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When finished with the ground floor, she made for the servants’ stairs to climb to the first floor, then paused.

Hearing the sounds from the drawing room echo toward her, she couldn’t help but draw closer to the jovial voices, laughter, and general merriment.

The noise was familiar and comforting, so much so that she lingered outside the drawing room doorway, resting against the wall down a darkened corridor. She could just imagine the women and men in their finery, their politeness and kind conversation echoing around the stunning room. She could sense the excitement from the group buzzing down the corridor toward her—excitement for the house party, for Christmas tomorrow, the continuous celebrations that would last until Twelfth Night, and for the Yule Log to finally be lit.

Clara waited, closing her eyes and imagining the guests complimenting the space the servants decorated, though there were so many voices in the room, she could not pick out a single one.

After a few moments, however, cheers erupted, and she knew the log must’ve finally been lit in the hearth she and Harriet had crouched over for over an hour that afternoon.

Clara could just imagine the large flames, the smiling faces, the heat bursting throughout the room like a winter robin, chirping a warm song for all to hear.

So she lingered. Because it reminded her of happier times. Of when Father was still alive and when they were a happy family joined together in mutual respect and love.

Things had changed so much in the last several years—especially in the last few months, and she would give everything to have that joy back in her life.

Soon after, Lady Dalmeer’s voice echoed down the corridor clear and crisp, and Clara smiled to herself as the countess announced herself as winner. The applause was less than enthusiastic.

Clara would have to tell Harriet and the other servants that they had been accurate in guessing her ladyship would choose herself to win.

She could only imagine the laughter and sighs from the guests—those who’d expected the countess to behave that way and those who had not. Miss Bowles’s disappointment would be acute.

Mr. Cole’s relief would be the same.

Clara smiled to herself again, picturing him darting about the room to hide from Miss Bowles’s attempts to speak with him.

She still did not have a direct answer as to why he had changed. Her pride wished to believe it was due to Clara’s own charm, but she knew that was preposterous. She’d done nothing but terrorize the man since the beginning.

Anyway, Clara would feel terrible if she’d stolen Mr. Cole’s attention from a woman who wished to marry—when Clara had no desire to marry at all. How could she risk such a thing after the warnings of Father dying, Stepfather shifting to a selfish man, and Algernon and Mr. Agar’s antics?

She certainly wouldn’t be attaching herself to a man the likes of Mr. Cole, either—a flirt whose attention flitted from woman to woman. Who knew what lady he was pursuing now that Miss Bowles was not good enough for him?

Her stomach twisted. Clara had allowed herself to fall for Mr. Cole’s charm, to seek his attention, even to desire his eyes upon her.

But she wouldn’t allow it to continue.

Pushing herself away from the wall and abandoning the party she had not been invited to, Clara returned downstairs, helping around the kitchens until she was called by Miss Sterling, who recounted the evening with another smile.

Clara did her best to enjoy the retelling, but she was relieved when she bade goodnight to the woman and made for downstairs.

Instead of retiring that very moment, however, she snuck toward the drawing room. The corridors were vacant at this point, the house having retired to prepare for tomorrow’s celebrations, so Clara held her candle aloft and walked through the deserted corridors herself.

She would be sleeping soon, as well, but she had one more stop to make. With creeping feet, she slipped into the drawing room, eying the log still crackling in the oversized hearth, casting a warm, orange glow about the decorated room like a comforting embrace.

Now Clara would sleep well, the image providing just the thing to fall asleep to.

Leaving the room behind, she stopped for a brief moment outside the door to pick up a few wood shavings and pine needles stuck to the carpet near the drawing room, having been left behind from bringing in the log. After stuffing the debris into her apron pockets, she headed for the servants’ stairs, finally ready for bed.

Halfway down, however, she paused at the window, peering through the warped, paned glass and staring up at the stars overhead. She and Father used to have this as a Christmas tradition, staring at the stars.

A yawn stretched out her lips again, but Clara couldn’t refuse the chance to stargaze on a night that was finally clear. She sat on the windowsill and leaned her head against the cold glass, counting out the stars she could see.

“Happy Christmas, Father,” she whispered.

She hoped he could see stars in Heaven. And she hoped Mother could see the same stars tonight and know that Clara was well. If she prayed, would the Heavens let her parents know that she was doing her best to bring joy to them both? That she⁠—

The door to the stairs opened above, and Clara frowned. She’d thought she was the last to retire, but she supposed, in a house this large, the whole house never truly slept as one.

It was no doubt the butler securing the house.