ERIN
Erin liked being cold.
Not the shivery, miserable kind that sank into your bones, but the crisp kind — the kind she got on patrol in winter, when the air felt clean and the world felt sharp.
Walking back from the snow-covered woods with Alexandra’s hand in hers, cheeks flushed from the chill and lips still tingling from that soft, perfect kiss… that was good cold.
Necessary cold.
The kind that cleared your head.
But stepping back inside Balmoral Castle was like walking into a furnace of noise. A familiar one. A beloved one. And tonight — for the first time in weeks — Erin felt strong enough to face it.
The warmth hit her immediately, followed by the high-pitched chatter of the children, the barking of dogs, and someone who sounded suspiciously like Vic shouting, “If we don’t locate the centrepiece within the next ten minutes I am cancelling Christmas!”
Alex laughed quietly beside her. That laugh — breathy, hushed, conspiratorial — made Erin want to pull her right back into the snow and kiss her senseless under the falling flakes.
Later, Erin promised herself. Not just as a wish. As a vow.
Alex brushed her shoulder. “Welcome back to reality.”
“Reality can wait,” Erin murmured. “Just a few more minutes?”
Alex’s smile went soft. “If I get a minute alone with you today, I’ll take it.”
Their eyes held, warm and charged, until a golden cocker spaniel barreled into their legs, barking joyfully. Bran and Sorcha followed, tails wagging, as if reporting for duty.
The dogs herded them like unruly sheep back toward the main corridor, where the triplets were already waiting, bouncing on their toes.
“Mummy Erin! Mummy Erin!” Frank shouted. “COME QUICK?—”
“We made something!” Matilda added.
“We made a mess,” Florence corrected matter-of-factly.
The girls each grabbed one of Erin’s hands and began pulling her toward the kitchen with breathless urgency.
Erin shot Alex a glance. “Do we want to know?”
Alex shrugged. “We’re parents. We don’t ask. We triage.”
That made Erin laugh. God, it felt good to laugh again. She didn’t realise how rarely she’d done it lately.
She followed the children through the warm corridor into the big kitchen, where Mrs. MacLeod was stirring a pot on the stove with the intensity of a woman protecting a national treasure.
Vic was nowhere to be seen — likely still hunting themissing centrepiece like a festive bloodhound — and the relative quiet felt almost decadent.
“Look!” Matilda grabbed Erin’s wrist and pointed to the kitchen table.
Four small, lopsided gingerbread people stood proudly on a board, decorated with icing that was… enthusiastic. Very enthusiastic.
Florence’s had seventeen raisins glued on in what might have been a constellation. Frank’s had two different-sized eyes made from chocolate buttons. Matilda’s had a crown drawn in green icing. And Hyzenthlay’s — of course — had a label written in tiny serious handwriting: “Prototype 1. Structural integrity test pending.”
“They’re brilliant,” Erin said sincerely.
Alex leaned down to inspect them. “Hyz, darling, what kind of test are we talking about?”
“I want to determine optimal crispness,” Hyz said. “Whether the thickness is consistent. And if increased butter improves moisture retention.”
