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They had been of an age—more like brothers than cousins. After the deaths of William’s parents, he had come to live with Uncle Albert and Aunt Gertrude. Apprenticed in the smithy, he and Charles had run wild during Christmastide, drinking too much ale and daring too many girls to kiss them under the mistletoe.

But those days were gone. Charles was gone. His parents had retired to Cornwall to grieve in peace, leaving the smithy in William’s care.

Work had become his balm, his penance. And his purpose.

It was my fault. Charles would never have gone to war if not for me.

He could still hear himself stating such idiotic sentiments.

“It will be a lark! We shall spill French blood and protect the liberty of England!”

Foolish words, spoken by a boy who had not yet seen what musket fire could do. He and Charles had marched off in their red coats, full of dreams and courage.

Now only William remained.

He reached Mrs. Heeley’s cottage and circled around back, laying down the tiles and retrieving his tools. Then he unearthed the old ladder and leaned it against the honey-colored stone.

He hoisted the bag of slate over his shoulder and began the climb. Halfway up, one of the rungs groaned beneath his weight. He noted the weakness—it would need reinforcing before the ladder was stored again.

But first, there was a roof to mend. He intended to finish the repairs today. If all went well, he might spend Christmas drawing the new lock design that had taken root in his mind. He would have time to test it, refine it. That was how he celebrated—with work.

The tiles came away easily. He tossed the old ones into the small garden below and fitted the new in their place.

As he paused, he sat back on his heels and stretched his shoulders. A light flurry of snow had begun to fall, silent and slow.

He looked out across the rooftops, their slate glistening under the gathering dusk. Chimneys sent up curls of smoke, and the sky had turned a brooding iron grey. To the west, the pale winter sun dipped low behind the hills.

He remembered another winter afternoon like this—many years past. He and Charles had been mending Uncle Albert’s roof after a storm. They had sat, side by side, feet dangling, speaking of the future.

Charles had planned to marry the girl he had been courting. They would share the smithy, raise families, and one day, take over the business together. They had laughed about the mischief their sons would get into, as wild as they themselves had once been.

William closed his eyes against the memory. He had buried Charles with his own hands. He had carried him from the field at Waterloo.

Only work dulled the ache.

When he opened his eyes, the snowfall had thickened. It was time to go. He packed his tools into his valise and made his way to the ladder.

The snowflakes melted on contact with the still-warm slate, leaving the surface slick. Fortunately, the job was finished—were the weather to worsen, tomorrow’s work would have been impossible.

He stepped carefully onto the ladder.

Halfway down, a sharp crack split the air.

The rung beneath his foot gave way.

“Blazes!”

William fell. His boot caught in the collapsing ladder, and he crashed to the ground, landing hard on his back. The air rushed from his lungs as pain exploded through his body.

When Caroline looked up from her embroidery, she realized the light from the back window had faded. The sun was setting, and snow was falling, casting the room in a soft, grey hue. Her shop, nestled among other merchants, lay in utter stillness. Too still.

A quiet melancholy settled over her, as pervasive and chill as the dusk beyond the panes. She set aside the walking dress on the worktable and scolded herself silently.

It is the holidays. Cheer up, Caroline.

With resolve, she rose to her feet and began humming the verses she had once sung with her grandmother at this time of year. She checked the back door, secured the lock, and moved about the workroom, lighting each candle and lantern until the shadows receded. Drawing a breath, she lifted her voice in song to fill the hushed silence:

While shepherds watched their flocks by night,