If anyone had told Gwen O’Dorchaidhe four months ago that she would willingly spend Christmas Eve touring a picturesque English village in search of tree decorations, she would have charmed their socks into snakes.
Yet here she was, marching down a postcard-perfect Cotswolds lane where stone storefronts glittered with frost-laced ivy and heavy boughs of snow. Cold air bit her cheeks, prompting her to pull her scarf tighter. She’d layered her clothes in damp-resistant charms, but the biting winter wind cut sharper than she’d anticipated.
Julian had taken charge of the morning outing, acting as an enthusiastic tour guide for Will, who clutched a crumpled, heavily annotated checklist from his Seattle-based aunt like a tactical map.
“My aunt said the Cotswolds are a big deal,” Will had declared that morning, triggering an unavoidable excursion Gwen had tried to veto twice over breakfast. Dragging herself through a holiday crowd of tourists with Julian and Tristan wasn’t her idea of leisure, but Will looked happy—and irritatingly, Gwen lacked the heart to pop his balloon.
After wading through the market crowds, Julian pointed a gloved hand toward a green-timbered, gold-lettered shop sign with window display shelves full of miniature glittering, sparkling treasures. “Next stop on the vicarious bucket list: The Victorian Christmas Shop.”
Will let out a dramatic sigh, his breath pluming in the freezing air as he adjusted his thick wool scarf. “If I don’t buy something excessively fragile to mail across the Atlantic, she might never let me come home.”
Inside, the shop was an assault of manufactured cheer. It smelled of crushed spruce needles, cinnamon, and perfectly packaged nostalgia. Shelves towered to the ceiling, overwhelmed with wintry miniatures of pop culture icons Gwen barely recognized, an army of colourful nutcrackers standing at attention, and too many carved ornaments to count.
Gwen drifted down an aisle of porcelain snowmen, hiding near a display of frosty globes. A few aisles over, hidden behind a towering stack of Santas, Tristan’s and Julian’s mocking murmurs drifted over the shelves.
“Even a jolly old elf wouldn’t smile this unhinged,” Tristan’s dry, unimpressed drawl floated through the tiers.
“You clearly haven’t stared at Aunt Margaret’s prized hand-painted nutcracker collection after three glasses of Grandfather’s extra-spiked cider,” Julian teased back, his voice lilting with amusement. “That’s a grin even a hobgoblin would flinch at.”
“Remind me why I agreed to come?” Tristan sighed.
“It’s not too late to join my dad and Uncle Ed for a heated political debate,” Julian said.
“Tempting. But I’d rather mock ornaments with you.”
Gwen rolled her eyes, smothering a smile as she turned back to the display. Will appeared beside her a moment later, staring blankly at a rack of merry woodland creatures. “Do you think my aunt can tell the difference between a cardinal and a robin?”
Gwen laughed. She lifted a star-shaped glass ornament spiralled with gold filigree that caught the shop’s warm light. When the illumination struck the faceted junctions just right, an iridescent violet shimmered through the glass.
“Stick with the classics, Mason,” Gwen said quietly, handing it to him. “It’s beautiful. And if she’s unsatisfied, you can tell her it was my idea.”
Will looked down at the star, then up at Gwen, his hazel eyes softening in a way that made her heartbeat stutter. “I knew I could count on you. It’s perfect. Thanks, Gwen.”
Julian approached from behind to peer over Will’s shoulder with an appreciative hum. “Nice. But international mail is a mobile graveyard for ornaments. Pass the glass, Will.”
Will carefully passed the ornament. Julian murmured a low incantation while the stone on his ring brightened. A faint, shimmering netting wrapped around the surface before sinking invisibly into the material.
“Some families have ancient curses; we have unbreakable baubles,” Julian said, winking. “It’s just a Vane-style stasis charm. You could drop two stories, and it’d bounce like a rubber ball. For about a week.”
“Does this work on everything?” Will asked.
“Haven’t tried everything,” Julian admitted. “It takes a lot of resonance control to make it work on small things. Bigger things aren’t stable. But maybe for you…” Julian shrugged. “Maybe we can experiment while you’re here. Plenty of heirlooms we can try dropping.”
An hour later, Julian steered them toward the frozen River Windrush, where Julian conjured ice benches out of the snow to serve as an impromptu skate-changing station. Gwen and Tristan guided Will through a freezing spell to ensure the river stayed thoroughly chilled.
Gwen laced up her dark leather skates with mechanical efficiency. While her warm-weather seasons were spent in the saddle, her winters at O’Dorchaidhe Manor had been defined by icy mornings on the estate lake—drilling footwork as a practical excuse to escape the critiquing eyes inside the house.
She stepped onto the unevenly frosted river, steel blades carving a sharp, effortless arc—and stopped dead.
Will was already gliding across the centre of the scuffed, chalky ice. He moved fluidly through tight crossovers and sharp stops, the metallic ring of his skates echoing against the surrounding fir trees. He grinned when he caught her staring.
“You’re good,” Gwen admitted, crossing her arms.
He glided toward her, coasting to a halt before deftly pivoting, sliding behind her, and wrapping his arms around her waist. The heat of his chest against her back—and the scent of spruce, icy coffee, and damp wool—made her breath catch.
“Don’t look so surprised,” he murmured near her ear, his chin resting near her shoulder. “There are a few things I’m better at than you, O’Dorchaidhe.”
Gwen’s competitive O’Dorchaidhe pride flared, hot and indignant. Oh, absolutely not.
Without pausing to rationalize it, Gwen pushed out of his embrace. Her blades hissed against the ice as she surged into a sprint, cutting a hard circle around him. Will blinked in surprise as she stopped directly in front of him, spraying a shower of fine ice crystals across his leather boots.
“Let’s see how long that confidence lasts, Mason,” Gwen challenged, her chin tilting up with a sharp, daring smirk. “Ten laps. First to finish names the prize.”
Will’s emerald eyes flashed with thrilled recognition. “Try and keep up, O’Dorchaidhe.”
For the next twenty minutes, the serene river became a battleground. They tore around the perimeter in a blur of chases, sharp crossovers, and smooth pivots, breathlessly pushing faster and faster. Gwen refused to accept second place, leaning hard into the curves until her thighs burned; Will matched her stride for stride—laughing whenever their shoulders brushed on a tight turn.
Standing safely off the ice, Tristan lounged on one of the ice benches, cradling two steaming mugs of cider and watching their laps with weary amusement. Julian abandoned his skates and stood beside him, hands stuffed deep into his coat pockets. Then, a cluster of local children wobbled to the edge of the ice, securing their skates as they watched the competition with nervous faces.
Julian blew a sharp whistle between his teeth. “All right, speed demons! Time to share the ice before you take out a toddler.”
Gwen slammed to a halt, spraying a cloud of white powder. Her lungs burned, breath coming in ragged, visible plumes. It wasn’t the winter air flushing her cheeks scarlet, but the mortifying realization she had completely lost her composure, shouting and racing across a public river like an unhinged teenager.
She lowered her gaze, self-consciously tugging her scarf higher over her chin. She was tempted to hide her face completely. “Right. Of course. That was… ridiculous.”
Will glided up beside her, his breath fogging the frosty air between them. He reached out, his gloved fingers gently brushing sweat-damp hair from her forehead.
“Hey,” Will murmured, his voice dropping below the noise of the children clattering onto the ice. “You don’t have to apologize for having fun, Gwen. Besides… we’ll have plenty of time to compete over something else in the new year.”
Gwen’s heart did that erratic, dangerous flutter against her ribs. She swallowed hard, meeting his gaze, and gave a single, firm nod. “It’s a deal.”
As the sun dipped behind the snow-dusted firs, casting greying shadows across the riverbanks, the four of them retreated to the warm, amber-lit respite of the Vane estate for Christmas Eve.
Unlike the rigid, perfected dinners at O’Dorchaidhe Manor—where every fork scrape and spoonful was evaluated like an audition—Christmas Eve with the Vanes was unplanned and unrehearsed. No expectations timed to the minute. They ate roasted chestnuts by the hearth, debated the merits of various candies, and listened to Great-Aunt Penny recount wildly embellished family legends that grew taller with every glass of mulled wine.
Will fit in easily. Gwen realized she’d worried for nothing. He’d never needed her as a guide in a home like this. The occasional bits of Ink etiquette or magic lore she supplied were rare, and she knew, deeply, that these people would never mock him for asking.
It was Gwen who needed a guide. Will kept taking her hand under the low table or resting a warm palm against her spine whenever she tensed, wordlessly reminding her to breathe. And she did—though not as effortlessly as her brother.
Gwen watched Tristan across the room, observing the many ways he’d surrendered to the festive cheer. He wore a hand-knitted, checkered jumper courtesy of Julian’s mother, laughing aloud at something Julian whispered in his ear. The brilliant, unshielded ease in Tristan’s smile was a version of him Gwen was only beginning to know. If only ease came to me so naturally, she thought. Maybe one day it would—no, she felt certain it could, if Will kept holding her hand.
Christmas morning arrived, the parlour floor buried under a crinkling avalanche of torn wrapping paper. The Vanes’ Secret Santa exchange was loud, competitive, and entirely chaotic.
Julian ripped open a golden envelope to find two tickets to the professional Fen-Ball Championship Finals. A handwritten note slipped out, reading: So you can sit in the owner’s box and yell at professional athletes instead of your own teammates. Julian let out a triumphant laugh, immediately planning who he would drag with him.
Tristan unwrapped an encyclopedia on bloodline curses thicker than his head—complete with a charmed bookmark that recorded his place to the word—and looked genuinely, ridiculously thrilled.
Will had gifted Uncle Ted a small bundle of sugary American snacks and a 1985 fantasy film, which Ted accepted like a prized artifact, declaring he couldn’t wait to discuss Tim Curry’s best roles with Will later. Gwen received a wooden tea chest from Katherine filled with loose-leaf blends charmed to shift flavour depending on the drinker’s mood—a thoughtful gift that made Gwen’s chest tighten with genuine gratitude. Julian’s mother accepted a set of protective, curse-resistant silver earrings from Gwen and immediately clipped them on.
When it came to Will, his grandfather, Howard Vane, stepped forward and handed him a slim, leather-bound volume without a word.
Will unspooled the silk ribbon and opened the cover. It was an advanced treatise on the resonance of decaying and dying things—a book that Gwen recognized instantly and would have willingly committed petty theft to possess. But inside the flyleaf, written in a plain, neat script, was a name: Alec Vane. The margins were crammed with fine, orderly notes.
Will stared at his late father’s handwriting, an immeasurable, quiet weight settling over him. He carefully flipped through the crammed pages, his expression blank but tight, controlled except for a wet shine over his eyes, quickly blinked away. His brows pinched as he studied phrases he’d never been taught.
Gwen’s fingers slid under the edge of the settee to capture Will’s, giving his hand a soft, understanding squeeze that helped him breathe again before he could get too lost in his head. Will returned the squeeze, cleared his throat, and thanked his grandfather for the gift, promising to keep it safe.
Then, as the towering grandfather clock in the hall struck eleven, the festive light of the room lost some of its welcoming lustre.
The carriage waited outside on the drive, its iron wheels crunching as it landed in the frost. Rules were rules. Tristan and Gwen had to return to O’Dorchaidhe Manor by midday to greet extended family and play their parts in the highly choreographed Christmas dinner—a public display of bloodline unity that neither sibling possessed the political capital to skip.
Julian wrangled Tristan out of the room with an arm around his neck—a kidnapping Tristan didn’t resist. Will met Gwen’s gaze and tilted his head toward the door. Under the pretense of retrieving coats and forgotten belongings, the pairs slipped away.
Tristan and Julian vanished eastward—likely to the library—for a private, stolen goodbye before the carriage escort lost patience, while Gwen walked out into the crisp, snow-dusted sculpture garden and met Will beneath the canopy of an old weeping beech.
Gwen stood with rigid poise, clutching a small, neatly wrapped parcel in her coat pocket. Will approached, holding his own square package behind his back, nervously brushing back his dark curls.
“Before you have to run off and pretend to be a civilized O’Dorchaidhe heir again,” Will said, clearing his throat, “I… wanted to give you this.”
He handed her the small box. Gwen hesitated, her fingers brushing his as she took it.
“Sorry if it’s too simple for an O’Dorchaidhe,” Will admitted, staring down at the snow and rubbing the back of his neck where his black marks shimmered. “I know my magic is amateur compared to Ink heirlooms, and I didn’t have months to commission something expensive. I just… hope you like it.”
Gwen’s chest tightened. She hadn’t spent the last week worrying about expense; she had worried her finger raw, twisting her ring with the painful thought that whatever she gave him would look like an obligatory, emotionally distant holiday duty rather than something real.
She carefully pulled back the dark green paper to reveal a delicate silver chain holding a polished piece of dark sea-glass, etched with faint runes.
“I know it’s not as good as the one you lost when we fought the Dullahan,” Will whispered, his eyes searching her face. “It’s also new, so it doesn’t have that heirloom shine. But I spent three nights pouring my resonance into the glass to boost its anchor potential. I had Cal test it, and he seemed to think it was impressive.”
Gwen stared down at the pendant, a thick lump forming in her throat. She pulled at her coat collar, drew her hair away from her neck, and turned her back to him. Before she could muster the steadiness to ask, Will was already moving to fasten the chain around her neck. The moment the metal touched her skin, she felt a familiar, comforting hum of Will’s violet magic matching her pulse.
“It’s better than good,” Gwen managed, her voice strained as she stroked the silver-wrapped glass. “I’d rather have this than a heavy heirloom.” She pulled her own package from her pocket and thrust it toward him with anxious urgency. “Here. Happy Christmas.”
Will blinked and took the rectangular box. He tore off the indigo velvet wrapping to reveal an exquisite leather-bound letter set, complete with a gold-embossed pen, a sturdy inkwell, and a neat stack of cream-coloured paper.
Will stared at it, a slow, bewildered smile spreading across his face. “A letter set?”
“You still struggle with the standard letter-sending spell, so I charmed these to automatically send to me once sealed,” Gwen stated firmly, though the rigid edge in her voice melted away. “If you think I am going to rely exclusively on texting on a campus that actively confuses technology, you’re completely mistaken. You will write me. And you will write legibly.”
Will let out a low, disbelieving laugh, looking up at her with unfiltered, radiant fondness that made Gwen feel exposed—and completely unwilling to look away.
“Seems we have a problem,” Will murmured softly.
Panic spiked. Gwen’s eyes shot to the letter set. “What? I checked it over. It can’t be missing—”
“I’m going to run out quick if I’m writing you every day,” he interrupted.
The heat of her panic melted into rosy bliss. She grabbed his collar, pulled him down to her level, and kissed his mouth. “You’re right. You will run out quick.”
Across the lawn, a bright, impatient flare of the O’Dorchaidhe carriage lamps reflected off the crisp winter snow—a reminder of the gilded cage waiting for her.
Gwen sighed. So this was how Cinderella felt at midnight. She reached out, her gloved fingers lacing firmly with Will’s beneath the snowy, drooping branches.
“As much as I’d like to experiment with another time-stopping charm, I think you should see me off, Mason,” she said, her voice steady.
Will squeezed her hand. “It’s only goodbye until next term,” he promised.
Gwen offered a small, fierce smile. “You can’t avoid me that easily, Will Mason,” she warned. “I’ll be expecting your first letter next week.”