesitated, but reluctantly I turned.

“Seymour.” Julian nodded.

“I had hoped for the lady’s next dance… unless you’ve already claimed the pleasure?”

“By all means,” Julian replied easily.

So much for defending my retreat.

“My lady?”

Miles’ hand stretched out before me in invitation.

I hesitated only long enough to feel Julian’s gaze on the side of my face, steady and unreadable, before I placed my fingers into Miles’s palm.

His grip closed around mine with warm certainty. He did not tug… he simply turned as if the choice had already been made, guiding me back toward the open space where the music was beginning to gather itself into a proper set.

“You look as if you are about to argue with the very concept of dancing,” he murmured, voice pitched low enough to belong only to me.

“I am perfectly capable of dancing,” I replied.

His mouth tilted. “I said nothing about capability.”

“That is usually what you mean.”

Miles’s eyes gleamed as he drew me into position. His hand settled at my waist with practiced ease, firm enough to steady, light enough to be polite. The first steps came, and my body answered them with instinct, relief rushing through me at having something to do other than stand still and be read.

“You are less sharp when you move,” he observed after a turn, as if it were a compliment.

“You are in fine spirits,” I said instead.

“And you are trying very hard to look unaffected by it,” he replied.

I felt my pulse trip. Miles did nothing dramatic with the moment. He only lifted my hand on the next beat, turned me with effortless control, then caught me again as if it were the simplest thing in the world to take me apart and put me back together without anyone noticing.

When I faced him again, his gaze held mine, bright with amusement that felt almost… pleased.

“You enjoyed the cards,” I accused, because it was safer than admitting anything else.

“I enjoyed watching you pretend you did not enjoy them,” he said.

“Your attention was quite preoccupied.”

Miles’s smile widened. “Ah.”

That sound said entirely too much, but before I could decide on how to respond, the set shifted, bodies moved around us, and the room pressed in with laughter and movement. Miles guided me through it without breaking the rhythm, and somehow he made the crowd feel like a curtain drawn back rather than a wall.

“You look at everyone as if you are counting them,” he said quietly as we stepped through the set.

“It is called paying attention.”

“Mm,” he hummed, and his thumb brushed once, absent-mindedly, at the edge of my waist ribbon as if he were adjusting something that was already perfect. “Then pay attention to this.”

I opened my mouth to demand what he meant, but the music carried us forward, and the room’s current carried us with it.

A ripple of laughter rose ahead of us, sudden and delighted. The crowd shifted, parting and closing again, and Miles angled our steps with the same calm certainty he’d had all evening… until the air changed.

I felt it before I saw it.

The light above us seemed to thicken. The hum of voices sharpened into anticipation.

Miles’ eyes lifted ever so briefly, then his smile turned… slow. I followed his gaze.

My stomach flipped so hard it felt like my body had betrayed me.

The bough hung directly over our heads.

I moved to step away, but his hand at my back was steady. Not demanding but sure. Our gazes locked again. A hush of attention pressed in, sudden and expectant.

“It seems we have wandered into peril.”

“I have no intention of making a spectacle,” I said through my teeth.

Miles’s eyes gleamed. “Then don’t.”

I stared at him, breath tight.

“Though it is obvious that everyone believes in superstition tonight,” he said softly.

“I do not.”

Miles’s eyes gleamed. “That is courageous.”

“That is sensible.”

He laughed under his breath, then leaned closer by a fraction, voice lowering further. “The berries,” he murmured, eyes flicking upward again. “One is removed for proof. When they are gone, the bough loses its privilege.”

Around us, the room waited. I could feel it… the collective hope for entertainment, for scandal softened into tradition, for something that would be talked about tomorrow over breakfast as if it were harmless.

My pulse hammered so loudly I was certain everyone could hear it. In my throat, my ears… everywhere.

The room waited.

“You may refuse,” he said, and his eyes flicked to my mouth. I heard the words land like a challenge.

I could have turned my face away. I could have forced a laugh. I could have offered him my cheek and made it safe. I should have done any of those things.

Instead… I tilted my chin.

It was the smallest choice.

It felt like stepping off a cliff.

Miles’s breath caught, almost imperceptibly, and for the first time all evening I saw something in him that did not seem so certain.

He leaned in. I leaned closer, meeting him instead of awaiting him.

It was delicate and inexperienced. Initially.

I wasn’t sure if the hitch of breath was his or mine. All I knew was that his mouth was warm against mine, and it made my stomach flip, violent and bright.

My eyes drifted shut, and when my lips moved against his… seeking… examining… the room just disappeared. Not because I forgot it existed, but because I could not afford to think of it.

My hand rose without permission and caught at his sleeve, fingers curling at his forearm to anchor myself.

It was too much. It was not enough.

When he finally drew back, the room rushed in again with laughter and applause and delighted scandal dressed as sport.

Someone cheered.

Someone called out something about berries.

Miles reached up, plucked a single berry from the bough with maddening composure, then held it between two fingers as if it were a prize.

He looked at me over it.

“Proof,” he murmured.

I glared because my cheeks were on fire, and my mouth still tingled from him.

Miles smiled, pleased… and then bowed to the room as if he had done them all a favor.

He offered me his hand. I took it, and he guided me out from beneath the bough with perfect politeness. His composure was so intact that it felt like a private cruelty. The air around us had changed… and he wore it like nothing more than good manners.”

As soon as we were a step beyond the chandelier’s reach, he leaned close, voice for me alone.

“You kissed me,” he murmured, and I could hear the satisfaction in it.

“I did,” I hissed.

Miles’s smile widened. “Voluntarily.”

“Don’t.”

He chuckled softly. “You’re rattled.”

“I am not.”

Miles’s gaze flicked to my mouth again, and I wanted to hit him.

“Liar,” he murmured, delighted.

I tightened my grip on his hand, not for affection… for control. “Go flirt with someone else.”

Miles’s eyes sparked. “I did.”

That landed like a slap, stupid and sharp.

Then he leaned in again, his tone quieter, almost serious.

“And then you stood under the bough with me.”

My chest tightened.

I did not have an answer for that.

Miles released my hand with exaggerated courtesy, then stepped back just enough to restore decorum.

“Thank you for the dance, Miss Fitzthomas,” he said lightly, as if nothing had happened.

I stared at him.

Miles’s grin returned, bright and cocky as ever, and he vanished into the crowd, leaving me feeling like he had just carved something into me I would be forced to carry.

Ginny appeared at my elbow a moment later, eyes wide with wicked delight.

She took one look at my face and made a sound of pure satisfaction.

“I knew it,” she whispered.

I did not answer.

I could not.

My mouth still felt like his.

And somewhere above us, the bough swayed gently, as if it had been laughing the whole time.

CHAPTER 15 - "Tidings of Comfort & Joy" - DONE

Christmas morning arrived with bitter cold and bells, as it so often did. Voices were softer in the corridors. Footsteps had less hurry. Even the servants seemed to pass one another with a gentler awareness, as if the day itself demanded restraint.

The only difference that year was the number of guests traveling along the eastern side of the estate over shoveled paths and past snow-softened hedges. The air outside had teeth, crisp enough to sting the inside of my nose when I breathed even over that short distance. We walked in wrapped winter coats and silence… a shared solemnness that felt welcoming instead of isolating.

Inside St. Isolde’s Church, the candlelight warmed the stone and wood, while evergreen dressed the arches and the railings in quiet celebration. The service passed with familiar steadiness. Traditional prayers and hymns evoked voices that rose and fell together. The bible readings of the nativity and following sermon had heads bowing and hands folded at just the right moments.

There was comfort in being one small figure among many, all of us briefly subject to the same quiet rhythm.

It felt right to begin that way… not with celebration, but with reverence.

By the time we returned to the main house, the rooms felt warmer… and the expectations less sharp

People lingered after luncheon. Someone read aloud in the smaller parlor until another complained they could not possibly be expected to appreciate literature on a holiday. Robin argued back that it was precisely the day for it, as if he had ever cared for the proper use of anything. Margot disappeared for an hour and returned with her hair slightly less severe than usual, which I chose to take as an act of goodwill.

Others drifted in and out of conversation without the sharp edge of the Season pressing every silence into meaning. It should have calmed me entirely.

It did not.

Last night still sat too close beneath my skin, like a warmth that refused to fade simply because the day had turned sacred. I told myself I was being absurd. I told myself it had been nothing more than tradition and circumstance.

I told myself, firmly, that I would be normal. Reminded myself of the day… of what I should be doing. Not glancing at every doorway expecting to see Miles. Or catch myself touching my mouth now and again as if it had become a traitor.

That I would not replay that bough moment like a wound I kept pressing.

None of this succeeded for long.

By afternoon, the house had settled into smaller clusters: a few by the fire, a few in the music room, a few wandering the galleries with the idle curiosity of people who had nothing pressing to do and too much warmth to leave. I escaped into one of the smaller sitting rooms, grateful for its quiet. The windows looked out toward the snow-bright grounds, and the furniture was arranged close enough to make conversation feel inevitable.

Ginny arrived the way she always did when she meant business… as if the corridor had delivered her on command.

She closed the door behind her, softly and definitively… with enough care that I looked up at once.

“You’re hiding,” she said.

“I’m breathing,” I replied.

Ginny crossed the room and stopped near the window, then turned back toward me as if the glass could not possibly contain what she was about to say. But whatever it was that was on her mind, she placed it on hold after looking over me.

“Do you wish to talk about it?”

I felt the grin tugging down at the corners a tiny bit.

“Thank you, but no.” My voice betrayed me slightly, cracking on the last word. I cleared my throat. “I… I do not know where to begin… or end for that matter.”

“Typically, why talking about matters helps…”

I arched a brow, shoving my troubles aside. “I feel as if this is coming full circle.”

Ginny searched my face momentarily, then began to pace. I sat a bit straighter when she began nibbling on her lower lip.

“Perhaps you should tell me outright, I’d hate for you to earn my mother’s wrath by burning a path into her rug.”

She suddenly stopped, wrung her hands together, then rushed over to perch on the edge of the chair closest to me.

“Lucy… you must promise that you will not tell a soul.”

I reached over, pressing my fingers over hers. “You should know you need not even ask.”

She hesitated. “Yes. I know. But you may caution against silence.”

“Then I likely would have a good reason.”

Ginny huffed, and I could tell that this was no light matter.

“What is it, Ginny?”

Another pause stretched between us before she finally blurted the truth.

“I am going to London.”

I waited, certain there must be more. What sort of revelation was this? And why did it have her so wound into knots?

“There is another innovation fair—”

“Ginny…” I said in a hushed tone.

“Lucy, you promised!” she exclaimed and rushed back to her feet.

“I promised caution if it were warranted.”

“I must go, don’t you see.”

I held my tongue, but I clearly did not see. I frowned slightly as she struggled for her words. She gave a short, humorless laugh, then returned to the chair at last. Her eyes were bright, not with excitement, but with strain.

“I have invested,” she said, and the words came out more sharply than she intended. She exhaled, then tried again, slower. “Most of what I had. Not everything. I am not entirely mad. But enough that I can feel it every time I sit down to write a letter and realize I am counting coins in my head.”

I held my gaze steady.

Ginny’s chin lifted, stubborn and proud, though the skin beneath her eyes looked tired.

“An inventor,” she said. “A man with a mind that moves faster than his manners. He spoke as if the future belonged to him, and for a moment I believed it did. I believed him. I believed in what he promised.”

She paused, swallowed, then continued.

“And now he has not answered me in weeks.”

The room felt warmer than it should have, as if the fire had noticed the confession and leaned closer.

Ginny’s fingers twisted together, then stilled, then twisted again.

“I cannot sit here,” she said quietly. “I cannot spend the rest of the Season pretending this is not happening while my money… my judgment… sits somewhere in London with a man who may have vanished entirely.”

“Do you think he has?” I asked.

Ginny’s mouth tightened. “I do not know what to think, and that is the problem.”

“What do you want from London?” I asked, “certainty… or confrontation.”

Ginny’s eyes narrowed, then softened at the edges.

“Both,” she admitted. “I want to find him. I want to know whether I have been foolish. I want to know whether he is… afraid, or selfish, or simply distracted by the thousand things he likes more than replying to a letter.”

“And if the answer is unkind,” I said, “what then?”

She blinked, and for a second her composure threatened to crack. It did not. Ginny held herself together by force of will, the way other people held themselves together by faith.

“Then I will have to tell Aunt Evelina,” she said, and the name came out with a tenderness she rarely revealed. “Because she will find out eventually, and I would rather she hear it from me than from the mouth of someone who thinks it makes an amusing story.”

“She may be able to help now… if you enlist her aid.”

“And show what a colossal blunder I have made when it is still possible I may resolve matters on my own.”

She was right to anticipate my caution. This sounded not only risky but too stubborn even for her. What might happen if she headed off to London alone?

“You will have to tell her,” I stated. “But you do not have to do it alone.”

Ginny’s eyes flickered, as if she meant to deflect with wit and found none sharp enough.

“Do not,” she warned.

“I am not pitying you,” I said. “I am offering you the only thing that makes sense.”

Ginny stared at me for a long moment, then exhaled, the tension in her shoulders easing by a fraction. She nodded once, sharply, as if she did not trust herself to nod gently.

“I am telling you,” she said, “because I cannot keep it alone anymore. And because if I do have to tell her… I want someone on my side before I do.”

My throat tightened.

“You have me,” I said. “You always will.”

Ginny’s face shifted, something raw flickering beneath her usual brightness.

“Thank you, Lucy,” she added, and I understood what saying that meant to her.

I stood, shaking my head, and held out my hand. “Enough of this… for now. It will have to be revisited soon enough, but for now… I have something I want to give you.”

She frowned, taking my hand. I linked her arm through mine and escorted her up to my room.

“What is happening?”

I smiled, “It is Christmas!”

She looked at me skeptically.

Only once we were alone, behind my closed door, did I pull the parcel from its hiding space. Her brow was lifted still.

“I have something for you,” I said. I waited until she had taken a seat, then held out the packet before she could make a joke of it.

It was neatly wrapped, tied with a narrow yellow ribbon, tied with quiet precision. She untied it quickly, curiosity winning out, and stilled when she saw what lay inside.

The paper inside was thick and fine, monogrammed with her initials. She lifted the top sheet carefully, as if she feared it might tear just by being touched. Then she inhaled, and the faint citrus rose clean and bright.

Her mouth parted, and for once she did not fill the moment with wit.

“I thought,” I said softly, “that if you are going to risk correspondence, you may as well do it with paper worthy of your stubbornness.”

Ginny’s eyes lifted, and they looked suspiciously wet.

“You are ridiculous,” she murmured.

“So are you,” I replied. “It seems we are a matched pair.”

Ginny let out a shaky laugh that tried very hard to sound normal.

She turned the paper over, then found the sealing wax tucked beneath. Two shades. Practical. Deliberate. A choice, rather than an ornament.

“You understand,” she whispered.

“I do,” I said.

Ginny shut the box gently, then set it in her lap and pressed her palm to it, as if anchoring herself.

“Thank you,” she said, and the words were quiet enough that they felt private even in an empty room.

I wrapped her in a hug. Not only for the season but also just for her.

Ginny exhaled again, and the atmosphere in the room shifted. Not lighter exactly… but calmer. As if the confession had been a storm she needed to let out, and now the air could settle.

We sat for a while after that, not talking much. Snow drifted past the window. Ginny’s fingers stopped fidgeting.

And when she finally stood, she looked less like someone preparing for battle and more like someone who remembered she had allies.
Evening came gently.

Dinner was warm, generous, and full without being loud. People ate as if they had decided indulgence was part of worship. Wine was poured. Toasts were offered. Evelina’s eyes softened more than once, and Margot’s mouth twitched as if she kept catching herself on the edge of a smile.

Afterward, we gathered in the drawing room, drawn in by firelight and tradition. The tree glowed softly in one corner, candles nestled among branches, ribbons catching the light when someone moved too quickly past them.

The air felt lighter than it had at any point during the Season. Games waited on side tables. Laughter came more easily. Even the silences were kinder.

Gifts had been arranged and stacked with the careful order of an occasion that mattered.

Ginny, of course, insisted on beginning.

“Before anyone does anything sentimental,” she announced, stepping forward with the bright confidence of someone who refused to be moved. “A practical matter.”

Robin lifted a brow. “God help us.”

“Providence has clearly turned its face from you,” Ginny replied sweetly. “This is my doing.”

She produced a small box first and tossed it to Robin without ceremony. He caught it easily, grinning already as if he enjoyed being targeted.

He opened it and drew out the signet ring, the ruby catching firelight like a secret made visible. For a moment, his expression shifted… quick and unguarded, warmth flickering beneath his usual ease.

Then, as if he remembered he was Robin, he made a show of it.

“A ring,” he declared. “At last. My descent into tyranny is complete.”

Ginny beamed as if she had crowned him.

Robin slid it onto his finger immediately, then held his hand up with exaggerated pride. “Look at that. Marked.”

“You were already marked,” Ginny said. “This is merely proof.”

Laughter moved through the room.

Then she turned, eyes locking on mine with triumph.

“And you,” she said, and held out the second ring.

I accepted it, steadier than I felt.

The ruby was simple and vivid against my skin. A quiet kind of declaration.

Ginny leaned closer, voice lowered just enough to make it feel like ours. “Now we match.”

I looked down at it once, then met her eyes. “Thank you.”

Ginny’s smile softened for a beat, then she stepped back as if she had stayed in sincerity too long.

Evelina watched us with a fondness that made my throat tighten.

Then the exchange began in earnest.

I gave Evelina her shawl.

It was cream and warm, its weight balanced, practical enough for the outdoors. Dark florals ran along the border with patient assurance, and near the clasp, two Dalmatian silhouettes sat stitched in delicate contrast, unmistakable if you knew what you were looking at.

Evelina unfolded it slowly, fingers moving over the weave as if reading the story in the threads.

When she found the silhouettes, her expression changed. Warmth rose behind her eyes, controlled only by effort.

She didn’t speak at first. She simply drew me in, holding me close with a quiet fierceness that made my chest ache.

“My love,” she murmured, voice low. “This is… beautiful.”

I swallowed. “I wanted it to be something you’d actually wear.”

Evelina kissed my temple, brief and deliberate. “Of course you did.”

Then she stepped back, hands still on my shoulders as if unwilling to fully let go.

Her gift for me came next.

A small box, opened with care.

Inside were earrings, delicate by design, not new… these held history. Each of the pair was gold wire featuring a delicate drop design, adorned with small, sparkling diamonds and a single, lustrous pearl at the bottom. They were simple but stunning.

“They are beautiful,” I said softly.

“I wore these on my wedding day.” She said, voice even, as if she weren’t placing something intimate into my hands. “And I want you to have them.”

For a moment, I couldn’t speak at all. The weight of it hit harder than anything ornate ever could… not in cost, but in meaning.

“Thank you, Mother,” and I wrapped her in a warmer, tighter hug than before.

When I pulled back, she stroked the drop of moisture from my cheek and smiled, and I could see both pride and love shining in her eyes.

I was relieved that someone else took the moment to do their own exchange vibrantly, drawing attention to someone other than me.

Gifts passed between guests amid vibrant laughter and warm hugs.

Margot received her book next.

She opened it with careful hands, as if suspicious of sentimentality. Then she found the pressed flowers, the tucked lines of poetry, the little collected fragments of her own words written down and kept.

Margot’s eyes moved across the page. Then another.

Her expression shifted so subtly that most people would have missed it.

She looked up.

“Lucy,” she said, and my name sounded like a truth she hadn’t meant to say aloud.

I took her hand. She squeezed once, quiet and fierce.

“That was… thoughtful,” she said, which was the closest Margot came to “beautiful.”

Robin’s gift to me came in a small parcel he pretended to toss carelessly but actually handed over with unusual care.

Inside was a ribbon-tied bundle: a narrow strip of dark fabric, embroidered at one corner with a tiny cornflower… messy compared to mine, clearly done by someone who had fought the needle the entire time.

Robin lifted his chin, daring me to laugh.

“It’s not good,” he said quickly, “but it’s mine. And you’re always making things for everyone else, so I decided it was my turn to be insufferably sincere.”

My throat tightened.

“It’s perfect,” I said, and meant it.

Robin looked momentarily startled by my sincerity, then recovered by becoming dramatic.

“I know,” he said. “Don’t make it a scene.”

I gave him his knife sheath… new leather, the raven motif stitched in dark thread along the outer face. When he turned it over, his thumb traced the stitching with slow attention.

“You stitched this,” he said, quieter than usual.

“I did,” I replied.

Robin didn’t joke. He only nodded once and pulled me into a brief, tight hug.

“I’ll use it,” he murmured near my ear. “Every day.”

Ellie received her seed box with a gasp of delight, immediately prying it open to inspect the packets as if Christmas required immediate inspection.

“You remembered I like the early sprouts,” she said, eyes bright. “Lucy, you remembered.”

Arabella’s satirical print earned the sort of scandalized laughter she cherished. She held it up for the room, reading the caption with relish, and declared that London’s artists were doing the Lord’s work.

Julian accepted his painter’s travel kit with a politeness that looked effortless until you noticed he turned the box over twice, as if appreciating its craftsmanship more than he meant to show.

“This is… exceedingly useful,” he said.

“That was the intention,” I replied.

Julian’s mouth tilted. “A dangerous phrase.”

Sebastian took the horse brush with genuine warmth, fingers testing the bristles with the kind of practical attention that made him himself.

“My mare will forgive me for every poor grooming I’ve ever inflicted,” he said lightly.

“And you?” I asked.

Sebastian’s eyes softened. “I’m grateful.”

Then their gifts to me came—properly, one by one, not as a list, not as a ledger.

Julian’s marchpanes were offered with a quiet, almost shy formality, the fruit-shaped sweets absurdly beautiful. He watched my reaction as if it mattered more than he’d admit.

Sebastian’s painted playing cards delighted the room, but my attention caught on the detail: flowers carefully chosen, each suit distinct, the work patient.

Arabella had also managed to procure Northanger Abbey for Lucy, Ginny, and Ellie alike, the novelty of it causing excited murmurs the moment it appeared. She thrust it into our hands with a triumphant flourish. “Fresh from the press,” she declared. “And you will not pretend you aren’t pleased.”

I had managed to somehow avoid Miles all evening. Though I hadn’t been able to avoid missing him being the center of someone else’s attention. I hadn’t quite managed to decide if I would give the small hesitantly wrapped parcel still tucked in my reticle. It felt silly to do so… especially because I didn’t trust the flush that crept into my cheeks each time I pictured the last time we spoke.

It was he who approached me. I’d found a corner of the room to just watch and be mostly forgotten.

His gift, a copy of Emma, bound neatly, its pages crisp, was given with smooth composure. I was exceedingly careful to avoid his gloved fingers as I accepted his offering.

“For your library,” he said.

“Thank you.” The relief I felt at the steadiness of my voice held no measure.

His gaze flicked to my mouth in a way that made my pulse trip, then moved away again as if it had never happened.

In all honesty, that he thought of me at all was surprising, and it wouldn’t be until much later that I would consider the pointedness of that particular book. It was the fact that I had done the same, considered him at all, that struck me as quite annoying.

And I was displeased with the way my fingers shook as I pulled the small gift from my reticle.

It was small, tortoiseshell, practical. Something that could be carried without comment.

He turned it in his hand once, the firelight catching on the smooth case. He opened it, glanced at his reflection with infuriating calm, then looked at me as if he could see the reason beneath the practicality.

“A mirror,” he drawled. “How considerate.”

“You’re welcome,” I said sweetly, though every inch in my body was vibrating at once. “I imagined you would find it useful,” I added, my expression composed through sheer discipline.

Miles closed it with a soft click.

“I already do,” he murmured, voice pitched low enough to make it mine alone.

Then he stepped back, restoring distance as if he hadn’t just placed something sharp and private beneath my skin.

The evening eased onward after that… games drew closer, chairs shifted, and laughter rose. Conversation drifted. The fire burned lower. The candles softened the edges of everything.

It should have been easy to settle into the warmth of it.

Instead, I sat with the ruby ring on my finger, the earrings heavy with meaning, and the echo of last night still alive in my nerves, quiet and bright.

Someone called for a game.

Someone insisted no one was allowed to be solemn on Christmas.

Ginny clapped as if she had been waiting for permission to cause chaos.

And Rosewood, for a few hours more, held all of us in something gentler than the Season ever promised.

CHAPTER 16 - "For Auld Lang Syne" - TBD

Dec 31st - ⭐New Year’s Eve — Masque Ball
Mixed group

CHAPTER 17 - "Laughing All The Way" - TBD

Jan 1st-Jan 5th morning - ⭐Small gifts & 5th ice skating
Mixed group

CHAPTER 18 - “Happy Golden Days of Yore” - TBD

Jan 5th - evening ⭐Twelfth Night — Orchard & goodbyes
Mixed group ... orchard 5th - goodbyes 6th ...

LOOK
TBD



CASTING - DONE | R1 - DONE | R2 - DONE | R3 - WIP

Out of the Shadow...(about) - DONE

AGE
23; Bɪʀᴛʜᴅᴀʏ: Jᴀɴᴜᴀʀʏ 3ʀᴅ

FACE CLAIM
Eᴍᴍʏ Rᴏssᴜᴍ

TRAITS
Pᴏɪsᴇᴅ | Wɪᴛᴛʏ | Sɪɴᴄᴇʀᴇ | Sᴇʟғ-Assᴜʀᴇᴅ | Lᴏʏᴀʟ | Sᴛᴜʙʙᴏʀɴ | Pʀᴏᴜᴅ | Uɴғᴏʀɢɪᴠɪɴɢ | Sᴋᴇᴘᴛɪᴄᴀʟ | Sᴀʀᴄᴀsᴛɪᴄ

PERSONALITY
Lucy Fitzthomas carries herself with quiet confidence and deliberate grace. Her composure feels natural rather than practiced, an ease shaped by temperament and a firm understanding of who she is.

She enters a room without hesitation... not out of pride, but out of calm self-assurance. She is warm without being performative, sincere without being naive. Her loyalty is steady once earned, and her boundaries are unmistakably clear. Trust, for Lucy, is a precious thing; if someone breaks it, she is not quick to offer second chances.

Lucy listens before she speaks, observes before she acts, and commits fully once she has chosen a course. She sees through flattery quickly, is wary of shallow charm, and relies on a sharp wit that easily slips into dry humor or accidental bite. She is stubborn, perceptive, thoughtful, and often far more discerning than people initially assume.

Her pride is quiet and grounded in self-respect. She does not shrink to appease others, nor does she posture to impress them. She simply stands as she is... poised, intelligent, and steadfast.

As she steps into the Yuletide Season, Lucy is not seeking permission or approval. She arrives with her own sense of worth and a presence that lingers long after she’s left the room.

FUN FACTS
Quirks
• Plays the pianoforte beautifully — unless in front of others • Straightens objects when uneasy • Gets lost on purpose

Likes
• Horses (and animals in general) • Storms • Dancing

Dislikes
• Small, enclosed spaces • Tea • Lavender (color and scent)

CONNECTIONS
Evelina — the closest thing she’s ever had to a mother, though neither of them needs the word spoken aloud. Evelina taught Lucy how to stand, how to see, and how to hold her own. Their affection runs deep and without ceremony.

Robin — raised as family beside her. They’ve survived each other since childhood and defended each other just as long. He’s impulsive, infuriating, and one of the truest hearts she knows. Lucy trusts him without hesitation... though she’d never let him know it.

Margot — As close as family in all the ways that matter. Margot is among the very few Lucy trusts without ceremony, the one she seeks when she wants honesty rather than flattery. Her quiet strength has steadied Lucy more than she knows... and she remains the only person who can out-stare her. Barely.

Ginny — Lucy enjoys her — genuinely. Ginny brings a spark that never outruns its sincerity, and Lucy finds the balance refreshing. Their dynamic sits somewhere between acquaintance and something more... and Lucy suspects it will strengthen quickly this Season.

Alaric — a familiar presence in Evelina’s household. Polite, composed, and often absorbed in his work. Lucy knows him more by consistency than by conversation.

Miles — their acquaintance is slight, but sufficient. Lucy knows the look of a man accustomed to admiration. She’s never claimed to dislike him... merely that she prefers her conversations with fewer stage lights.

Julian — known to her more by reputation than conversation. His indulgences were everything she avoids. She’s thankful their paths rarely crossed and even more grateful he never wasted his immoderate charms on her.


HISTORY
Lucy’s earliest years linger only in soft impressions; the warmth of a wool shawl, a gentle voice humming half-remembered lullabies, the sense of being loved before she understood loss. She entered the Adair household at four, orphaned but not unwanted, and Countess Evelina claimed her with a quiet, unwavering certainty. Count Thomas never gave Lucy his name, but he ensured her future: tutors, a home, and provisions in his will that spoke volumes.

Rosewood Hall shaped her far more than the circumstances of her birth. Lucy grew up in a house where intelligence was expected, discipline was taught gently, and affection appeared in steady gestures rather than spectacle. Robin, fiery and impulsive, became a brother in all but blood; Margot, highly intelligent and steadfast, became a confidante whose presence drifted with schooling but never faded. Together, the three of them formed an unconventional little constellation under Evelina’s roof.

During a childhood game, Lucy was briefly trapped in a dark storage cupboard for a short time… and from that day on, tight, airless spaces left her chest a little too tight and her palms a little too damp… though she rarely speaks of it. At ten, Thomas gifted her a young dapple-grey gelding, the first thing she ever knew was wholly hers, and it marked the beginning of the freedom she still finds in the saddle.

Though she never had a formal London Season, Lucy has attended enough salons, dinners, and quiet gatherings alongside Evelina to know society well. She knew many people by face, or by reputation, and some stood out amongst the crowd. Over the years she crossed paths with Ginny Green, whose lively sincerity never overran its warmth; with Julian Lockwood, memorable mostly for the reputation that seemed to precede him; and with Miles Seymour, who held a room’s attention almost effortlessly, though Lucy kept her opinion about the latter two to herself. Alaric Jaxley she encountered more quietly… in doorways, hallways, and the edges of Evelina’s study, a steady presence more often seen than spoken to.

Now twenty-three,  Lucy’s life is balanced between what she has been given and what is about to be placed directly in her hands. In a year, her full inheritance will come to her: income, a small household of her own, and the horses that will be a source of independence and stability most women in their society rarely have.
She enters the Yuletide Season not as someone seeking rescue or permission, but as a young woman raised to stand on her own feet… composed, discerning, quietly committed to choose the shape of her own future.

To Whom It May Concern...(interview) - DONE

INTERVIEW

1. “Hᴏᴡ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴇsᴄʀɪʙᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʀᴇᴘᴜᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ? Aɴᴅ ʜᴏᴡ ᴀᴄᴄᴜʀᴀᴛᴇ ɪs ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴅᴇsᴄʀɪᴘᴛɪᴏɴ, ᴛʀᴜʟʏ?”

"Mm… I believe I am considered a curiosity. Not scandalous, not controversial... simply difficult to place neatly on a shelf. Mother would allow nothing less. No one questions her judgment aloud, and fewer still are bold enough to whisper against her.”

"As for accuracy?" I give a small smile. "I think I’m exactly as mysterious as people expect me to be... and not nearly as simple as they assume."

2. “Wʜᴀᴛ ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟɪᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴅᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ʀᴇᴄᴇɪᴠᴇ ᴍᴏsᴛ ᴏғᴛᴇɴ… ᴀɴᴅ ᴡʜʏ ᴅᴏɴ’ᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ʙᴇʟɪᴇᴠᴇ ɪᴛ?”

"I’m told I have a calming presence. Which is funny, because I hardly ever feel calm myself. I’m thinking, all the time... cataloguing, assessing, watching the room like it’s a chessboard." I brush the fabric of my dress across my legs delicately, "If I appear serene, it’s only because I’ve learned how to look that way."

3. “Dᴇsᴄʀɪʙᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀ ɪᴅᴇᴀʟ sᴜɪᴛᴏʀ.”

"Someone who speaks plainly, listens sincerely, and doesn’t mistake kindness for weakness. A man who isn’t threatened by a woman who has a mind... or a past... of her own. He doesn’t need to be perfect. In fact, I’d prefer he wasn’t.
But he must be clever, someone who meets me where I am, and capable of surprising me… at least a little."

4. “Wʜᴀᴛ ɪs ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀsᴛ ᴀᴅᴠɪᴄᴇ ʏᴏᴜ’ᴠᴇ ᴇᴠᴇʀ ғᴏʟʟᴏᴡᴇᴅ?”

“Sidesaddle is the proper seat for a lady. I tried it. Once. Countess Adair took one look at my face afterward and said, ‘My dear, propriety is useless if you are concussed.’ I’ve ridden comfortably ever since.”

5. “Wʜᴀᴛ ɪs ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴍᴏsᴛ ᴄᴏɴᴛʀᴏᴠᴇʀsɪᴀʟ ᴏᴘɪɴɪᴏɴ… ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴛᴇᴀ, ғᴀsʜɪᴏɴ, ᴄᴏᴜʀᴛɪɴɢ ᴇᴛɪϙᴜᴇᴛᴛᴇ—ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴇʟsᴇ?”

"I dislike tea. There. I’ve said it. Weak tea, strong tea, sweetened, unsweetened... it all tastes like disappointment in a cup. If anyone faints hearing this, please revive them with anything but tea."

6. “Wʜᴀᴛ ɪs ᴏɴᴇ ᴛʜɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜʀ ғᴀᴍɪʟʏ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʙᴇ ʜᴏʀʀɪғɪᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʟᴇᴀʀɴ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ʏᴏᴜ?”

"That half the time I ‘get lost,’ it’s entirely intentional.
I like discovering things I’m not supposed to see... old corridors, gardens no one tends anymore, quiet corners where people forget to pretend. It’s remarkable what one discovers when one decides to wander."

7. “Wʜᴀᴛ’s ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴘᴇʀsᴏɴᴀʟ ᴍᴏᴛᴛᴏ?”

"Respect is my threshold. Cross it well, or not at all."

8. “Wʜᴀᴛ ɪs ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏsᴛ sᴄᴀɴᴅᴀʟᴏᴜs ᴛʜɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ’ᴠᴇ ᴅᴇғɪɴɪᴛᴇʟʏ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴅᴏɴᴇ?”

With a perfectly straight face. "I have definitely never slipped out of a crowded gathering by climbing out a window to avoid a suitor I could not endure for another minute. …Definitely. Never."

Last edited by BambiFoxx (Yesterday at 15:46)

Holding here as I scramble...