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“Not fourspoonfulsof it—”

Beau eyes the food on my mother’s tray dubiously. “While I, er—admire Dimitri’s newfound interest in the culinary arts, I shall allow everyoneelseto sample these delicacies first—”

My mother thrusts the tray under his nose with quiet menace. “Nonsense, Your Majesty. Monsieur Petrov made the pudding especially for you.”

Together, our gazes fall to said pudding, which looks a bit—

Congealed.

My stomach churns as Beau swallows hard, accepting the knife from my mother and moving to scoop up a piece.

“Wait.” Sighing heavily, Reid climbs to his feet and nudges hisbrother aside before choosing a pie instead. These, at least, appear fully baked, and when Reid takes a tentative bite, he manages to swallow with little to no chewing.A blessing.I lift a hand to take one too—for Dimitri’s sake. Since turning human and moving to Cesarine, he has truly cultivated a passion for food. Pastries, meats, and last week, even a vaguely edible herring soup.

To his credit, he has only poisoned us once.

As if remembering that miserable night, Michal places light fingers upon my wrist, shaking his head slightly when I move to take a bite. “Don’t eat that.”

My mother scowls at him.

Filippa and Dimitri burst from the kitchen in the next moment, however, and Michal uses the distraction to flick the pie into the fire. “Oh myheavens.” My mother’s eyes widen at the flour dusting Filippa’s entire face, at her murderous expression, and Dimitri’s self-satisfied grin. His velvet collar is sticky and stained with the jam still on Filippa’s fingers. “What in God’s name just happened?”

“When I took the salt from him,” Filippa says through clenched teeth, “he threw flour at me.Flour—”

Dimitri bristles instantly. “You knocked the salt from my hands and proceeded toattackme with a jar of apricot jam. A terrible flavor, by the way—”

“You areluckyit was just jam—”

“It’s true, Dima.” Lou nods cheerfully from the floor. “Thereisa set of carving knives on the table.”

“And a frying pan,” Odessa adds.

“Flinging food.” Mouth pursed in exasperation, my mother drops the tray of desserts onto the sideboard with a ringingclang. “Honestly, if I must separate the two of you, I will—”

“Please.” Filippa stalks across the room to the foyer entrance—away from everyone—and leans against the threshold, crossing her arms tightly, while Dimitri strolls over to sit next to Michal. When he opens his mouth to goad my sister further, I step between them, just like I always do. My lips twitch as I clap my hands together.

“Presents! Who wants to go first?”

To my surprise, it isn’t Lou or Coco or even Michal who answers, but my sister. Still scowling, she reaches into the darkened hall behind her to pluck a present I must’ve missed from the entry table. Sturdy and square, wrapped in paper of palest pink, the package shines incandescent in the candlelight as she extends it to me. “For you,” she says simply, not quite meeting my gaze.

My hands reach for it of their own volition. “You drew my name? I never even suspected.”

“Lesecretdu Père Noël, remember?” She crosses her arms as if unsure what else to do with them. “We all took great pains to ensure you didn’t suspect.”

“And it was quite difficult too,” Dimitri adds, though not unkindly, “as you’re a bit of a busybody, Célie.”

Rolling his eyes, Michal pushes him to the end of the settee. “Pot, meet kettle.”

Before Filippa can protest, I seize her hand and drag her toward them, pushing her into the seat between Michal and Dimitri. The latter laughs out loud at the sour expression on her face. And perhaps I should apologize, yet I cannot possibly sit in her place; I’m much too excited. Though I did in fact suspect my sister drew my name—there’d been far too many clandestine conversations between her and Lou for anything else, as my sister doesn’t evenlikeLou—my hands still practically vibrate in anticipation as Ishred the beautiful paper, mourning its loss for only a second before inspecting the simple wooden case beneath.

My breath hitches as I open the latch.

Inside the case sits my perfectly repaired, perfectlybeautifulmusic box. As if sensing my elation, Michal reaches for the case before I hastily discard it, his fingers gentle as he helps shimmy the painted fairies into view. I lift the music box into the air to examine it from every angle, my chest tightening as my mother gasps behind us. “I thought it was broken,” she whispers, drawing closer to examine it too. Even the cracks from my childhood have somehow vanished, as if they never existed at all, as if Filippa and I never touched this music box. Never loved it. The thought leaves me unexpectedly breathless. Indeed, as I gaze into the pristine faces of its fairy dancers, my chest constricts further with... not regret, perhaps, but sorrow.

When my mother reaches for it in the next second, I hand the box over reluctantly, and she murmurs, “How extraordinary. I saw the pieces myself when I came to Yew Lane—I thought the damage irreparable.”

My eyes snap to my sister, who looks deeply uncomfortable but forces herself to meet my gaze at last. Her green eyes gleam overly bright in the candlelight, even tense, as I fix her with a curious look. “When Louise mentioned the music box,” she says, “I asked her to let me have it. I couldn’t stand to see the pieces in the bin, but if you don’t want it—”

“I want it.”