Mrs. MacLeod had been coaxed—bullied, really—into a chair by the fire, a mug of something strong in hand. She refused to play the party game on principle but made no move to leave the room, pretending she was merely “supervising the fire.” The fire did not believe her. Neither did anyone else.
On the hearth-side sideboard, a small stereo played a quiet medley of christmas songs, turned low enough to fade into the background hum of crackling logs and small, excited voices.
“Right,” Vic declared, with the gravitas of a general announcing battle plans. “We are going to play a game.”
“Is it a boring game?” Frank asked immediately, narrowing his eyes with deep suspicion.
“Yes,” Vic said. “It’s dreadfully educational. You’ll hate it.”
The corners of his mouth twitched. “Good.”
Alex watched them all from her spot on the sofa, heart so full it ached.
Balmoral had always been a place of complicated memories for her—childhood joy mixed with grief, tradition mixed with duty. But tonight the shadows felt gentler. The ghosts, if they remained, had taken a respectful step back to make room for the living.
Her gaze slid sideways to Erin.
Erin, who looked—finally, properly—rested. Not fully, no; parenting three children under six ensured true rest remained somewhat theoretical. But there was colour in hercheeks again, laughter ready to spring more easily. The deep furrow that had etched itself between her brows over the past months had smoothed.
Right now, Erin’s eyes crinkled at the corners as she watched Vic shepherd the children.
“What’s it called again?” Matilda asked, peering at the tattered box.
“‘Who Am I?’” Vic said. “We did it last year, remember? You put a card on your forehead and ask questions until you guess who you are.”
“Like detective work,” Hyz said thoughtfully.
“Exactly,” Vic said. “Only with more shouting.”
“I like shouting,” Frank said.
“We have noticed,” Julia murmured.
Alex laughed quietly. She felt Erin’s fingers shift against her neck—just the smallest movement, a bare stroke of thumb along warm skin. The contact sent a pleasant shiver down her spine, even now, after everything. Or perhaps especially now.
Last night had been many things—late, tender, hungry, overwhelming—but above all it had been an anchor dropped back into the middle of their lives. Today, they’d moved around each other with more ease, more glances that lingered, more brushings of hands that didn’t feel like accidents.
Alex no longer felt that hollow ache whenever she thought of their bed. She looked at Erin and felt… steady. Reconnected.
She suspected Erin sensed the same. Every now and then, Alex would catch her looking over in that quiet way of hers, as if checking that Alex was still there, not out of fear but out of habit.
Alex liked being looked at that way.
“Can you read us the rules, Auntie Vic?” Florence asked, collapsing into a pile of cushion and blanket in front of Vic.
“Absolutely not,” Vic said. “The rules are an oppressive construct that stifle creativity. We’ll make it up as we go along.”
Julia hid a smile behind her mug. Alex caught it. Erin did too.
“Some people at this table love rules,” Julia said.
“And some people,” Vic shot back, “need to be kissed more often.”
Julia choked politely on her drink. Erin snorted. The children, mercifully oblivious to tone and subtext, moved on.
“I want to go first,” Frank declared.
Matilda folded her arms. “You went first last time.”
