Page 73 of The Masked Fae (Royal Fae of Rose Briar Woods 1)

ALICE

Iwake on the morning of Year’s End with Brahm’s promise heavy on my mind. But I know he won’t be able to spend the day with me if his mother is still staying with him.

I convinced Mrs. Fletcher to visit her husband’s sister for the holiday, feeling guilty that she and Mr. Fletcher would be away from family out of pity for me. But now I’m not so sure about my goodwill gesture.

I wander the manor as the sleepy sun slowly creeps over the horizon, feeling a bit like an untethered ship floating wherever the waves take me.

Soon, the sun shines on the newly fallen snow, catching the tiny crystalline flakes and making them sparkle. A storm came through last night, leaving a thick blanket on the frozen ground.

The sound of harness bells catches my attention, and I stand by a front window and watch a sleigh pass on the distant street at the end of the lane. The merry sound cuts through the hushed silence, dredging up memories of holidays long past.

If the furniture hadn’t been returned earlier in the week, the men would have to wait until all this melted. It could be days, or it could be weeks—it’s impossible to know this time of year.

Despite the trouble he caused, I think of Gustin. Does he even know what day it is? What must it be like in a debtor’s prison in Faerie?

Does he miss me at all?

I shake away the thoughts, knowing it will do me no good to dwell on them today.

Continuing my aimless tour of the house, I end up in the doorway of the upstairs sitting room. The furniture has been returned, including Grandmother’s piano.

But there is still no tree in the corner. Mr. Fletcher said the cut trees in the main square had been picked over, and all that was left were scraggly, browning things that were only suitable for kindling.

Last year, Gustin and I took a wagon to a heavily wooded area in nearby Calsaund and cut our own, but I certainly didn’t feel that ambitious on my own. Nor do I have a wagon at my disposal.

The room fills me with memories, most of them too painful to face alone, so I continue down the hall.

I end up in the kitchen, loitering near the heavy cast iron stove.

When Grandmother was alive, she always sent the staff home to be with their families for the holiday, and she’d bake yule cakes for breakfast, just as her mother taught her. It was a family recipe, passed down from generation to generation. I’m not terribly gifted when it comes to baking, or cooking for that matter, so I didn’t attempt it last Year’s End.

This year, however, I feel the need for family tradition. Maybe baking the festive tea cakes will make me feel as if I’m not so alone.

As I try to remember the recipe, I find Grandmother’s old apron on a hook in the pantry, just where it belongs. It must have been overlooked in the initial sweep of the house, first ignored and then forgotten.

Seeing it there, hanging by itself, steals my breath.

Suddenly overwhelmed, I clutch it in my hands and sink to the wooden floor, crossing my legs under my skirts. I wrap the apron around my hand, trying to swallow back the emotion building in my chest.

I’m not sure how long I remain on the kitchen floor, and when the door opens, it scares me half to death.

“Alice?” a male voice calls from the entry.

“Brahm?” I stumble to my feet, nearly tripping over my skirts as I rise.

My breath catches when I find him in the doorway, looking every inch a prince of Faerie in a fine jacket and waistcoat. My eyes move to the festive sprig of holly pinned to his handkerchief pocket—a very human tradition.

My throat tightens.

“You’re here.” I blink quickly, chasing away tears that try to spill onto my cheeks.

Brahm crosses the room, concerned. “Why were you on the floor?” He gently tugs the apron from my hands. “And what’s this?”

I give him an airy smile. “That? Oh, just an old apron.”

Slowly, he meets my eyes and quirks a questioning eyebrow, seeing through my lie.

“My grandmother’s apron,” I admit, turning quickly. “Forgive me. I’m feeling emotional today.”