Yuletide. #2
As I returned a chisel to the tool rack, Finn’s gift caught my eye. Curiosity tugged at me until I relented, picking it up and peeling away the parchment. Inside was a crown made from a daisy chain.
Thoughtful, indeed. It must have taken hours to weave the delicate chain, and I knew guilt would’ve weighed heavily on him with each flower he intertwined. But I wasn’t ready to make amends.
I planned to toss the daisy chain into the fire, but as it dangled from my fingers, I thought of someone who might appreciate the crown.
The evening had turned dark and drizzly, and I darted through the encampment toward the glowing royal tent.
Sluggishly, a knight patrolled the perimeter of Fitzroy’s quarters.
I clung to the shadows, hiding in the dark dapples as the knight marched ten paces one way, pivoted, and retraced his steps.
When he disappeared around the back of the tent, I made a dash for it.
Slipping through the fluttering opening, I stumbled on the uneven boards. Fitzroy, seated at his desk, visibly flinched—startled by my intrusion. Surrounded by burning candlesticks and holding a wreath of evergreen, he wore an unimpressed scowl on his handsome face.
“Happy Yuletide!” I called out.
Fitzroy slammed the wreath on the desk. “Please have my knights announce your arrival. What if I were nude?”
I chuckled. “That would’ve been something worth laughing at,” I teased, though he didn’t even smirk.
My thoughts drifted, imagining what Fitzroy might look like beneath all his finery. Did he have a strong chest or toned thighs? Were his arms muscular or lean? Did a trail of hair travel down his stomach, leading toward his…
Fitzroy cleared his throat, halting my figurative undressing.
His strong brow furrowed. “Your eye,” he muttered, rising from his seat and stepping around his desk to meet me.
As he reached for it, I ducked, avoiding his touch.
“Everyone’s seen the bruise. You cannot heal it—people would suspect magic.”
That was true, but mostly I wasn’t finished making my brother feel guilty.
Fitzroy sighed. “I warned you that your tongue was tiresome. Which man did this to you? Was it the carpenter you’re always pining after?”
“I did it to myself,” I admitted, my voice laced with self-pity.
His expression softened to deep concern—a look I rarely saw him wear.
“Smith,” he said gravely, shaking his head. “There are enough people in this kingdom and beyond who wish to hurt you. Don’t punish yourself as well.”
His self-satisfaction was unmistakable, as if he believed he’d just delivered a morsel of wisdom to set me on the right path.
“It was an accident,” I replied curtly. “Save your sagacity for someone else.”
But my words were wasted. Fitzroy’s attention had already shifted to the flowers in my hand.
“Is that a gift?” he asked.
I nodded, hiding them behind my back. “Close your eyes,” I instructed, and he complied without hesitation.
I carefully placed the daisy crown upon his head. It suited him well—though I doubted a man as dashing as Fitzroy could look awful in anything.
Then I lifted the hand mirror from his desk and held it before him. “Open.”
Fitzroy peeked, a grin spreading across his face at the sight of his own reflection.
“How do I look?” he asked, producing his signature smolder.
“Like a king,” I replied, admiring how great he looked in a crown.
Fitzroy smiled. “Thank you. That was very thoughtful.”
My chest warmed, enjoying his appreciation.
He removed the flowers and set them aside on his desk. It was stacked high with festive items—mistletoe, symbolizing peace; holly and ivy decorated candles, heralding the return of light; and a silver plate holding what appeared to be a mound of mud.
“When I lived in Albion, it was tradition to share figgy pudding with those you hoped to remain acquainted with in the coming year,” Fitzroy said, picking up a knife and cutting a slice of cake. “I thought I’d ask you to share it with me.”
“You want to be friends?” I asked mockingly, though I guessed we were already treading that line.
He shook his head, rolling his eyes. “I never said that—I said stay acquainted.”
It was only ever a matter of time before Fitzroy’s short temper reared its head and soured my mood.
“All right,” I replied, uncertain if he was teasing—irritated by his tone either way.
I was surprised he didn’t have whiplash from seesawing between hot and cold.
The tradition felt novel, but I sensed it meant something to Fitzroy—his hazel eyes gleaming as he prepared the cake—so I played along.
He held the slice out toward me, yet as I reached for it, he moved it away with an admonishing tut.
“I have to feed it to you, and then you to me,” he explained, clearly annoyed I hadn’t grasped the precise proceedings of this newly learned ceremony.
With a deep, calming breath, I reminded myself it was Yuletide, and I wasn’t going to let the bratty prince ruin my festivities.
Fitzroy held the slice out once more, a charming smile lighting up his face—his mood shifting like flames.
“It better not be poisoned,” I muttered before taking a bite.
The flavors surprised me—rich and meaty, with a smoky aftertaste that lingered pleasantly. As I chewed, spices tingled my tongue, mingling with the sweetness of dried fruit.
I swallowed my mouthful and then took the slice to offer it back.
Fitzroy nibbled modestly, still managing to get cake on his face.
I chuckled, gently brushing the crumbs off his chin as he smiled—his allure returning now that his mouth was full of cake instead of his commentary.
Something flickered in the pit of my stomach—something I wanted to ignore.
But as Fitzroy held my gaze, I couldn’t help indulging in desire.
His eyes briefly flitted to my mouth. For a heartbeat, I wondered if he wanted a taste of something else—then I worried I might also have crumbs clinging to my lips.
I moved my hand from his face, hastily patting my own.
Fitzroy snorted, and I realized the burning tension between us was all in my own head.
“What do you think of figgy pudding?” he asked.
“Best thing I’ve eaten in Cambas,” I said, downplaying the taste.
That cake was the best thing I’d eaten, ever. It was delicious.