Silent Night by Deanna Raybourn Read Free Book Online Page B

exceedingly handsome pagan god, the Green Man come gloriously to life.
    “Brisbane, what—”
    “It is a Yule log. For burning,” he explained helpfully.
    “Yes, I know what a Yule log is for, but—”
    I noticed then the cluster of men at the door—most of the male staff, my brothers Benedick and Plum, and even Aquinas.
    “You wanted a traditional Christmas. And it is not a traditional Christmas without a Yule log.”
    He opened his arms and I went into them, absurdly, wholly delighted with this enigmatic man that I had married.
    “But you do not like tradition,” I murmured into his ear.
    “I like you,” he replied. His arms tightened about me, and I went on tiptoe to thank him with a kiss. My brothers made appropriately appalled noises and Aquinas shepherded the staff out with promises of warm punch in the kitchen.
    “If we are burning a Yule log, we really ought to hang the holly and the ivy,” I mused.
    “Julia.” Brisbane’s voice held a warning edge.
    “It is also tradition,” I protested.
    “It is your father’s house and we are already trespassing upon his good-will by burning this monstrosity against his wishes.”
    “I think Father will be inclined to holiday mirth by and by. And if we are putting up the decorations, we must have mistletoe,” I said, giving him my most innocent look.
    He canted his head, very like Grim, I observed. “Mistletoe?”
    “Mistletoe.”
    “Lots of it?”
    “Piles of it.”
    “Where do you plan to hang it?” he asked, much more interested in the subject suddenly.
    “Oh, everywhere .”
    * * *
    That evening, Father said nothing about the Yule log that had been pushed into the fireplace and prepared for kindling into a holiday fire. Aunt Hermia had merely shrugged when I told her I intended to hang the greenery, and the appearance of Jane the Younger after dinner lightened the mood a little. Father smiled once or twice at her shrieks before retiring to bed early, and Brisbane and I passed a thoroughly satisfactory and entirely private evening in the solitude of our room.
    “Thank God for stout stone walls,” he said at one point, and I heartily agreed.
    The next morning was Christmas Eve, and even the discovery that another pretty bauble had gone missing was not enough to dampen my rising spirits.
    “But it is Jane the Younger’s favourite teething ring,” Portia protested. The thief had absconded with the pretty mother-of-pearl piece I had bought Jane the Younger, and the loss of it had not settled well with either mother or child. “I am afraid without it, she might get fretful.”
    “Get?” Brisbane said under his breath.
    “I heard that, brother,” she retorted. I hurried to smooth the moment.
    “I’m sure it will turn up. After all, Christmas is full of surprises.”
    “Julia,” she said narrowly, “you’re wearing an enigmatic face.”
    “Don’t be feeble. This is the face I was born with.”
    We fell to quarrelling gently then, and the day passed with agonizing slowness. I spoke to Aquinas, organising what was necessary, and starting each time I heard something in the entry hall. At length it was time for tea and we all gathered in the great hall, with the exception of Portia and Jane the Younger. The room had been hung with long boughs of evergreen and the spicy scent of it filled the air with wintry promise. Great bowls of Rose’s clove-studded oranges sat on each tables, and the footmen had carried in tall jars of the damp potpourri, placing them carefully upon the hearth so the warmth of the kindled Yule log would send their scented vapours through the room. As a special treat, Aquinas served wassail with the tea. It had been ladled into the traditional bowl, an enormous affair of ancient wood mounted in silver. Roasted apples bobbed merrily on the surface, and I murmured a warning to Brisbane about the strength of the stuff. It was sweetly spiced and a single glass could fell an unwary soul.
    “What is this?” Father grumbled.