The carriage’s wooden wheels crunched loudly as it settled onto frozen gravel, aiming for the foot of a sweeping, multi-tiered stone staircase. Beyond the frosted windowpanes, the Vanes’ ancestral Gloucestershire estate loomed through the swirling grey mist of late December. It stood as a staggering masterpiece of Jacobean architecture—a fortress carved from weathered stone, crowned with steep gables and towering chimneys, all cloaked in pristine winter snow.
Hobgoblin decorators dressed the imposing manor in a display of holiday opulence. Thick ropes of vibrant green fir and holly cascaded down the stone balustrades, dusted with silver frost. Enchanted, flickering ice-candles floated at perfect intervals along the parapets, casting a pale, shivering glow against the mullioned windows.
Inside the carriage, Gwen and Will locked eyes as their ride finally halted. The swelling silence of the last ten minutes counting down their arrival felt loud. Will shifted his weight on the tufted leather seat, smoothing his hair, straightening his coat, and fiddling with his tiger’s-eye bracelet—stalling to build the courage to face the family he hadn’t known existed five months ago.
Gwen sat elegantly composed beside him, dressed in a tailored velvet coat the colour of a bruised midnight sky, her hands clasped over her lap. Her practised poise made her seem indifferent, even as her brain spun out of control.
She was an O’Dorchaidhe entering the Vane sanctuary. Worse, she was about to stand face-to-face with Howard Vane—the legendary patriarch, a giant of magical ecology, and a scholar idol whose textbooks and documentaries she had practically memorized.
Will’s green eyes fell to the shift of her hands, the slight tracing of the signet ring beneath her leather gloves. A soft smile broke through his nerves.
“Don’t be nervous, Gwen,” Will said. He reached across the space between them, his fingers sliding over hers and coaxing her tense hands to relax. “I’m already nervous enough for two.”
Gwen lifted her chin, her commanding grey eyes locking onto his. “I’m not nervous,” she insisted.
Will let out a low, breathless laugh. “Sure you’re not,” he teased softly, a mischievous glint warming his eyes. He squeezed her hand, his palm solid and reassuring. “It’s not every day you meet Howard Vane.”
Gwen swallowed, the tightness in her throat too strong to refute him.
With only one week left until Christmas Day, Will finally accepted Julian’s persistent invitation to visit the Vane Estate, bringing Gwen along under the guise of Will’s high-society tutor.
And, officially, his girlfriend.
Involuntary warmth crept up Gwen’s neck as she remembered the intensely glittered white Christmas card that had arrived at her own manor a week earlier, sent from Will’s aunt in Seattle. The neat cursive inside thanked Gwen for ‘looking after Will,’ a casual confirmation that Will had already introduced her to his normie family by that title. The thought alone made her pulse erratic.
A festively outfitted hobgoblin attendant clicked open the carriage door, revealing the biting wind and the grand, looming stone entry. Stepping out into the freezing air, the gravity of the political reality settled back onto her shoulders. Gwen had never been permitted to cross into the Vane territory before. Bitter accusations following the Hollow Lord’s sudden disappearance had left a raw wound between the O’Dorchaidhes and Vanes.
Gwen now knew the old rumours were true—her uncle, the Hollow Lord, was directly responsible for the death of Will’s biological father—Alec Vane, the cherished youngest son of the family patriarch. Meeting Alec Vane’s pale reanimation on the moors confirmed that the Vanes had always been justified in keeping any O’Dorchaidhes far from their home.
Not even when she was dating Clooney had she been allowed to visit. Another unexpected perk of dating the Chosen One.
Gwen looked up at the towering stone facade of the Vanes’ impressive manor. A sharp, cynical thought crossed her mind. She couldn’t help but wonder if Howard Vane, much like the enigmatic Chancellor Eddow, had known the truth all along. Had the patriarch always known that the unvetted Vapour boy across the Atlantic was a secret, surviving heir to the Vane bloodline?
Will offered his hand, his grip steady despite the uncertainty waiting for them inside. Gwen took it, stepped out onto the frost-rimmed stone, and prepared to face the griffin’s den.
Another hobgoblin appeared to bring in the luggage. The hunched, grey-skinned creature with oversized ears wore a green-and-red jumper and an oversized red velvet bow that clashed delightfully with its eerie nature. Will watched the hobgoblins with unease, his fingers tightening around Gwen.
“I thought hobgoblins were a Cairn-Gait thing,” Will whispered, eyes tracking the red-bow hobgoblin as it snapped its long fingers, floating Gwen’s heavy leather trunk and Will’s overstuffed backpack into the air.
“Cairn-Gait isn’t the only place to find gossip,” Gwen answered under her breath, keeping her stride smooth and regal. “Hobgoblins have long served Ink families—if you can call it that. It’s more of a mutual bribery.”
“You bribe them?” Will asked, wide-eyed and horrified by the concept of magical labour dynamics.
“Mutual bribery,” Gwen said, a small, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. “They keep our darkest family secrets, provided we trade enough valuables to satisfy them.”
Will watched the red-bow hobgoblin guide their luggage up the sweeping stone steps, its ears twitching. The first hobgoblin gestured with a gnarled, clawed hand, ushering them toward the massive, arched oak double doors.
“Why do you keep them around?” Will muttered, his jaw tight as he climbed. “Wouldn’t it be easier to… You know, not have a house full of magical eavesdroppers?”
“Probably,” Gwen admitted, “but hobgoblins possess unique magic. It’s always wise to have a working relationship with a few of them in times of trouble.”
As they reached the threshold, the massive oak doors swung inward. Instantly, a wave of cinnamon-scented warmth bloomed outward, chasing away the Gloucestershire chill.
The Vane estate’s entry hall was a breathtaking exhibition of historic luxury. Soaring vaulted ceilings were crossed with blackened oak beams. The deep amber glow of clustered candles in wrought-iron chandeliers reflected off the polished hardwood floors, chasing shadows into the corners. The holiday decor was a masterclass in classic cheer. Massive swags of real spruce and fir, with dried orange slices wrapped around the grand balustrade, filled the air with a spiced, nostalgic fragrance. Deep crimson velvet ribbons tied in intricate, perfect bows around ancient suits of armour grounded the Jacobean architecture in holiday warmth.
Will swallowed, his boots shuffling to a slow stop at the edge of the carpet as the suffocating scale of the history—and the wealth—settled over him. His humble idea of going home for the holidays shattered against the hard reality of the grand dynasty he’d stepped into—a history bound to his own blood.
Gwen had little time to admire the architecture before a familiar voice shattered the formal silence.
“He finally shows up!”
Julian Vane jogged down the grand staircase, defying the manor’s orderly formality. Ever the picture of laid-back charm, he wore an oversized, comfortable cream cable-knit jumper, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, unbothered by the heavy history around him. He spread his arms wide in a boisterous welcome as he reached the bottom.
Julian grinned and pulled Will in for a brief, heavy-handed half-hug that squeezed the tension from Will’s shoulders. He then looked at Gwen and gave her a warm, easy wink. “And it’s always good to see you, Gwen.” They exchanged an even briefer hug, catering to Gwen’s preferences. “You can now finally claim the Vanes allowed you past the estate perimeter.”
“One less thing Tristan can brag about,” Gwen said quietly, tilting her head and smiling politely.
“Speaking of—he’s been here a week,” Julian chuckled. “Tristan already monopolizes the best armchair in the library. Don’t even think of wanting the second-best, Will. I know how O’Dorchaidhes like their lurking chairs.”
Gwen resisted the urge to roll her eyes, though an aristocratic prickle of resentment flared in her chest. Of course Tristan had. Her older brother was the rare exception to the unwritten no-O’Dorchaidhes rule, because of his lifelong friendship with Julian. For almost two decades, Tristan’s regular invitation to the legendary Vane Christmas party had been an unspoken, bitter sore spot while they barred Gwen’s entry.
Their father, the Machiavellian Lord O’Dorchaidhe, had praised Tristan for his ‘diplomatic efforts’ in repairing the political divide between their houses. But that praise vanished the moment their father realized only Tristan was ever welcome, never the family name he carried. No wonder her father had seemed oddly cheerful when he discovered Gwen was now dating a Vane heir—even if Will was an impure, untaught Newblood. To her father, Will was a master key to a rather tricky lock.
“Everyone’s in the parlour,” Julian said, gesturing deeper inside the house. He turned to the diminutive hobgoblin waiting by the door. “Give Short Round your coats and join the chaos.”
Will’s eyes widened, stunned into motionlessness. His initial wariness snapped back into place as the grey-skinned attendant—Short Round—shuffled forward, bowed low, and extended a spindly, clawed arm to take Gwen’s midnight-blue coat.
Julian broke into laughter, leaning back against the stone banister, trying to cover his amusement by clearing his throat. Gwen couldn’t help but let a soft smile slip, too. Will glanced between them, his ears turning red, realizing he’d missed the joke but not sure he wanted it to be funny.
“Sorry, Will, that must sound wild without the context,” Julian said, forcing a warm composure. “He named himself Short Round. Massive Harrison Ford fan.”
The hobgoblin grinned, a terrifying yet strangely endearing expression that revealed a mouthful of jagged, mismatched teeth. He patted his velvet waistcoat proudly. “You listen to Short Round,” the creature squeaked, pointing a sharp finger at Will. “You live longer.”
The cinematic reference muted the alarms in Will’s head, softening into bewildered recognition, and his shoulders dropped. “Temple of Doom,” he murmured, a genuine, slightly awkward smile finally breaking through.
“The best one,” Short Round declared, tugging Will’s heavy wool coat off with an efficient yank.
“Short Round picked up the obsession from my dad—uh, your Uncle Ted—he’s our resident movie buff,” Julian explained, clapping Will on the shoulder. “Dad mostly watches classic British cinema, but honestly, who can say no to a timeless adventure?”
Will let out a breathy laugh, nodding in awkward, friendly acceptance as the tiny creature scurried away with their winter gear.
“My uncle’s a movie buff too,” Will said.
Julian beamed. “We’ll have to compare top ten lists.”
He waved them forward, leading the way toward the parlour’s double doors. Will hesitated at the threshold, the low murmur of voices drifting through.
Gwen reached down, her fingers sliding into his, squeezing. Will looked down at her, a thin, uneasy smile on his face.
“You’ve got this, Will,” she whispered softly, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Just remember that they want to impress you just as much as you want to impress them.”
Will ducked his chin, the colour returning to his face.
Julian, deliberately looking ahead to give the illusion of privacy, called back over his shoulder, “She’s one-hundred percent correct, cousin. The aunts have been practising their smiles in the mirror all morning.”
Will took a deep, steadying breath, his grip tightening on Gwen’s hand with newfound resolve. “All right,” he whispered. “Let’s do this.”
Julian pushed open the dark walnut double doors, and they stepped into the parlour.
The room was a beautiful contradiction of eras. High, ancient stone walls and a deeply recessed, shadow-draped ceiling spoke of centuries of Vane history, but someone had intentionally softened the space for comfort. Plush, sleek charcoal-grey modern sofas and low-profile minimalist tables clustered around a massive medieval hearth where a roaring fire crackled. In the corner stood a towering, majestic spruce tree, illuminated by hundreds of soft, warm-white bulbs and hung with delicate, shimmering glass ornaments.
A lively symphony of overlapping conversations, laughter, and the gentle clink of crystal glasses filled the air. But the moment Julian guided Will and Gwen across the threshold, the room muted.
Conversations snapped shut mid-sentence. Glasses suspended mid-air. Every face in the room pivoted toward the doorway, their eyes locking onto Will with a staggering intensity. For a long, agonizing beat, the only sound was the burning logs snapping in the fireplace.
Julian let out a breathy chuckle and ran a hand through his hair. “Well, that was natural,” Julian said, his tone effortlessly dissolving the awkward quiet. “Everyone, Will just got here.”
A collective wave of hesitant, entirely polite movement rippled through the room as the Vane family gathered around them.
Sarah, Julian’s mother, was the first to bridge the physical gap. She stepped forward, her kind eyes searching Will’s face with awe and tenderness. Sensing the paralysis holding him, she offered a gentle, reassuring smile. “Are you okay with a hug, Will?”
Will managed a nod, swallowing hard. “Yeah. Yes.”
That single permission broke the dam. Sarah stepped in and wrapped her arms around him in a tight embrace scented with fir and vanilla.
From there, the introductions spiralled into a warm, still-hesitant blur of faces and names. Aunt Margaret—Professor Edward Vane’s wife—stepped up next, offering a gentle hug that felt like an apology for the family’s decades of absence. Uncle Ted, Julian’s father, followed with a hearty, back-clapping embrace that was heavy with awkward affection.
Next came the cousins. Ellison, his stiff smile small under a groomed beard, and Katherine, brown eyes bright behind her glasses, stepped in for quick, clumsy hugs. Both looked as bewildered and awkward as Will about the sudden, world-altering revelation of their new family tree. Nearby, their father, Professor Edward Vane—whom Will knew as the reserved academic from his Cairn-Gait lectures—stood with his hands clasped behind his back and gave Will a stiff, formal nod, though his eyes shone wet and bright.
Through it all, Gwen moved like a shadow at Will’s side, letting him lead and watching the way everyone greeted him. She navigated the room with the gracious precision instilled in her—every interaction poised with the appearance of consideration. She let the cousins move on quickly, then became prudently attentive as she extended a steady hand to Great-Aunt Penny—a staple of the Cairn-Gait council—and her husband, Craig Brown.
“Gwen,” she said to each, her voice smooth and carefully modulated. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
She withheld her surname, wary of leading with the explosive title of O’Dorchaidhe in a room full of Vanes. She knew what her family name represented to them, and she refused to let her legacy overshadow Will’s moment.
Then, the crowd parted.
From the two large wingback chairs closest to the hearth, Howard and his wife, Juliana, rose. They moved slowly, more from the stillness of patience than the age weathering their skin. Juliana laid a trembling hand over her jumper’s collar while Howard stood tall, his presence commanding the same authority as any textbook he’d written.
They approached Will together. Juliana reached him first, her steadier hand touching his shoulder, then stroking his cheek as she searched Will’s green eyes—eyes like his father’s …and hers. She swallowed a sob, then wrapped her hands around him, her face pressed against his chest for a long, silent moment. When she pulled back, smiling and sniffling, Howard stepped in. The patriarch grabbed Will in a fierce embrace and squeezed his watery-rimmed eyes shut.
When Howard finally released him, his large hands remained resting heavily on Will’s shoulders. He stared into Will’s face, his voice thick and cracking with raw emotion.
“In pictures, you always look so much like your mother,” Howard whispered, his gaze tracing Will’s jaw, brow, and hair. “But standing here… I see him in you.”
The mention of Alec Vane brushed an almost tangible warmth through the parlour.
A collective breath hitched across the room. Tears spilled over Howard’s eyelids, tracking down the deep lines of his face. Juliana reached out, her hand shaking as she gripped her husband’s forearm just to keep her balance. Across the circle, Sarah plucked paper tissues from the table and wept quietly into her hands. Even stoic Professor Vane blinked rapidly, fighting to keep his eyes dry. Uncle Ted let out a ragged sniffle, and Sarah shifted, rubbing his back and comforting him as the memory of his long-lost brother drifted through them.
The collective grief slammed into Will like a tidal wave. Gwen saw him fighting to stay still beneath his grandfather’s grip, fighting to do what they expected. But his breathing turned shallow. His foot shifted back, edging closer to the only door. Resonance leeched from his tiger’s-eye bracelet, unable to fully filter the emotions fuelling a volatile charge.
Gwen slid her hand to the crook of his elbow, her fingers pressing firmly into his arm. Breathe. She concentrated on sharing that singular thought.
Through the fabric of their clothes, she channelled a steady, unyielding stream of calm to push out the panic. Deep within his chest, that familiar, beautiful thread of his violet resonance spun out, weaving through hers, a seamlessly connected resonance mending through the narrow point of her touch.
Will took a deep, chest-expanding breath, his spine relaxing and his shoulders dropping.
He glanced down and gave Gwen a brief, sideways smile—a thank you meant only for her. Then, chin lifted and anchor secured, he turned back to face his family.
Howard released his grip on Will’s shoulders, patted his arm twice, then stepped back to give his grandson room to breathe. Beside him, Juliana dabbed at her wet eyes with a lace handkerchief, her delicate mouth curling into a fragile, radiant smile.
Recognizing that the room was drowning in decades of unshed tears, Uncle Ted cleared his throat and marched to the polished walnut drink cart near the hearth.
“Right then!” Ted announced, his voice booming over the quiet sniffles. “Enough blubbering for one afternoon. Time to show Will how Vanes make merry.”
He splashed a generous measure of steaming, spiced mulled wine into heavy crystal goblets and handed the first to Will. Ted clapped Will on the shoulder—a solid, back-thumping gesture that rattled the crystal and banished the overwhelming grief.
Across the parlour, tension melted into a comfortable holiday hum. The Vanes sank back into the plush charcoal-grey sofas, glasses clinked, and the cozy aroma of cinnamon, roasted oranges, and fir filled the air once more.
Aunt Margaret stepped into the hearth’s warmth and smiled gently at Will as he took a slow sip of spiced wine. “Julian tells us you went to stay with the Whitleys when the term ended,” she said, her tone carefully sympathetic.
“Yeah, my first time on a barley farm,” Will said, a self-deprecating edge to his voice. “And I don’t think I’m getting hired.”
“Oh, you don’t be so hard on yourself, Will,” she cooed with a short, airy laugh. “It’s wonderful you’re easing yourself into a new world in small ways first. I’m sure they were delighted to have you. Though, goodness knows, the Whitleys have always marched to their own drum. You’ll have plenty of time to learn from us, dear.”
Will’s smile twitched, the parlour’s warmth feeling a degree colder, but Aunt Margaret didn’t give him a moment to dwell on it.
“I had concerns about your journey up here,” she said. “I wouldn’t know what carriages go that far—must’ve been dreadful with the fog. Was the carriage heated?”
Will opened his mouth, but his brain short-circuited as he tried to process her small talk. “Ah—yeah. It was… warm. Mostly.”
Gwen stepped smoothly into the microscopic silence, her tone flawlessly polite. “I made sure he booked a heated carriage for us, and the ride was very comfortable, Mrs. Vane. Will’s still learning to recognize temperature charms—he’s much more skilled at manipulating them.”
Aunt Margaret’s eyes lit up with warm approval. “Of course, no wonder he was sorted into Cairngorm. I imagine he gets that from his mother. Alec was always too focused on the whys and hows of everything.” She laughed softly at Will, then turned a fond gaze to Gwen. “And Julian mentioned you’ve been acting as his private tutor? His marks have been astonishing for someone new to sorcery studies.”
“Will’s progress is proof of his own talent,” Gwen replied with practised, modest grace, subtly shifting the credit back to him while shielding him from further interrogation. “He has an extraordinary, intuitive grasp of magic. I merely provide the structure.”
Will caught Gwen’s eye, her breath catching at the warm, overwhelming gratitude in his gaze as he took her hand. “That’s just her nice way of saying I’ve come a long way thanks to her.”
Gwen navigated the room like a seasoned diplomat, her presence an invisible shield at Will’s side. Their questions seemed to come from sincere curiosity rather than the usual prodding she faced at O’Dorchaidhe family gatherings. For a brief, shining moment, surrounded by the Vane family in the golden firelight, Gwen felt a rare, intoxicating flicker of belonging.
Professor Edward Vane stepped away from the mantel, holding a goblet of dark wine. “Miss Gwen has a remarkable reputation, Margaret,” Professor Vane said dryly, his voice carrying clearly over the hearth. “Diligent and intelligent. And I dare suspect her improvements in creative casting come from practising with a certain Chosen One? That flexibility is an asset in curse-breaking.”
Gwen allowed herself a small smile and kept her gaze steady on the professor. “Thank you, Professor. I agree. Will and I seem to bring out the best in each other.”
Will’s smile grew. She tried not to look. Admiring his smile too long might make the heat in her chest rise to her cheeks.
“She’s amazing at curses—breaking them, I mean,” Will added.
“You both are, if we can believe the stories,” Great-Aunt Penny remarked quietly, sipping from her crystal glass and watching the rim.
“Her classwork matches the tall tales,” Professor Vane agreed. “Professor Prospero is keeping an eye on her.”
Gwen’s stomach fluttered. Her hands tightened—she only noticed when Will squeezed her hand back. After a very difficult year, she’d at least checked one thing off her plan. She’d gained Prospero’s interest. She could already imagine her second-year schedule with his special classes.
“High praise coming from Edward,” Aunt Margaret chuckled, placing an affectionate hand on her husband’s arm. “It really is marvellous to see our young scholars cooperating so closely.”
Professor Vane took a measured sip from his glass, a faint, dry smirk touching his lips as he glanced toward the parlour’s arched entrance, where the distant creak heralded a new arrival.
“Indeed,” Professor Vane said casually. “Never thought I’d see the day we’d welcome two O’Dorchaidhes under this roof.”
Howard’s glass halted halfway to his mouth. Great-Aunt Penny hid her smirk behind another sip.
“You’re an O’Dorchaidhe?” Howard asked. His voice wasn’t loud. Not angry. But it possessed a command that chilled the parlour despite the blazing hearth.
The festive hum muted, replaced by nervous, darting glances as the family held their breath.
Gwen felt the blood drain from her face, but she refused to bow her head. She squared her shoulders, spine rigid, and chin held high, fingers pinched around the unmistakable ring on her pinky—every inch the proud daughter of a distinguished bloodline.
“Yes,” she answered evenly.
Howard set his glass down on a nearby side table. He rested his chin on his folded hands, his sharp, dark eyes narrowing as he studied her. The warmth that had filled his face moments ago turned to granite.
His features tightened into a bitter scowl as he shook his head. He turned his gaze to Will. With a dangerous rumble in his voice, he remarked, “I’m amazed you can tolerate sharing a room with her, let alone… this.” His eyes dropped to their joined hands. “It’s her family that killed your father.”
Gwen’s fingers went limp in Will’s grip, a sickening plummet in her chest. She shifted to pull her hand away, ready to bear the blow alone, but Will’s fingers tightened around hers. He refused to let go.
Will moved half a pace forward, putting himself between Gwen and the patriarch. He raised his chin, shoulders broad and steady.
“Gwen’s better than them,” Will said, firm and proud.
“Some of them,” a drawling voice cut in from the archway.
Tristan strolled casually into the parlour with an unbothered smile. He wore the most hideous jumper Gwen had ever seen—a chaotic weave of clashing reds and greens, with garish gold tinsel. Plastic tinsel, she suspected.
Julian snorted a laugh, the tension snapping free. He crossed the room and threw an arm over Tristan’s shoulders. “Let’s save the family feuds for tonight’s games,” Julian joked.
An uneasy wave of laughter rippled through the room. Howard looked around the circle, caught off guard by how quickly they claimed peace.
Aunt Margaret took advantage of the relief. She stepped forward, sitting gently on the wide arm of Howard’s wingback chair, and placed her soft fingers over his tensely clasped hands.
“I think this season calls for a little goodwill, Dad,” Uncle Ted added quietly, giving Gwen a single, respectful nod across the room.
Howard looked down at his daughter-in-law’s hand, then at Will, holding Gwen’s hand. The patriarch let out a long, heavy exhale, easing his resentment just enough for the room to breathe again.
Over dinner, the fragile peace grew stronger as the Vanes’ cheerful hospitality overcame any lingering awkwardness. The dining room was as much a feast for the eyes as for the stomach—roasted meats, glazed root vegetables, Great-Aunt Penny’s decadent fruit cake, and rich plum pudding. With each course, the afternoon’s icy reserve melted, replaced by the clink of silverware and warm, rambling stories from past Christmases. Even Tristan and Gwen found themselves sharing a tale about the strange gifts they’d exchanged as children, a tradition long lost.
By the time the family’s hobgoblins cleared the last dessert plates, the festive spirit had returned in full force. The Vanes insisted on their non-negotiable post-dinner tradition of holiday charades, sweeping the party back toward the main hearth with jovial momentum.
The Vanes pushed back the furniture, clearing a stage in the parlour’s centre. The atmosphere had warmed since the tense afternoon confrontation—helped along by two generous decanters of aged port and Uncle Ted’s endless supply of jokes and obscure movie quotes.
Gwen perched on the edge of a velvet settee next to Will, her hands folded in her lap. Opposite them, Julian’s mother, Sarah, sat nursing a teacup, her kind eyes watching the younger generation with quiet warmth.
For the first few rounds, the competition was a dead heat. No thanks to Gwen. While everyone else made quick, intuitive, spot-on guesses, Gwen was clueless, owing all her points to Will somehow understanding her poor miming.
Tristan took the floor to act out a notoriously grumpy miser, crossing his arms, scowling fiercely down his nose, and aggressively counting invisible coins in his palm before shivering dramatically from the cold.
“Scrooge!” Julian shouted instantly, leaping to his feet and thrusting a fist in the air.
“Another point for the reigning champs,” Uncle Ted congratulated him with an affectionate thump on Tristan’s shoulder as he passed, and Tristan smiled shyly.
A few rounds later, the pressure landed on Will and Gwen’s team. Will took centre stage on the rug, stretched into an exaggerated stance, bared his teeth in a comically sinister smile, and began furiously clawing at his own chest while making exaggerated, thumping heartbeat gestures.
Gwen sat rigidly on the velvet settee, her grey eyes narrowed in intense, analytical concentration. She watched Will mimic stealing invisible presents, his slinking earning chuckles from the audience.
“A… a cursed botanical parasite?” Gwen guessed deadpan, entirely serious.
Will groaned, pantomiming a furry face and mouthing ‘green’ while Uncle Ted reminded her the theme was holiday films.
“Krampus?” Gwen tried, her face red, knowing it was hopeless yet unable to give up—her indifference to pop-culture knowledge sabotaging her competitive side.
The timer buzzer rang out, cutting Will off.
“Time’s up!” Ellison laughed from the couch. “It was ‘The Grinch’!”
Will dropped his hands, chuckling breathlessly as he shook his head. Gwen could only stare at the fidget of her signet ring. Will put his arm around her shoulders and kissed her cheek.
“Hey, it’s just another for our list,” he said, trying to cheer her up.
She sighed. “Your list is already too long.”
That left Tristan and Julian with the final, tie-breaking round.
Tristan stepped back to the centre of the rug and rolled up his sleeves. He crossed his wrists as if bound in heavy chains, mimed furiously writing with an invisible quill, then conjured three spectral, floating finger-waves in the air before holding up one finger for the first word.
Julian leaned forward, his hazel eyes locking onto Tristan’s with absolute, unspoken synchronicity.
“A…” Julian muttered, watching Tristan mimic silent singing with a book in his hands. Julian grinned. “A Christmas Carol!”
Tristan pointed a finger straight at Julian, then took a sweeping, triumphant bow as the timer chimed.
“Spot on!” Uncle Ted cheered, clapping his hands together. “That takes the final round. Tristan and Julian win again!”
The room erupted into applause and merry chatter. In the joyous chaos of the victory, Julian bounded out of his armchair, a radiant, unguarded grin lighting up his face. Without a second thought—purely on instinct and high spirits—Julian grabbed Tristan by the collar of his ridiculous jumper, pulled him close, and planted a firm, affectionate kiss on Tristan’s cheek.
Sarah’s teacup rattled as it dropped onto its saucer. Her face drained of colour as her eyes darted to Gwen, her expression turning to wide panic. The merriment died. All eyes tracked to Gwen.
Tristan caught the sudden freeze in the room. A rare blush crept up his neck, dusting his cheekbones pink. He looked at Sarah, seeing the genuine fear in her eyes, and offered her a soft, reassuring smile.
“She knows,” Tristan said quietly, his voice quiet yet steady, “about us.”
Sarah blinked, her lower lip trembling. She looked between Tristan’s shy smile and Gwen’s unbothered posture.
Tears welled in Sarah’s eyes. She set her saucer down on the side table and stepped forward, pulling Tristan into a crushing embrace. She buried her face in the shoulder of his gaudy jumper and squeezed him tightly.
“Oh, Tristan,” Sarah whispered softly, her voice thick with emotion.
When Sarah released Tristan, she turned directly to Gwen. Without a word, Julian’s mother reached out and pulled Gwen into the same tight embrace. Gwen went rigid, then forced herself to relax.
The easy warmth of Sarah’s arms bloomed into a deep ache in Gwen’s chest as an unbidden image flashed through her mind: the rare, loose embraces of her own mother, Lady O’Dorchaidhe. Her mother had never given affection this easily. So unearned.
Gwen knew, with disappointing certainty, how her mother would react if she ever discovered Tristan’s secret. No tearful hugs or tender acceptance—only a quiet expulsion, and the swift execution of a plan to restore the family name.
Gwen swallowed hard, a sudden lump in her throat, and wrapped her arms around Sarah to return the embrace.
“Thank you, Gwen,” Sarah murmured softly into her hair.
Gwen pulled back. She offered a faint smile to hide her quiet heartbreak, then sat back on the settee. She tried to pretend she felt nothing. Beside her, Will reached for her hand. She allowed herself to look at him. His green eyes were bright with understanding, and her resolve dissolved. She pressed close to his side and closed her eyes. For one moment, she accepted the warmth.
As the grandfather clock in the grand hall chimed past midnight, the evening’s lively chaos disbanded with exhausted yawns and mumbled good-nights. Howard and Juliana retired first, their steps heavy with the day’s emotional toll, and one by one, the aunts, uncles, and cousins filtered up the sweeping staircase to their beds.
Yet instead of letting go of Gwen’s hand when they reached her designated guest room, Will tugged her further. Gwen followed as he led her deeper, down a dark hall, already knowing they’d crossed beyond the guest wing. The modern comforts of the main estate faded here, replaced by narrow stone hallways, creaking floorboards, and the sharp chill of mountain air and moonlight filtering through leaded glass windows.
Will paused at a plain, dark-wood door. His hand hovered over the polished brass handle.
“Before we crash,” Will whispered, his voice barely louder than the rumbling of distant snores, “there’s… I want to show you something.”
He turned the handle with a quiet click and pushed the door open.
Inside was a room suspended in time. Gwen recognized the subtle double-image tint of a stasis charm, protecting the space from dust and change. The narrow, iron-framed bed was neatly made and covered in an indigo-plaid quilt. On the dark wood bookshelf, dusty divots gaped between leaning spines where borrowed tomes had never been returned. Piles of discarded clothes sat beside the heavy oak desk—a piece that should’ve been far too large for the room, yet barely held the clutter of overstuffed notebooks, leather tomes, and sketched sigils. A wool jumper in Cairngorm green—a shade no Vane Ink would proudly wear—draped casually over the back of the desk chair, as if its owner had just stepped out for a moment.
Will stepped inside, socks sliding on the smooth hardwood.
“Alec Vane’s room,” Will whispered, scanning the shelves. He reached out and tapped the spine of a leaning book. The stasis charm hummed against his fingertips—a dissonant vibration that softened as Will’s violet resonance rippled out to soothe it. He nudged the spine upright, only for it to fall back as the charm resettled.
“Julian showed it to me earlier, before dinner,” Will said, stepping back and crossing his arms. “But I wanted to see it with you.”
Gwen stepped in beside him. She didn’t offer empty words; she let the silence hold space for the quiet tragedy of a life frozen mid-sentence.
Will walked over to the desk, his calloused fingertips tracing the edge of the scarred wood. His eyes caught on a notebook brimming open with tucked sheets, dried foliage, and sketched diagrams. His resonance flexed across the desktop, an unconscious reach that thinned the stasis field just enough for a loose sheet of paper to slip from the notebook and flutter to the floor. Will picked it up carefully—a poorly scrawled note signed with a crooked ‘T.’ He smiled, his eyes shining in the dim light, and tucked it back into the pages.
“I spent half my life wondering who he was,” Will said, his voice thick. His eyes fixed on the desk. “A thousand times over as a kid, I’d sit on the porch and build him up in my head. Someone who left because he had to, not because he didn’t care. And the accent…” He exhaled a quiet, breathless laugh. “He always had one of those old movie accents in my head. It’s weird to think this whole time he was more Colin Firth than Jimmy Stewart.”
He swallowed hard, his shoulders hunching inward.
“When I met… that hollow—that controlled puppet the Hollow Lord made of him…” Will stopped, his breath hitching. He looked up at Gwen, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “I actually thought I was starting to find myself. But it turns out I know less than I used to.”
Gwen closed the distance between them. She reached up, framed his jaw with her hands, and forced him to look down into her steady gaze.
“You know more, Will,” Gwen said softly. “The hollow was not the man who lived in this room. And whatever piece of him you’re looking for, you haven’t lost it. That family downstairs has a lifetime of memories you can learn from.”
Will sniffled, then covered the hurt with a smile. “You would see it that way. Always finding a way to win.” He leaned down, pressed his forehead against hers, and wrapped his fingers around her wrists. “I just don’t know what to think about any of this. Being a Vane.”
He lifted his head slightly, her hands slipping down to his neck. “I’ve got twice the expectations now. The Chosen One and the lost son of Alec Vane.” He clenched his jaw and swallowed hard. “My whole life, I thought I was just some Vapour kid barely keeping his power under control. I don’t know what I am anymore, Gwen. And I don’t know what it means not being who I thought I was.”
Gwen’s breath caught as the obsidian mark on his skin sparked against her fingers, sending a familiar, electric thrill through her veins.
“I know exactly who you are, Will,” Gwen said, her grey eyes locking onto his with unwavering intensity. “Your bloodline doesn’t define who you get to be. You can choose to be better. You taught me that.”
Her thumbs brushed the tense line of his jaw.
“Whether you choose to be Will Mason or Will Vane, you are Will. You’re stubborn, powerful, kind, and extraordinarily strange.” Her voice dropped into a quiet, fierce intimacy. “I told you before—I wouldn’t change one thing about you. You’re the only version of you that matters.”
Deep in Will’s chest, the comforting hum of their magical resonance flared to life, thrumming with a steady, violet warmth that chased away the room’s chill. Beneath Gwen’s palm, resting flat against his ribs, she felt the answering thrum wake in her own blood—the lingering shard of his resonance that had taken root inside her since the Dullahan’s defeat—a growing harmony rising to the exact same tune.
The weight on Will’s shoulders dropped. He let out a shuddering breath, a small, genuine smile pulling at his lips. “I really needed to hear that.”
“Come on,” she murmured, her thumb tracing his cheekbone one last time before sliding into his hand. “There’s another room I’d like to see.”
He frowned. “What…?”
Gwen didn’t look back as she led him toward the door. “Yours.”