"Because it's a mysterious abandoned mansion and I'm twelve. Also, you might need moral support. Or someone to prevent you from doing something dramatically foolish."
"I don't do dramatically foolish things."
"You pretended to be your own steward and fell in love with the village baker. That's pretty dramatically foolish."
"I didn't say I fell in love with her."
"You didn't have to. You've been staring at her like she's made of Christmas magic and heartbreak... for four days."
"That's very poetic for a twelve-year-old."
"I read a lot. Are we going in or are we going to stand here until we freeze?"
Alaric found the keys in his pocket—he'd been carrying them since he arrived, unable to bring himself to use them. The lock protested, rusty from disuse, but eventually yielded.
The hall was exactly as he remembered and completely different.
Dust covers draped the furniture like ghosts indeed, and the air was stale with abandonment. But underneath the neglect, he could still see his mother's touch; the wallpaper she'd chosen,the arrangement of furniture she'd insisted upon, the paintings she'd hung with such care.
"It's massive," Thomas breathed, looking around with wide eyes.
"It's excessive," Alaric corrected. "No one needs this much space."
"But it could be beautiful again. Look at those windows! And the staircase! And is that a ballroom?"
"Through there, yes."
"When was the last time there was a ball?"
"Twenty-four years ago. The Christmas before my mother died."
"That's sad."
"Yes."
They walked through the rooms, Thomas's enthusiasm gradually drawing Alaric out of his melancholy. The boy saw potential where Alaric saw memories; a library that could hold reading groups, a ballroom perfect for village dances, kitchens that could prepare feast for the entire community.
"You could do so much with this place," Thomas said. "Instead of it just sitting here being sad and dusty."
"Such as?"
"Village events. Weddings. Harvest festivals. Christmas fairs when the weather's bad. School trips. Everything!"
"The village has managed without it for many years."
"Managing isn't the same as thriving. Mrs. Whitby says..." He stopped.
"What does Mrs. Whitby say?"
"She says the hall being closed is like the heart of the village being shut off. That your mother understood that the hall belonged to everyone, not just the duke."
"My mother understood many things I'm only beginning to learn."
They climbed to the attic, where Thomas immediately began exploring with the enthusiasm of someone who'd read too many adventure stories. It was there, in a corner behind old trunks and forgotten furniture, that they found them; boxes and boxes of Christmas decorations, carefully packed away twenty-three years ago.
"These are incredible," Thomas said, pulling out ornament after ornament. "Look at this angel! And these garlands! And...what's this?"
He held up a wooden star, painted gold, smaller than the one currently adorning the village tree but clearly its inspiration.
