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“Oh,” Ernest gasped. “She is…”

“Yes, indeed,” he confirmed without looking up. “And she will need a mother.”

“A mother, Your Grace?” Mrs. Dalton asked, hesitating as though making sure not to overstep. “Does Your Grace intend to… marry?”

At first Ambrose said nothing. Then he voiced his bitter thought: “Who would willingly marry a beast?”

The corner of his mouth curved in dry amusement as he took another glance at the sleeping baby. Then he turned toward Ernest. “But even as I say it, the truth remains. She shall need a mother, and I shall require a wife. The question is, where to find one?”

Ernest cleared his throat. “I believe, Your Grace…” He paused. “I may know the right woman. Have you ever heard of the Christmas Witch?”

Two

Smack.

Another snowball hit the side of the glass and Marina Rowles, the Dowager Viscountess of Whitmore, sighed.

“That’s ten this morning. The record is twenty-one.”

“You’re counting the snowballs they throw against your house?”

“Of course.” Marina nodded. “I have been keeping score since they started the first winter I was here. I have to find my entertainment somewhere.”

At least, it was until her family arrived to fill the cottage with noise, opinions, and entirely unnecessary questions.

Questions that ultimately made her think of her past. Her fingers tightened around the rosemary, then relaxed. It had been six years now, and even though she still loved snow and the winter, the season now carried painful memories, though she would never admit that aloud. And to be honest, she would rather count snowballs than think of what she had endured over the past years. Or what she might have endured if things had turned out differently that awful Christmas Eve morning.

“Don’t let the Christmas Witch catch you! Or she will curse you!” one of the children yelled, breaking through her thoughts.

Marina sighed. She lifted her blue eyes to the snow melting against the glass. There were five children now; they were multiplying. There had only been three a half hour ago. The ringleader was Peter Wakeford, son of Lady Beatrice and Sir Ronald.

Peter was the tallest and clearly the leader; the rest were always eager to learn from his mischievous antics.

Marina had learned long ago that there was little point in being offended by children who were too young to understand the difference between superstition and truth.

Ever since society had branded her a witch who could strike a person dead with a few words, the neighborhood children had seemed all the more determined to make her home the center of their winter mischief.

“Sometimes, I do wish I was truly a witch,” she laughed, “at least I would cast a spell that would make my little visitors stop being afraid of me.”

Harper’s brows were still furrowed. “You find this amusing?”

It wasn’t, but it was a better way to look at things.

Of course, she saw what the villagers saw in her little house. The flowers bloomed in strange shapes, bundles of dried herbs hung from the ceiling, while odd-looking roots sat in glass jars, their shapes enough to make a visitor question the sanity of the gardener. If the villagers already believed she was a witch, her house did little to defend her.

“Well, I will show you something amusing,” Marina declared.

Before Harper could ask what on earth she meant, Marina moved. She crossed the glass house with the playful determination of a lady who was about to commit some mischief of her own.

“What are you doing?” Harper called after her.

Marina ignored her. She stopped in front of a certain potted plant that looked most hideous. It was large, with its flowers spread out round and enormous. The center was so dark that it almost seemed to stare back at anyone unfortunate enough to meet it. The sight only added to Marina’s glee. She lifted it with a grunt.

Her sister moved at once, following right behind her with the cautious expression of someone who suspected her dearest sister had finally gone entirely mad.

The glass house door opened, and a gust of winter air rushed in. The five children stopped their snowball fight, narrowing their eyes as the two ladies stepped out of the greenhouse. Marina watched their gazes travel in unison to the plant in her arms, like an army of soldiers sighting a common enemy. They bent to grab handfuls of snow, as though ready to attack.

“You might want to think twice before attacking Mr. Grumble,” Marina told them, placing the pot carefully on the soft ground. Her sister frowned but said nothing. It was not unusual for Marina to name her plants.