Christmas By Candlelight: Two Regency Holiday Novellas by Andrea Pickens Page B

unmarried young ladies of the land prepare treats for the elfin folk who fly in on storks to leave a gift on the pillow of every sleeping child.”
    Her lashes lifted ever so slightly. “How do they get into the houses?”
    “They, er, fly down the chimneys.” A gust whistled through the trees. “While in Denmark, the celebration takes on a different form. The North Wind blows in through the cracks in the windows and leaves an ice crystal on the mantel for every member of the family. When the morning comes, the fire is kindled to a great flame and the frozen gift melts into a wish.”
    Anna’s gaze had regained a bit of sparkle. “In Russia, a Baba Yaga is said to fly in on a mortar and pestle, leaving gifts for those who have been good all year and lumps of coal for those who have been bad.”
    “Ah, that is nothing compared to the monkeys of Malta, who according to an old Templar rite are allowed to pelt miscreants with rotten oranges from dawn to dusk on Christmas day.”
    A burble of laughter cut off any further fantasies. “Really, sir, how do you come up with such outrageous bouncers at the drop of a hat?”
    “As a government official, I am expected to be creative with language.”
    “You mean to lie through your teeth?” she demanded.
    He managed to assume an expression of mock indignation but it quickly quirked into a grin. “Well, if you put it that way. . .”
    “You have a wonderfully whimsical imagination, Lord Killingworth,” she said softly. “Thank you for lifting my spirits. I know everyone is expected to be happy at Christmas. But I find it. . . hard.”
    “If you are thinking that something is missing, Lady Anna, you are not alone.” Nicholas cut around an outcropping of rock. “No doubt it sounds blasphemous, but the season has always left me cold. There is so much jolliness all around—the cheerful laughter, the festive decorations of evergreen and mistletoe, the smells of sugar and spice perfuming the air. One feels guilty about not getting into the spirit of things. And yet, so much of the celebrating feels forced, or superficial. It sometimes seems the true meaning of the holiday has been lost.”
    “I hate Christmas,” she blurted out.
    Nicholas halted, ostensibly to give the horses a rest. “May I ask why?” he said, his hand lingering on her knee after he had smoothed out the folds of her coat.
    “Because it used to be a magical time of light.” She sniffed. “And love.”
    “What happened to change that?”
    Anna hesitated before answering. “I was in school here in England. My parents had been called away to St. Petersburg, but they had promised to return in time for us to share the holidays together, as we always did. However, the passage through the Baltic was a rough one, and by the time their ship reached Antwerp, it was running several days late.”
    She swallowed hard. “They should never have set sail that night, but the harbormaster said my father was so anxious to reach Dover without further delay that the captain relented. A winter gale. . .” Her voice, which had grown brittle as ice, finally cracked.
    His hand found hers and clasped it tightly. Through the thick wool he could feel her fingers. They were clenched together, as if seeking solace from each other. “If your uncle were here, I would hit him with a thumping right cross, rather than a snowball. He must be as hard and unfeeling as a lump of coal to have you traveling on your own so close to Christmas.”
    “He is not uncaring, merely unaware. At the time, he was away in the Far East. I don’t think he ever knew the exact date of the shipwreck. Or if he did, the significance did not quite sink in. You see, he is of the Orthodox faith, as are most Russians. By their calendar, Christmas comes in early January.” Her lips quivered. “In any case, he is too busy ordering important affairs to think about such small tragedies.”
    Without saying a thing, Nicholas pulled her down from the makeshift