Half laughing, half stumbling, I’m caught between my brother and sister. Within a minute, we slip into anold rhythm—a spinning, clapping, foot-stomping burst of childhood muscle memory.
A right step, left cross, stomp-twist, and turn. Then a full circle spin and back again.
We link arms and twirl, switching partners, our laughter rising above the music.
We used to dance like this in the drawing room of the chalet as children, our grandparents watching—barefoot on the antique rugs, mimicking what we’d seen at village fêtes—and our happiness echoing against stone walls and high ceilings.
Now, under string lights and falling snow, we dance for the sheer pleasure of being together.
Freja throws her head back and whoops.
Aksel claps in time.
I let myself go.
When the song ends, we’re breathless and rosy-cheeked. A small crowd claps for us.
Aksel bows dramatically.
Freja curtsies. “We’re a troupe,” she declares. “We should start charging.”
“Well, that was something.” I feel the heat of Ransom’s body behind me just as I hear his voice.
I still.
“Just some silly dancing,” I mutter, mostly to myself.
“Not silly.” Freja snickers. “It waselegant.”
I give an exaggerated eye roll. “If stomping around like elephants is elegant.”
“That was soveryentertaining.” Calypso’s words are complimentary, but her tone is not.
Also, she’s once again surgically attached to Ransom.
They’ve been snuggling up all the time we’ve been at the market. He even bought her a bracelet. He kissed her.
I’ve been watching them like a lovesick fool.
“You know, Ransom, I used to dance. Ballet,” Calypso shows off. “It was a long time ago. It’s why I’m so flexible.”
Freja’s gaze flicks toward me and then Aksel.
The three of us smother our grins when Jonathan murmurs in a sing-song manner, “Good head.Good head.”
Chef Pascal made acasualdinner—or whatever passes for one when Mama is involved. We hadpissaladière, the southeastern French answer to pizza, from the chef’s hometown of Nice, which we ate in the sunroom, not the dining room.
See? Casual.
Cue, eye roll.
After dinner, most of us gathered under the heated gazebo, wrapped in blankets.
The kids—Anika and Thomas—are finally asleep after an energetic hour of chasing each otheraround the chalet in reindeer pajamas. They arrived an hour or so after dinner, bursting with energy after spending four hours in the car driving from Zurich airport.
Latika had disappeared to tuck them in, and now she’s returned, curled up beside Aksel on one of the outdoor couches. Her head rests lightly on his shoulder, their hands linked. She’s glowing in the firelight—soft brown skin, dark hair twisted into a loose braid, a gentle smile that’s grace in motion.
Latika is the kind of woman who commands a room by listening. She’s thoughtful. Warm. Wickedly smart. She has a calm, competent energy that makes her ideal for crisis meetings at the World Bank, as well as for negotiating bedtime with two overtired children. Aksel looks at her like she hung the moon, and when she glances at him, her whole face warms like a second fire.
