Once Upon A Christmas

Twelve

Chapter Twelve

“That’s the beauty of it. Some things… they just stand on their own” his smile curves.

He pours himself a glass of wine. “I want to show you my gallery.”

He catches my stare and nods wordlessly, a silent cue. I rise, my drink balanced carefully in hand, and follow him. His stride is unhurried, deliberate. We walk through a long corridor until he stops before a massive oak door. With a push, the door yields, and the world beyond shifts.

It is an art gallery in every sense of the word. Glass cases protect instruments and artifacts I cannot name, each labeled with neat precision. Paintings line the walls, their colors alive even in the dim light. I hurry forward, mindful of my glass, drawn to a canvas that seems to breathe. Chase chuckles softly, amused by my eagerness, and joins me.

The painting before me is of endless green fields, a lone white horse grazing peacefully. The brushstrokes capture not just the scene but the warmth of sunlight, the serenity of solitude. It absolves me of my own tangled emotions, offering a strange comfort.

I drift toward another piece—a pure white canvas, blank at first glance. Chase is no longer beside me. Instead, he has positioned a scope with a beam of light directed toward the canvas. When the light strikes, shadows bloom across the surface: birds in flight, wings outstretched, frozen mid-motion.

“Beautiful,” I gasp, breath caught in wonder.

“The thickness of the paint helped create the illusion,” Chase explains, his voice carrying across the room. “The shadows are determined by natural light. Depending on the hour, they shift—sometimes darker, sometimes lighter. The painting is never the same twice.”

I turn to him, struck by the thought. Behind him, more paintings beckon, each demanding attention.

“Your collection is impressive,” I say, sincerity in my tone.

“I enjoy collecting great pieces. My grandfather was a collector. It’s a hobby I’ve inherited, one I find joy in” his faint smile lingers.

Two knocks interrupt the moment. The doors swing open, and a butler enters, bowing with practiced grace.

“Glad to see you’ve returned, Master Chase. Your table has been set. You should wash up now.”

“Thanks, Richard.” The ghost of a smile remains on his face, a softness that reveals his comfort with his staff.

I study the butler—black and white attire, a monocle perched on his eye. He looks more like a professor than a servant.

He spares me a brief glance. “Welcome to Belmond Manor, miss,” he says, bowing lightly before leaving.

Chase breaks the silence. “I’ll show you to your room. We can continue this later.”

I follow, still in awe. Chase is no longer the boy I once knew. He feels like a stranger, a man shaped and covered in mystery.

The room he leads me to is the size of my living room back home, yet it feels grander. A large tea table sits in the center, flanked by elegant chairs. My eyes widen. “My bags,” I gasp, hands flying to my lips.

“We left them in the car. I should get something to change into.”

“Look through the wardrobe,” he replies simply.

Curiosity drives me to open it. Inside are the clothes we had shopped for earlier, neatly stowed.

“How?”

“The housekeeper handled it. Let me know if you need anything else. Someone will be here to run your bath.”

Embarrassment flushes my cheeks. “I can handle my own bath, Chase. Thank you.”

“Alright.” He shuts the door behind him, leaving me in silence.

I pull a robe from the wardrobe, tossing it across the wide bed. Undressing quickly, I remember the door is unlocked and rush to secure it.

Robe in hand, I step into the bathroom. It is vast, luxurious. A jacuzzi gleams to my right, while a glass door opens into a shower space large enough to feel like a chamber.

Tempted by the idea of a soak, I resist, choosing the shower instead. The controls are unfamiliar, a reminder that I should have accepted help. Still, I manage, and when I finish, I feel comfortable in my skin. The effect of the massage earlier soothes my nerves, and the bed looks inviting.

Slipping into a short, flowery dress with free sleeves. It fits comfortably, leaving space for the meal I anticipate. Hunger gnaws at me, sharp and insistent.

Out in the hallway, I wander past several doors, doubting my memory of the path. Chase’s voice drifts from somewhere ahead, guiding me like a beacon. I follow until I reach a large dining room, its door slightly ajar.

Inside, Chase stands with his back to me, clad in a black velvet robe. He turns to face me, warm brown eyes welcome me.

“Lovely choice of clothing,”

The lady beside him offers a polite smile before bowing out, leaving us alone.

“You chose it,” I reply shyly.

“It looks perfect on you.”

“Thanks”

We are both seated.

The table is crowded with dishes, each vying for attention—roasted turkey gleams golden, its skin crisp, the scent of rosemary and butter drifting across the table. Beside it, bowls of delicate soups, vegetables glistening, while creamy potatoes sit piled high, flecked with chives. A dish of spiced rice releases a scent of cinnamon and cloves, its fragrance warm and inviting.

Fruits, sliced with precision. Grapes still clinging to their stems, apples, oven-warm bread.

The table stretches wide; crystal glasses, polished cutlery, and abundance of dishes.

He watches me with that same subtle smile. “I wasn’t sure what you would want,” his tone light, almost teasing. “So I had a bit of everything prepared. It’s a way to learn your palate.”

I lower my gaze to the spread, overwhelmed. My fingers brush the stem of my glass. The wine he has poured glows deep red. I take a sip, the flavor bold and smooth, lingering on my tongue.

Chase leans back, his velvet robe catching the light. He looks entirely at ease, as though he has lived his whole life surrounded by such wealth. A world where meals are not simply eaten but experienced.

I reach for bread, tearing it open to reveal its soft center. Butter melts instantly, releasing its creamy scent. Chase’s eyes follow me.

The meat is tender, infused with herbs, each bite layered with flavor. The carrots are sweet, glazed to perfection.

I meet his gaze, my mouth half-full. “You’ve gone to so much trouble.”

He shakes his head lightly. “It’s no trouble. It’s… tradition. My grandfather believed meals should be shared in abundance. I suppose I’ve carried that forward.”

“He must be a warm person.”

A shadow crosses his face, and for a moment, I wonder if I misspoke.

A pregnant pause

“I learnt a lot from him”