The following morning at eleven o’clock, Christian walked toward the green along the same woodland path he’d taken the previous night to and from the church.

Behind him, at the end of a stout length of rope, trotted Duggins, the Grange donkey.

Since Christian had returned to the Grange, despite not having seen him for more than ten years, or perhaps because of that, Duggins, who had been a young jack when Christian had left for the army, clearly retained fond memories of Christian and now refused to be led anywhere at all beyond the confines of his barnyard by anyone other than the new lord of Dutton Grange.

Swearing at the beast in several languages had done not a whit of good.

That episode had brought a grin to even the stoic Hendricks’s face; he and Jiggs had been the only ones within earshot who had understood the epithets Christian had heaped on the donkey’s gray head.

Duggins had simply looked up at him and—if donkeys could do such a thing—smiled.

When Christian had run down, Duggins had brayed.

Jiggs had insubordinately suggested Christian take that as a sign and had handed over the rope.

And that was how Christian came to be doing the very last thing he’d intended to do—heading for the green on the other side of the vicarage, into what would surely be a crowd of the village’s impressionable youngsters, all excited and impatient to get on with their re-enactment.

As he reached the edge of the woods and stepped onto the lawn surrounding the church, he glanced at Duggins. “I’ll take you to the green and hand you over—it’s up to whoever’s in charge to make you perform as required. I won’t be there—I won’t be staying.” How was he to get the animal back to his barn? Striding on, he pondered that, then informed Duggins, “If I know anything of you, you’ll happily trot home to get warm and be fed. I’ll pay a couple of the village boys—perhaps those three who were beside me in the church yesterday, if I can find them. I’ll get them to bring you home.” He cast a sharper glance at the donkey. “And if you make any fuss, I’ll tell the boys to send for Jiggs and Johnson to come and fetch you—that will serve them right, too.”

As he rounded the back of the vicarage, he looked sternly at Duggins. “Just get it through your thick skull that no matter what you do, I will not be dancing to your tune.”

He was, however, talking to a donkey.

With a sigh, he faced forward and trudged on.

The village green was separated from the vicarage by a hedge and a stone retaining wall. With Duggins trotting amiably behind, Christian circled the far end of the wall and turned east toward the lane. Ahead, he saw the milling crowd gathering on the green to either participate in or bear witness to the village’s traditional re-enactment of the nativity scene.

The children of Little Moseley had always been a hardy breed and not to be denied. Christian could remember similar events held in snow, in near-torrential rain, in fog so thick that Mary and Joseph had lost their way, and, memorably, once in a near-blizzard. The animals had run amok that time. Today, however, although the morning remained cool, the temperature had risen sufficiently to ward off the deeper chill of the night and melt the light frost. Although uniformly gray, the skies appeared benign, and the stiffer breeze of the early morning had fallen away.

He approached the crowd with Duggins pressing close behind him—almost as if the donkey was eager to join in the evolving melee. Christian was tall enough to see over most heads. He located Reverend Colebatch in the center of the throng, surrounded by more than twenty children.

Halting at the edge of the crowd, Christian glanced around, hunting for likely helpers, but his plan to hand Duggins over to some boys died a death as he realized that every last one of the village’s children, up to and including those of fifteen or so, had claimed a role in the upcoming drama. Every lad he could see was swathed in sheets or towels or had an upturned saucepan on their head and carried a wooden sword, and most were struggling to herd sheep and goats and even a family of ducks.

A bleating, quacking, baaing chorus threaded through the cacophony of many human voices steadily rising in an effort to be heard over the barnyard din.

Then Reverend Colebatch saw Christian and, face lighting, beckoned him forward.

Jaw setting, telling himself to ignore the looks and just get on with it, he advanced through the shifting crowd with Duggins tripping eagerly at his heels.

“Excellent!” The reverend beamed. “And in perfect time, too.”

Mute, half ducking his head to conceal his face, Christian handed over Duggins’s rope.

Colebatch took it and waved to two of the older children. “Now, Mary—yes, I mean you, Jessie Johnson. Up with you now, and as Joseph, Ben, you get to hold the rope.”

Christian glanced at Duggins, but the donkey seemed fascinated by the youngsters all around and didn’t even glance Christian’s way. Mentally consigning responsibility for whatever happened next onto the reverend’s head, Christian backed away, leaving Colebatch, assisted by Filbert, the deacon, and Goodes, the choirmaster, working to organize the excited children into their component groups and assemble them around a ramshackle structure to which Fred Butts, the baker’s husband, assisted by several of the Johnsons and Foleys from Witcherly and Crossley Farms, was still putting the finishing—stabilizing—touches.

Given the dearth of available youth, Christian glumly accepted that he would have to wait until the end of the event and retrieve Duggins himself.

Keeping his head down, angled to better hide his damaged cheek, he swiftly tacked through the distracted crowd—many now bobbing on their toes in an effort to keep their children in sight—and made for a spot at the side of the shifting mass, where it was limited by the retaining wall. The ground canted upward to the base of the wall, which at that point rose above Christian’s head. He reached the wall and put his back to it. His height combined with the vantage point gave him a reasonably clear view of the proceedings.

They were just as chaotic as he remembered.

Leaning against the wall, freed of immediate duties, he took his time surveying the crowd. He started with the children and spotted Lady Osbaldestone’s three scamps. Temporary interlopers they might be, but of course the village had included them. Jamie and George were garbed as shepherds, draped in striped sheets and with towels tied about their heads. Watching Jamie direct the other boys in keeping the assembled farm animals in some sort of order, Christian wryly approved Colebatch’s assignment of duties; Jamie was a born…not leader so much as a director of men. The boy definitely had a way with him—very likely inherited was Christian’s guess.

Lady Osbaldestone herself was standing on the other side of the sea of children. Tallish for a female, she stood upright and erect and, by her very presence, seemed to impose a degree of obedience on both children and animals alike.

Christian finally spotted Lottie with the younger Milsom boy and two others Christian decided must be the Bilson twins watching over a brood of baby chickens, ducklings, and a gosling or two.

Although the children were all there, more adults were arriving as the moment for the re-enactment to start drew near. The crowd shifted and swirled as bodies pressed in from the direction of the lane.

Then Filbert and Goodes started shooing back the adults to create a suitably large circle around the “stable” for the children and animals to move and the tableaux vivants to be seen and appreciated by the surrounding throng.

Inevitably, the crowd lapped against the wall, then pushed back, with others joining Christian hard up against the stone. There was a jostling to his left as a newcomer tried to shield a lady; Christian glanced around, away from the central spectacle—and found himself looking into Eugenia Fitzgibbon’s face.

From the surprise in her eyes, she hadn’t seen him until that moment.

Restricted by the wall and the press of other bodies around them, he managed a half bow. “Good morning, Miss Fitzgibbon.”

Her features relaxed, and a smile, warm and encouraging, bloomed. “Good morning, Lord Longfellow.” She looked out at the children, now forming up behind Mary, perched on an apparently eager-to-please Duggins. Eugenia cast Christian a sidelong glance. “Reliving youthful exploits?”

His lips twisted in a wry half smile. “It’s difficult not to—the sight does bring back memories.”

He leant around her to exchange nods and greetings with Henry, who had dutifully steered Eugenia around the thick of the crowd to the relative shelter of the wall.

Christian looked at Eugenia. “Were you ever Mary? I can’t remember.”

Eugenia nodded. “I was, but I don’t think you were here that year—you’d gone to stay with school friends and didn’t get home in time.”

A sudden bray from Duggins as Joseph prodded him to get him moving combined with a blast from two trumpets inexpertly blown to herald the commencement of the pageant and fix everyone’s attention on the spectacle, which, without further ado, got under way.

The conversations in the crowd died as everyone craned their necks to see—to watch the children they all knew perform in whatever roles they’d been assigned that year.

Eugenia laughed softly along with everyone else as, having reached the stable and halted the donkey, Joseph reached up to lift Mary down—and staggered and nearly fell, as Mary was significantly heavier than he and further impeded by the cushion tied about her middle beneath her blue robe. However, between the pair of them, they recovered, and Mary spoke her lines, then they went into the stable, and in reasonably orderly fashion, punctuated by the inevitable missteps, some of which had the audience battling to muffle their mirth, the various animals were herded in behind and to the side.

Philip Goodes, the choirmaster, who had a powerful voice, stood to one side and intoned from the script of the “play” as the children and animals went through the motions of settling down to sleep.

Christian ducked his head and murmured to Eugenia, “I wonder how long ago that script was written.”

Without taking her eyes from the current tableau, she turned her head slightly and whispered back, “It’s certainly older than we are.” She paused, then added, “I’m fairly certain it was a part of Christmas when my father was a boy.”

Christian nodded. “I believe my father took part in it, too.”

Eugenia glanced at Henry, on her other side. He was grinning, his attention fixed on the children. She’d been pleased that, even though his four too-fashionable friends had declared this event beneath their notice, Henry had volunteered to accompany her and had done so with every sign of good humor.

She was even more glad that he’d seen that Christian had come. Being present at such events was an important part of building, forging, and sustaining the necessary cohesion that made a small village like Little Moseley work. Sharing the event with their neighbors, with their workers, with their neighbors’ workers, and everyone else around. Seeing the children all working together and adding to the sense of collective pride as parts were successfully played, the inevitable gaffes overcome, and the whole depicted with passable grace in honor of the overarching celebration. All these were important things—especially for a man who would one day manage one of the major local estates.

The thought had her glancing at Christian Longfellow. He was standing close—inevitable in the crush—but his head was still half bowed. He hadn’t straightened since speaking to her.

She realized why. She’d worn a hat—a neat cloche with an upstanding feather rising above the right side. She suspected Christian remained with his head half bowed to take advantage of the feather to screen the ravaged left side of his face.

For a moment, she studied his damaged cheek—fully revealed and quite close. And felt a tug inside—a little fillip of pleasure that he now felt sufficiently at ease with her not to worry about revealing that side to her.

She felt the sharp prick of an impulse to show him how little that disfigurement mattered.

Yes, it was quite severe—no one could deny that—but it didn’t make him hideous. It wasn’t simply that the perfection of the other side of his face muted or compensated but more that his personality—the man he was—overrode superficial appearance and rendered his scars of no moment.

She faced forward, but her attention was no longer on the tableau in which Mary and Joseph had awakened and discovered the swaddled babe—a doll donated by the Swindons, whose children were no longer young—in the manger set in the middle of the rickety stable.

Instead, she thought of how she felt about Christian using her as a shield, and while on her own account, she didn’t mind, she had to wonder if she should allow it. But had he taken advantage of her screening feather instinctively or by conscious design? The former would be harder to address.

While she wondered how to do so, the pantomime rolled on, including several moments of hilarity sufficient to reduce both the players as well as the audience to tears. Eugenia laughed and smiled even more to hear Christian laugh freely as well. If he could relax that far, perhaps self-acceptance wasn’t that far away.

Eventually, the spectacle drew to a glorious close with the three magi—cloaked in old tapestry curtains and with gold-painted papier mâché crowns on their heads—arriving and paying tribute while the heavenly host, portrayed by the choir in their surplices, sang in the heavens.

The children held the final tableau vivant for several minutes while Mr. Goodes declaimed the last lines of the script—declaring that thus had the Messiah come to earth. Then he shut the folio containing the script’s dog-eared pages, looked at the audience, and with a widening grin, uttered the words “The end.”

Children whooped and cheered, and the audience clapped until their hands stung. Then the children broke from their positions, and pandemonium reigned.

Over the heads, Christian saw Duggins, made uncomfortable by the sudden jostling, tip up his head and, with lips peeled back, issue a loud, hee-hawing bray.

Startled, the sheep broke free. In a darting, baaing bunch, they rushed this way, then that, scattering children and adults in their attempts to find their way to open ground.

The older boys whooped again and chased them. That only added to the panic.

The crowd surged, backing toward the wall, jostling and unintentionally pushing.

Instinctively, Christian half turned toward Eugenia, protectively shielding her.

On her other side, Henry was pushed and gave way—shoving Eugenia into Christian and more or less off her feet.

He hesitated for only a heartbeat—shocked by the heat, the instinctive reaction that shot down every nerve—then he ruthlessly clamped down on his instincts and the impulses that roared in their wake, closed his hands firmly about her shoulders, and steadied her, shielding her from the wall and cushioning her against him, trapped between his bent arms.

He’d heard her soft gasp at the sudden and distinctly indecorous contact—they were plastered to each other from shoulders to knees—but she made no effort to pull from his hold, not even to ease away. Instead, she stood—not tense yet, he sensed, very much aware—all but pressing into him, her hands splayed on the front of his jacket as the initial wave of panic rippled through the crowd and on.

But the panic hadn’t ended.

The crowd had broken up into tighter knots. The makeshift “stable” had collapsed, keeping Butts and the Johnsons and Foleys busy freeing those caught up in the crumpling structure.

Reverend Colebatch, Filbert, and Goodes, along with some of the boys—Jamie and George among them—were struggling to restrain the animals remaining within the “fold.” But the sheep were still darting and dashing about, and some of the goats had decided to join them, threatening to butt anyone who attempted to corral them.

The goats were on the far side of the crowd, and of all people, Lady Osbaldestone was directing several men as to their capture. As she was wielding her cane with purpose, Christian deemed it safe enough to leave the goats to her.

He had a fleeting vision of a similar rout at the end of the re-enactment in one of the years he’d participated. In some respects, it was inevitable and not really much of a concern, but the sheep were still loose, and though in actuality unthreatening enough, certainly to those country born, a small child too young to be in the pageant had been knocked over by one of the larger ewes and was now crying inconsolably in her mother’s arms…

Christian saw an older woman—very old, leaning heavily on a stick—hobbling to get out of the way of the still-darting mob.

Enough.

Over Eugenia’s head, he caught Henry’s eyes and, gripping Eugenia’s shoulders, eased her toward her brother. “Look after your sister while I take care of this.”

Not waiting to hear any response—he’d spoken in his major’s voice—he pushed away from the wall and forced his way through the ranks of the crowd.

He spotted a group of older boys, sheets and towels still flapping, chasing the sheep more or less in a line following the animals. “Boys!”

At his commanding roar, the boys pulled up—shocked into instant obedience.

Christian didn’t give them time to think. “You and you.” He pointed to two of the boys. “Continue to chase them. Go!” The pair went. “The rest of you go that way”—he pointed diagonally across the green—“and get ahead of them. Then you and you”—he singled out the heaviest of the boys—“grab the ewes in the lead. There’s two of them. Grab their heads against your bellies like this”—he demonstrated—“and hold them. They’ll stop, and then the others will, too.”

He waved, and the boys raced off.

He hadn’t brought his cane; what with all the riding and walking he’d been doing since returning to the Grange, his left leg was growing stronger. Regardless, he still couldn’t run.

It took him three minutes to catch up with the boys—and by then the ovine escapees had been recaptured. Most of the boys stood in a rough circle, corralling the submissive animals around the dominant ewes, still held close by the two boys he’d delegated to subdue them.

The boys all looked to him as he approached. One of the pair holding the ewes turned his head to ask, “Like this, my lord?”

Halting, Christian nodded. “Exactly like that. Well done!” With his gaze, he included the other boys. “You succeeded and stopped what might have become a riot.”

All the boys grinned. Many exchanged proud glances.

“Now,” Christian went on, “who owns the sheep?”

Informed they were from the Foleys’ flock, Christian dispatched two boys to find John Foley, last seen disentangling people from the ruin of the “stable.” John soon came striding up, bringing his herdsman with him. Between them, they took charge of the two ewes and, after thanking Christian and praising the boys, led the recalcitrant sheep away.

Almost smiling, Christian nodded at the boys. “Dismissed.”

They grinned, and he turned away—to find Eugenia and Henry had followed him. Of course, their route home also lay in that direction, but from the manner in which Eugenia approached, her smiling gaze locking on his face, he rather thought his first instinct had been correct, and she had, indeed, come after him.

She halted before him, with Henry a few steps behind, and raised a hand to lightly touch his arm. “I wanted to thank you for saving me from tumbling.”

Uncharacteristically, Christian dithered. Saying “It was entirely my pleasure,” while nothing more than the truth, might be too revealing.

Then from behind him came the sound of a throat being noisily—and rather pointedly—cleared. He turned to find one of the “shepherds” he’d just instructed in how to subdue ewes standing regarding him—including taking in the disaster of his face. Prodded by instinct to act over the sheep, he’d forgotten all about his scars.

It was too late to hide the hideousness now…and the boy didn’t seem overly horrified. “Yes?” His tone was a trifle sharper than he’d intended.

The boy’s eyes widened, but then he firmed his jaw and raised his head a fraction.

Christian realized that all the other boys were still there, hanging back and watching a few yards behind their friend.

“If’n you don’t mind, your lordship,” the boy said, drawing Christian’s attention back to him, presumably the group’s elected spokesman, “we’ve been wanting to ask which battle it was that you got blown up in.”

Which battle? That was one question Christian was rarely asked. “Talavera.”

“Was it a big battle with lots of guns, then?”

“About six divisions involved, plus supporting cavalry and artillery.” When Christian saw that didn’t mean anything to the boy, he clarified, “Lots of men with guns, lots of cavalry, and lots of cannon.”

He could still hear their roar when he thought of it.

The boy nodded, as if that explained things. “Thought it musta been like that. Thank you, m’lord.” The boy bobbed an awkward bow, turned, and hurried back to his mates.

The group closed around him, eagerly questioning.

Christian studied them.

Beside him, Eugenia murmured, “See? They don’t view your scars the way you do.”

His gaze still on the boys, he frowned slightly. “I thought they would be repulsed.”

“No.” In a softer tone, she added, “They see the man behind the scars. The major, the man of action. That’s what you are to them. When it comes to your injuries, they’re just curious.”

He continued to stare at the boys, some of whom had shot quick glances his way. “Just curious…huh.” Then he shook aside the distraction and turned to Eugenia. “I must fetch my donkey—he’s probably dug in his heels and will be refusing to move.”

She grinned. “I don’t think he’s ever played a role in our nativity before. Next time, he’ll be an old hand.”

Christian arched his brows. “Heaven help us. He’s such a contrary animal he’s liable to consider causing a stampede an obligatory part of the show.” He bowed to her. “Good day, Miss Fitzgibbon.”

She dipped a slight curtsy. “And good day to you, my lord.”

Henry came forward to shake Christian’s hand and add his thanks to Eugenia’s, then brother and sister continued toward the lane while Christian headed for the area where the debris from the “stable” was being cleared away.

As he’d predicted, Duggins had refused to budge, and the men were having to work around him.

“Lord Longfellow!” Reverend Colebatch greeted him with relief. “Thank you for your help with the errant sheep, my lord. And for this fine fellow, as well.” Beaming, Colebatch handed over Duggins’s rope. “He performed as required…well, except for that last bray. But I daresay it was a protest of sorts, so we must excuse him.”

Christian gave Duggins a warning look. “As you wish, Reverend. But I better get him back to his stable and allow you and your helpers to finish up here.”

“Yes, indeed.” Colebatch half bowed. “Thank you again, my lord. Our re-enactment wouldn’t have been the same if we hadn’t had the use of your beast.”

And that, Christian reflected, was nothing more than the truth. He wondered how the village pundits would label this year’s effort. “The year that donkey spooked the sheep” was, in his view, the most likely description.

Christian started off, and Duggins readily fell into line behind him. He’d gone no more than ten yards when he found the group of boys—most about twelve or thirteen, he judged—waiting to waylay him. He slowed.

The same boy as before—their spokesman—stepped forward to say, “We was wondering, my lord, if’n you could tell us a little of what your time in the wars was like. About being over there, away from home and fighting the Frogs.”

Christian eyed their hopeful faces. The war wasn’t over and wouldn’t be for years, yet given their age, these boys might never be called upon to serve. That said, there were always wars somewhere, and better they heard the tales from one who knew, from someone they knew and, he hoped, would listen to.

One of the other boys shifted uncertainly. “Me dad said as how you was a major an’ all, so you must know what it’s like being in the thick of things.”

He did know. Few better. Not many men had survived the sort of fighting he had.

Duggins nudged him in the back. Christian glanced at the donkey, then looked at the boys. “If you walk with me around the back of the vicarage and the church, I’ll answer your questions.”

The boys’ faces lit. Eagerly, they lined up on either side of him.

Trailing his own little troop—the similarity didn’t escape him—he walked on, leading Duggins, and set himself to answer the boys’ questions as honestly as he could.

From the other side of the green, Therese viewed the little band departing around the far end of the vicarage’s retaining wall and smiled with a great deal of satisfaction.

Lottie came gamboling up, then halted and waved goodbye to Annie Bilson, who was of similar age.

Looking around closer to hand, Therese spied Jamie and George wiping their hands on their costumes and heading her way. “Excellent work, boys. I’m sure Mr. Goodes can handle the rest. It’s nearly lunchtime, and after all that excitement, you must be hungry.”

Assured by all three that they were starving worse than any waifs, Therese gathered them up and herded them back to the manor.

* * *

That evening, when Therese and her three assistants gathered in her private parlor after dinner, she led them in a review of their campaigns. Ignoring the toys and games, not to mention the drawing paper, now strewn about the room, she sat back in her chair before the fire, and with Lottie curled up by her feet and leaning against her knee and Jamie and George sitting cross-legged on the hearthrug, she arched her brows at the boys. “I take it you turned up no clue this afternoon.”

Both boys shook their heads. “The other boys came with us, and we searched all the buildings and barns and even Mr. Mountjoy’s warehouse behind his store,” Jamie reported, “but there was no sign of the geese anywhere.”

“I assume you asked the owners of the properties for permission before you searched?”

George frowned. “Of course.” His tone suggested he considered the question something of an affront.

“We did,” Jamie confirmed. “They were all happy to let us look. Mr. Whitesheaf even allowed us to go down into his cellars, although I can’t imagine how the birds could have got down there, not unless someone had left the delivery hatch open.” He shrugged. “Anyway, the geese weren’t there.”

“Will Foley, Ben Butts, and Robert and Willie Milsom came with us,” George said.

Jamie shifted. “They said they’d gone out yesterday afternoon and beaten the woods south of Crossley Farm, but didn’t find even a feather.”

The boys sounded rather dejected. Therese considered them, then said, “There are five more days before Christmas Day. How much do you want goose for Christmas dinner? Enough to keep searching?”

The boys exchanged a look, then glanced at Lottie, then Jamie met Therese’s eyes and nodded. “Yes. If there are five more days…” He paused and frowned.

“Indeed.” Therese could guess where his mind had taken him. “Although there are five more days to Christmas, Mrs. Haggerty will need time to clean and pluck the bird and properly dress it, so in fact we really have at most four days. If we don’t find the flock by the twenty-third, I believe we’ll need to give up.”

“But not yet, Grandmama!” George and Lottie chorused.

“We should at least search until then,” Jamie said. “And when you think of it, it’s like long ago when everyone had to hunt for their meals. We’re doing the same thing.”

Somewhat relieved—for how she would occupy them if they weren’t amusing themselves with the search, she had absolutely no idea—Therese regally inclined her head. “Very well. Our search goes on.” She paused, envisaging the map of the area. “I suggest that tomorrow, you and however many of the other children you can collect should search the woods north of Swindon Hall. That’s opposite Tooks Farm, across the road to Romsey and the Wellows. I can’t remember why we didn’t search there earlier, but we haven’t, and we should. It’s a large enough area that a flock could hide there and not be seen by anyone for some time.”

Jamie and George nodded eagerly. “We can start in the morning,” George said, “as long as it isn’t raining.”

Therese had had the thick curtains drawn tight against the icy cold of another brilliantly clear night sky. “I doubt we’ll have rain, but we will have frost—possibly a hoar frost—by morning. It’s been edging toward a deep freeze over the past days. I think tonight will see even the lake freeze hard. It’s already frozen over, but Dick Mountjoy keeps an eye on it—he’s more or less the official arbiter of when the village can skate on the lake, and he told me today that he thinks the freeze tonight will do it. If so, he’ll put up a sign in the shop window, so we’ll all know the village skating party is on. The whole village gathers every year on the twentieth, as long as Dick says we can skate.”

“Skating!” George cheered.

“And we packed our skates, too!” Jamie added.

“Mine are new.” Lottie looked up at Therese. “I can skate all by myself, but my feet grew bigger, and I had to get new ones.”

Therese smiled and passed her hand over Lottie’s sleek head. “That’s wonderful, my dear. I’ll be able to watch you all.” She looked at the boys and added, “Just as long as Dick gives us the all clear. The village rule is that there’s strictly no skating unless and until Dick says it’s safe.”

Jamie and George returned her gaze solemnly. “Yes, Grandmama.”

She eyed them for a second, then nodded. “Good. Now let’s turn our mind to our other campaign.”

Lottie looked up. “Is that the one where we help Lord Longfellow and Miss Fitzgibbon to see that they like each other?”

Therese looked down into her granddaughter’s face and smiled. “Succinctly put, poppet—it is, indeed. And if the weather cooperates, we can hope for another event on the village calendar.”

“The skating party.” George rocked back and forth, a frown slowly forming on his face. “We managed at the re-enactment with Henry’s help, but how are we to get them properly together on the ice?”

Slowly, Therese nodded. “A very good question. I believe that at the skating party, we’ll have to rely on careful observation and our own quick wits to make the most of any opportunity that presents itself.” She eyed her three helpers. “Which means we’ll have to trust in Fate and be ready to seize whatever opening she gives us.”