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She was not London’s rising star.

She was living in shared servants’ quarters.

With her mother.

“HowisMrs. Blair?” Aaron asked politely.

She gave him a tight smile. “Fine.”

Mother was not fine. Mother was getting older, and Estelle was determined to provide for her so that Mother needn’t traipse up and down eight flights of stairs all day. She had worked all of her life. Mother deserved torest.

Thatwas the reason Estelle was here.

For as long as she ran the amphitheatre, Mr. Marlowe would keep Estelle’s mother housed and employed at a generous wage.

Not that she intended for her mother to stay a housekeeper for long.

Once Estelle made a name for herself here, once the rich nobs who visited Marlowe Castle spread the word of her surprisingly wonderful plays, London would be forced to take notice of her. All of the theatres whose doors had slammed in Estelle’s face would now welcome her with open arms. Mother would no longer need to work, and neither of them would need Mr. Marlowe or Cressmouth. They would be self-sufficient.

Estelle’s parting words to Aaron would finally come true.

“Please give your mother my regard,” he said.

Her lips tightened.

It was Estelle who had always wanted Aaron’s high regard.

She didn’t want him to see her struggling. She wanted him to see hershine.

But so far, all he’d seen were her failures.

Aaron knew Estelle went to London to make her fortune. He’d been there, too. Likely checking the broadsheets every morning for mention of her name.

She hadn’t even fizzled. No one gave her a chance to try.

Not until Mr. Marlowe.

But Estelle had not wanted Aaron to see her like...this.

She’d dreamt of meeting him again a thousand times, but always as a happy, successful, celebrated director. Perhaps living in a pretentious town house, clothed in the latest fashions, draped in diamonds and pearls and ostrich feathers.

Thatwas the moment she’d been waiting for.

Thiswas the moment she wanted to run from, screaming.

How do you do, indeed.

“We need something else,” Mr. Marlowe was saying. “Something more than year-round Yuletide.”

“Something more than three hundred and sixty-five days of Christmas instead of a mere twelve?” Aaron asked.

“Something showy,” Mr. Marlowe replied. “Something dramatic. Something people will gossip about for the rest of the century.” His sharp blue eyes flashed to Estelle. “Well?”

She blinked. “I’mto come up with the idea that makes you thousands of pounds?”

“Tensof thousands of pounds,” Mr. Marlowe corrected. “To begin.”

Aaron placed pencil to paper and widened his eyes at her innocently. “I’m ready to capture your words of wisdom.”