Page 95 of How the Belle Stole Christmas

It was the space between sleep and waking, when the sun had just begun to rise from its resting place. The stars offered the sky their final twinkle before vanishing for the day. All was quiet in the hush of morning.

Imogen St. Croix had not witnessed a more glorious sight in over a hundred years. Gazing up at the heavens, she marveled at the blush of dawn as snowflakes kissed her skin.

It was wonderful, absolutely astonishing, to feel anything at all.

Such things had not enchanted her when she was alive. Then, the constant motion of daily life left little room for noticing frivolities like the sky, the wind, or the scent of chimney smoke curling into winter air. Imogen had never taken time for any of it.

Now, after more than a century, she felt it all anew, every sensation sharp with wonder, tinged with the bitter taste of regret.

Death had crept in like a thief in the night, using fire as its cloak. It had claimed her quietly, cruelly, in the blaze that consumed her father’s home.

She had been but six and twenty. And the only thing she’d truly had in the world was her father and her work.

Both stolen from her in a single night.

Holding out her hand, she smiled at the sight of her brown skin and long, elegant fingers. How she longed for a looking glass just to see herself again.

She’d remembered being quite pretty—at least to herself, and certainly to her papa.

Time had no meaning where Imogen now resided, but she was acutely aware of just how long it had been since she last saw her own appearance.

“Enjoying yourself?” a deep voice asked.

Spinning around, Imogen came face to face with Clarence. His angelic features glowed beneath the weakening moonlight, his thick black locks falling past his shoulders. Piercing dark eyes studied her pensively.

“I am. I can’t recall the last time I was here…” She trailed off as a soft breeze brushed her cheek. “The last time I was alive.”

“Out of all the souls I’ve ever met, you truly are the only one who missed so much of what life had to offer.” He folded his arms, the pale white robe a striking contrast to his dark skin. “Why is that Imogen?”

A prickle crept down her neck, and she pressed her lips together to stop herself from laughing in front of her superior.

It was extraordinary to feel such things again.

“My papa needed me,” she said softly. “He made and sold his own rum. It was very popular… It would’ve been successful if not for the fire that took our lives.”

Wetness graced her cheeks—and it had nothing to do with the falling snow.

Gently, Imogen touched her cheek, catching a tear with her fingertips. Every human emotion had vanished the moment she died. And yet now they were returning. Standing there, surrounded by the wonders of the world and thoughts of her father, she felt herself consumed by emotion.

William, her father—a rum maker from British Guiana—loved her and her mother dearly. Her mother would often tease that he’d loved rum more than them, and he would always laugh and reply, “It’s a close contest, but you two always win.”

Rum making was an art passed down through the St. Croix family for generations. Every father taught his sons the craft of harvesting sugarcane, crushing it to extract the juice, and turning it into dark, sweet molasses.

Her father had no sons. So, he taught Imogen everything he knew. It was Imogen who first suggested adding a squeeze of lime to the rum, giving it a unique refreshing twist.

She was only eight years old when her father began selling the new recipe. It was a success, and soon their family’s fortune soared. It wasn’t as grand as the obvious wealth surrounding her, but it was enough to purchase a shop and a modest apartment above it.

“You miss your father?” Clarence asked, nodding toward the tears still falling freely.

“Yes,” she whispered, “with all my heart.”

She stood silent for a long moment. A bird chirped in the distance, and a small smile touched her lips. “It was just the two of us after my mother died. Together we built the business. We were on the verge of real success when…” Her voice faltered. “When the fire happened.”

It was true, they had distributed rum to buyers all over England, Scotland, and Ireland. Her father had meetings arranged with men from Paris, India, and even America. They had been on the verge of becoming a global enterprise.

What a success that would’ve been.

“It would’ve been a great accomplishment for you and your father,” Clarence said, beginning to walk slowly down the row of townhouses. “But I can’t help but wonder, was that your dream or his?”

The question caught her off guard. She hurried to keep up with his long strides.

“After Mother died, I focused on taking care of Papa and helping with the business,” she said, her fingers nervously fidgeting, a habit she suddenly remembered from life.

“I began to love it as much as he did. One day I dreamed of owning it and teaching my children how to make rum.”

Clarence gave a slow nod, the hem of his robe sweeping lightly over the snowy cobblestones. “And yet you never had the chance.”

Imogen’s voice was soft. “No.”

They walked in silence for a moment. Morning was creeping in, turning the indigo sky to pale gray. A pair of chimney sweeps crossed the lane in front of them, unseen, their boots crunching in the snow.

Clarence glanced sideways at her. “Do you regret how you lived?”

She didn’t answer right away. She touched her chest where her heartbeat once lived. “Sometimes,” she admitted, “I gave everything I had to my father, to the business, to duty. And then…I was gone. There was no time for love, for friendships, for frivolous things.”

“Like snow,” Clarence murmured, looking up at the sky.

A soft smile touched her lips. “Yes. Like snow.”

Imogen closed her eyes, remembering the dreams of a younger woman, with no suitor and no real prospect of marriage.

She had longed for a husband who would support her ambitions, a man who wouldn’t flinch at the idea of a wife in business.

When she was alive, women didn’t own businesses, especially not rum distilleries.

But her father had raised her to know her own mind and to do what she loved.

Clarence stopped in front of an immaculate white townhouse, its windows catching the first gold of morning light.

“There has been a slight growth in women business owners,” he said, turning to her with a knowing smile.

Imogen’s eyes widened. “That is extraordinary!”

She couldn’t contain the joy that danced through her veins. The idea seemed impossible, and yet it had come true.

It had been her dream once: to own a business in her own right. But in her time, such things were forbidden. A hundred years later, women like her were finally doing what she had only dared imagine.

“It is,” Clarence said, “but I fear there is still a long way to go. Most of them are widows who inherited the business from their husbands.” He glanced up and down the street.

“It doesn’t matter,” Imogen whispered, her voice thick with feeling. “It’s theirs, and no one can ever take that away from them.” Tears flowed down her cheeks.

A wild, rushing joy filled her chest, a wagon wheel of happiness spinning out of control. She didn’t know whether to laugh or to sob.

“You’re being bombarded with every emotion after a hundred years of none,” Clarence said, gently, waving a hand toward her. “It will take some getting used to.”

“What do you mean? I’m dead. Once I return, there is no emotion.” She hadn’t felt dead, not since the moment she’d appeared in this deserted place.

She glanced around, taking in the pristine row of houses, all standing shoulder to shoulder like soldiers awaiting inspection. Their symmetry was almost eerie, perfect and still.

But at the end of the long street stood a single house. Dark. Ominous. Its windows were cracked, its roof sagging, and the paint long since peeled away. It was in desperate need of repair and care. It stood out from the others like a thorn among roses.

The large home called to her in a way that she’d never thought existed. Imogen turned toward the towering three-story structure, larger than any home she’d ever lived in.

“Lindhurst House,” Clarence said, now standing beside her. “The home of the Earl of Latchwood, the reason that I’ve brought you here today.”

She drew a slow breath, trying to mask her confusion. “What does the Earl of Latchwood have to do with me?”

Clarence chuckled, then he began walking toward the lonely, shadowed house. “The earl needs saving. And the time has come for you to finally earn your wings.”

Her wings.

Imogen had long given up hope of ever being granted the esteemed honor of earning her wings. After all this time—a century of waiting—could she finally be deemed worthy of an angel’s highest reward?

“It’s been a hundred years,” she whispered, her gaze fixed on the grand, crumbling structure. “I thought the time would never come.”

As they drew nearer, it was clear the house had long lost its luster. Yet she could still see its former glory in the bones of its design. It was the kind of home built not only with wealth, but with intention.

Clarence placed a steady hand on her shoulder. “It is time. Tomorrow on his thirty-fifth birthday, the earl, Cornelius Harcourt, is going to end God’s most precious gift.”

Imogen gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.

Whoever this earl was, he was on the verge of doing the unimaginable. How could someone care so little for their own life…or for the ones who loved them?

“His life,” she said, voice trembling, eyes not leaving the grand townhouse. “He’s going to take his own life?”

“Yes,” Clarence replied solemnly. “You have two tasks. Stop the earl from taking his own life,” he said, counting on his fingers. “And you have seven days to convince the earl that his life is worth living, and that there are people who depend on him.”

“What happens if I fail?” she whispered as the rising sun painted the sky in vivid hues of red and orange.

Life stirred around them. Imogen closed her eyes, savoring the sounds of a world waking up. Servants beginning their morning routines, the hush of movement throughout the grand townhouses.

“If you fail, Imogen,” he said gently, “not only will you lose your chance to earn your wings, but a life will be lost. And that would be a true tragedy.”

Then, as suddenly as he’d appeared, Clarence vanished.

Imogen stood alone in the golden morning light. She drew in a deep breath, letting the cold air fill her lungs, and offered up a silent prayer.

Please let me succeed in saving the earl, and finally, earn my wings.