Ice And Cinnamon And Almost
1742 Words
(December 25 – Christmas Day, 11:47 a.m. to 7:56 p.m.)
Aurora lasted exactly forty-three minutes before the cold started creeping in.
It began as a shiver she blamed on nerves. Then the tips of her fingers went numb even though the sunroom was warm. Then her teeth began to chatter so hard she had to clench her jaw to hide it.
Lucien noticed immediately. Of course he did.
“The second wave,” he said quietly. “It’s early.”
He didn’t ask permission. He simply stood, scooped her up (quilt and all), and carried her back to the great room as if she weighed nothing. Aurora wanted to protest, but the moment his arms closed around her the chill retreated a fraction, like her body recognized shelter even when her mind was still screaming stranger danger.
Every head in the room turned again. This time no one pretended not to stare.
Eira bustled forward. “Sofa by the fire, Lucien. And someone fetch the Luna’s cloak.”
“I don’t have a cloak,” Aurora muttered into his sweater.
“You do now,” a teenage girl with a streak of blue in her braid announced, racing up the stairs two at a time.
Lucien settled her on the longest couch, tucked the quilt tighter, then hesitated. “Skin contact helps,” he said, voice low enough only she could hear. “But only if you want it.”
Aurora’s pride and her chattering teeth had a brief, furious argument. The teeth won.
She held out one shaking hand.
Lucien sat beside her and wrapped her fingers in both of his. Heat poured from his palms into her frozen ones, steady and golden. The silver mark on her collarbone flared softly, threads of light curling toward him like vines seeking sun.
Across the room, someone let out a soft, collective “aww.”
Aurora felt her cheeks burn hotter than the fire.
The blue-haired girl (Mira, she introduced herself) returned with a cloak of midnight-blue wool lined in white fox fur. She draped it over Aurora’s shoulders with ceremony.
“It was my grandmother’s,” Mira whispered. “She was human too. Said it kept her warm the first winter she spent with us.”
Aurora pulled the cloak closer. It smelled faintly of cedar and snow and something that made her eyes sting.
Eira clapped her hands. “Enough hovering. The Luna needs food and distraction. Who wants to open presents?”
A cheer went up. Children scrambled. Paper tore. Laughter filled the rafters.
Aurora watched, dazed, as Lucien was dragged into the chaos. A small boy climbed into his lap and solemnly presented him with a hand-carved wooden wolf no bigger than a thumb. Lucien’s face did something complicated (surprise, then wonder, then a tenderness so raw it hurt to witness).
He looked up and caught her staring. His mouth curved in that crooked half-smile again.
“Join us?” he asked.
She should have said no. Instead she found herself on the rug, surrounded by wrapping paper and children who treated her like she’d always belonged.
Freya (the six-and-a-half-year-old with missing teeth) crawled into her lap and demanded to know if Aurora could draw wolves.
“I illustrate children’s books,” Aurora admitted.
Freya’s eyes went round as saucers. “Will you draw me one? A Christmas wolf?”
Aurora’s throat closed. She hadn’t drawn anything since the breakup. Her sketchbook was still in her suitcase at the chalet.
Lucien appeared at her side holding a leather-bound journal and a set of charcoal pencils. “Borrowed from the library,” he said softly. “If you want.”
She took them with trembling fingers. The first stroke was hesitant. The second less so. By the time she’d sketched a proud wolf wearing a tiny Santa hat, Freya was squealing and the entire pack had gathered to watch.
When she finished, Lucien took the page gently, studied it, then pinned it to the mantle above the fireplace with a thumbtack that appeared from nowhere.
“There,” he said. “Now it’s official.”
Aurora’s eyes burned again.
Lunch was a blur of roasted meat, potatoes swimming in butter, and more cinnamon than should legally be allowed. Someone pressed a second plate into her hands when she tried to refuse. Someone else refilled her mug before it was empty.
By two o’clock the fever had retreated to a dull ache behind her eyes, and the lodge felt less like a prison and more like… home. The realization terrified her.
She slipped outside through a side door while the others were distracted by a chaotic game of charades.
The cold hit instantly, sharper than before. Snow reached the middle of her calves. The cloak helped, but not enough. She hugged her arms to her chest and stared at the endless white.
Footsteps crunched behind her.
“I used to hate Christmas too,” Lucien said.
She hadn’t heard him approach. He stood a respectful distance away, hands in his pockets, breath fogging in the frigid air.
“My sister died on Solstice Eve,” he continued quietly. “Two hundred and three years ago tonight, actually. She was eight. The men who came for us wore crosses and carried silver. I was too slow.”
Aurora’s heart cracked open.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
He shrugged, but the motion was tight. “After that, every holiday felt like mockery. I stopped celebrating. The pack followed my lead. Until last year, when the youngest ones started asking why we never had a tree.” He glanced at the lodge, where laughter spilled through the windows. “I gave in. And then I started dreaming of you.”
Aurora swallowed. “I lost my parents when I was ten. Car accident on Christmas Eve. I was supposed to be with them, but I had the flu. I woke up to police lights instead of presents. Every year after that I… turned it off. Pretended the day didn’t exist.”
Lucien was quiet for a long moment. Then he stepped closer (close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from him).
“We have that in common,” he said. “Broken holidays.”
She looked up at him. Snowflakes caught in his dark lashes. His eyes were more gray than silver now, soft with understanding.
“I don’t know how to do this,” she admitted.
“Neither do I,” he said. “But maybe we learn together.”
Behind them, the side door burst open. Freya and three other children spilled out dragging a pair of ancient ice skates.
“Uncle Lucien promised skating lessons!” Freya announced. “You have to come, Aurora! The lake is perfect!”
Aurora opened her mouth to refuse (she hadn’t skated since she was twelve), but Lucien was already kneeling to lace the smallest pair onto Freya’s boots.
“Come on, Luna,” he said without looking up. “One hour. Then you can hide again if you want.”
Something in his voice (gentle, coaxing, careful not to push) made her nod.
The lake was a five-minute walk through snow-laden pines. The ice shone like black glass under the afternoon sun. Someone had cleared a wide circle and strung fairy lights along the surrounding trees. A portable speaker played soft instrumental carols.
Aurora’s borrowed skates were half a size too big. Lucien knelt in the snow again (this time in front of her) and tightened the laces with careful fingers. When he looked up, their faces were inches apart.
“Breathe,” he murmured.
She hadn’t realized she was holding her breath.
He stood and offered both hands. She took them.
The first few minutes were disaster. Her ankles wobbled. Her arms windmilled. She fell twice, landing hard enough to rattle her teeth. Each time Lucien caught her before she hit the ice completely, strong and steady and infuriatingly calm.
On the third fall she stayed down, laughing so hard her sides hurt. The sound startled her (she hadn’t laughed like that in years).
Lucien crouched beside her, eyes crinkled at the corners. “There she is,” he said softly.
“There who is?”
“The woman I watched draw wolves in her sleep. The one who used to dance in her kitchen to Christmas music when she thought no one was looking.”
Heat flooded her cheeks. “You saw that?”
“Every year,” he admitted. “I hated that you were alone. Hated that I couldn’t cross over to hold you.”
Aurora looked away, suddenly shy.
He stood and pulled her up with him. This time when she wobbled he didn’t let go. They moved slowly around the circle, his arm around her waist, her hands clutching his sweater. The children raced past them shrieking with joy.
Halfway around the lake, the music changed to a slow, waltz-like version of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” The fairy lights flickered on as the sun dipped behind the mountains.
Lucien adjusted his grip, one hand settling at the small of her back, the other still holding hers. They weren’t really skating anymore (more gliding in tiny circles), but it didn’t matter.
Aurora’s heart was pounding harder than the exercise warranted.
“Lucien,” she said quietly.
He looked down at her. The silver had returned to his eyes, soft and glowing.
“I’m still scared,” she admitted.
“I know.”
“But I’m less scared than I was this morning.”
His smile was small and wondering. “Good.”
They were close enough now that she could see the faint scar that cut through his left eyebrow, the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks. Close enough that when he exhaled, the warmth brushed her lips.
For one breathless second she thought he might kiss her.
Instead he rested his forehead gently against hers.
“Thank you,” he whispered. “For giving today a chance.”
Behind them, Freya whooped as she executed a wobbly spin. Someone started singing along with the music (off-key but happy).
Aurora closed her eyes and let herself sway with him on the ice, the cloak warm around her shoulders, his arms steady around her waist.
For the first time in seventeen years, Christmas didn’t feel like punishment.
It felt like beginning.
- Writer
