"My mother made that," Alaric said quietly. "She said every tree needed a star to remind us to look up, to hope for something better."
"It's beautiful."
"She was talented."
"At more than just stars, I think." Thomas had found something else—a leather journal, tied with ribbon.
Alaric took it with shaking hands. His mother's handwriting, still clear despite the years.
"My dearest Alaric," the first entry began, "if you're reading this, then you've finally come home for Christmas. I know it will be hard. I know the memories hurt. But please remember that pain is just love with nowhere to go, and love is always worth the pain it brings."
He sat down on a dusty trunk and read while Thomas continued exploring. His mother had written entries for each Christmas after his father's death, as if she knew he would one day come back and need her words.
She wrote about the village, about the people she loved, about her hopes for the hall and the estate. She wrote about her regrets, her joys, her belief that Christmas was not about perfection but about choosing to create light in the darkness.
And in the final entry, dated just weeks before her death, she wrote:
"When you finally find someone who makes you want to stay instead of run, who makes you laugh instead of brood, who makes you brave instead of safe—don't let fear rob you of that gift. I let fear keep me silent too long, let propriety prevent me from fighting for my own happiness. Don't make my mistakes, my darling boy. Be braver than I was. Love more boldly than I did. And remember...sometimes the best gifts come wrapped in the most unexpected packages. Even packages covered in flour and Christmas chaos."
"Your Grace?" Thomas's voice was careful. "Are you crying?"
"No."
"It's okay if you are. I cry sometimes. Usually when I fall out of trees, but sometimes about feelings too."
Alaric laughed despite himself, wiping his eyes. "You're a good friend, Thomas Ironwell."
"Does that mean you'll pay me the five shillings?"
"It means I'm going to do something that will either win your bet for you or lose it spectacularly."
"What are you going to do?"
"First, I'm going to make some lists. Then, I'm going to make some changes. And then... then I'm going to try to show Marianne Whitby something true."
They spent the next two hours in the hall, Alaric making notes of everything that needed repair, everything that could beshared with the village, everything his mother had planned but never accomplished. Thomas helped, his enthusiasm infectious, his suggestions surprisingly practical.
"We could have a Christmas ball," Thomas suggested. "Next year, if you're still here."
"When I'm still here," Alaric corrected. "And yes, we could."
"And summer fetes on the lawn."
"Yes."
"And you could marry Mrs. Whitby and have babies and they could play in the gardens."
"You're getting ahead of yourself."
"Someone has to. You're very slow at romance."
"I've known her four days."
"Five, technically. And my parents got betrothed after a week."
"That's different."
"Why?"
