A/N: Thanks for the favs/reviews/alerts! Typed this up in two grueling days. Fastest update/chapter I've ever made. No, I don't know what the hell is wrong with me. Please allow me one week or so to type Chapter 8. XD Hope you enjoy!

Sp/grammatical errors and DM linked words will be corrected after publication.

Notes: -Remember to check the headings for the date and time!
-You've all seen Denmark's axe. It's huge. 8D
-Hanna's shown up before in CTD as a cameo. Her parents are Berwald and Tino.
-Mikhail is still the reigning king of the polls. :3 Thanks being awesome and voting, everyone!
-Have you all seen the doujinshi by Jyro yet? FFFFF..so cool~! -dances-

My e-mail: ChocolateLoki (at) gmail . com (Say hi? XD Just please don't spam. By the way, I have received your messages, karapuui, although I couldn't PM you back because FFnet took out your email in your message. oTL I apologize for the late reply! I'd love to chat with you online! ^u^)

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.


November 29, 1960, Strasbourg, France, around the park, 5:51 P.M…

Yesterday had been an awkward day of fake searching for Evangeline, but so was today. Her cover wasn't blown yet, but that was only because France seemed too distracted to really register what she was saying. Soon the afternoon of Evangeline misleading France passed, which led to a simple stroll around the park. Her father seemed depressed, for he did not say a word or look at her much. Nevertheless, she was glad that Strasbourg was a big city, else they'd run out of places to go.

"Do I really look so much like that person?" Evangeline finally asked. The silence was dreadful.

France blinked. "Pardon?" He sounded like he was noticing Evangeline for the first time.

"That person I remind you of. Is she your lover?" Evangeline hoped France would say, 'Yes,' so she could be reassured that she didn't accidently break up her parents or something.

The blond was completely taken by surprise, but he answered anyways, "Yes, you do remind me of…her." He coughed. "But she is not my lover, or anywhere close to that, though I wish…"

France didn't go on, so Evangeline sighed. Evangeline glanced at the Christmas lights hanging from the café from across the street; similar sorts of decoration extended everywhere throughout the town.

She pointed them out. "What are those for?"

France kept walking. "Christmas market. Around the corner, but I'm not attending this year." He got that pitiful look on his face again; Evangeline noticed that he hadn't made a single pass at her, or anyone they encountered. I must've screwed up big time then…

"Did you ask that person to go with you to the market?" The two passed a tall, pale woman, her curly golden locks flowing in the wind and totally reeking of expensive perfume.

He didn't even look up; France just stuffed his hands inside his pockets. "I did. But she won't come. She's going to spend the holidays in America with her dear Alfred F. Jones." He practically seethed at the last three words.

Oh God. Perhaps she did screw up her parent's relationship really badly if her mom was dating Adrian's mom—ew. That didn't sound right at all. If only she knew how to fix it…wait a minute. Maybe she still could help! She could remind him so much of England that he'll have to try to get back together with him…her…whatever, again!

"Do you love her?"

"W-what?" He froze in place, staring at Evangeline incredulously.

"The person I look like. Do you love her?"

France brushed his hair back, in spite of how flustered he was. "Yes."

It's actually working! "Does she scold you for every minuscule detail?"

He seemed a bit shocked. "Yes—"

"Does she look at you with these big, green eyes one minute and punch you in the face the next?"

France gaped at her. "How do you know that—"

"Is she beautiful?"

It almost looked like France would choke on air. "Excuse me?"

Evangeline crossed her arms. "Is she beautiful?"

"Isn't this getting a little too personal?" He cleared his throat, hoping the girl would give up on the conversation, but Evangeline's eyes bore into him relentlessly. He exhaled, defeated. "Yes. She's very beautiful."

Evangeline grabbed France's hands and pulled him towards the café. "What are you doing now—?"

The girl opened the doors to the restaurant and pushed France in. "It's six o'clock and I'm hungry."

"Are you kidding me—"

"No. Buy something and come back." She took a seat at an empty table. "Well? Go on."

France went off to the counter, wondering why in the world he was listening to whatever this random girl said. He'd only met her yesterday, but…but it seemed like he knew her. This mysterious girl who'd appeared on his doorstep and introduced herself as Evan…she was acting so much like Angleterre: very demanding, with a temper that could change in five seconds, and a sharp tongue.

He paid the lady at the counter and returned to Evangeline, handing her a cup of Earl Grey. "Okay. I have bought you food and tea. What would you like me to do now, ma cher?"

Evangeline sensed heavy sarcasm thrown into the last two words. She answered breezily, "I want you to ask that person to go to the market with you again."

"What?" France leaned back against his chair, dumbfounded. "No, no, no…I don't think you understand. She lives in England, and she's going to America for the holidays, so she's not coming to France."

Evangeline sipped at her cup. "She's uncertain. She can easily refuse an invitation, but not if you write sincerely, and I'm willing to bet that you wrote two sentences in your first invitation 'cause you didn't want to look desperate. And I have a feeling that this Alfred F. Jones has asked her at least fifty times before she agreed." Okay, she was guessing on that part, but having seen her mother interact with Adrian's mom, she could sum things up pretty quickly.

His mouth dropped; she was absolutely right, even about the part where Alfred had asked (more like whined) for Arthur to come to America before, during, and after every meeting for ten days. "How did you know that? And how do you know about Jones asking her fifty times?"

Evangeline nearly spat out her tea. She was right? "Uh…girls know things like this. So how exactly did you ask him, ah, I mean, her, out?"

"I sent her a letter and roses."

Evangeline nodded. The waitress had come to their table with plates of fruits and biscuits. "That's good. That's a good start—"

"But I sent the roses under Alfred F. Jones's name."

"…what?" She smacked both hands on the table, making some patrons stare at her, startled. "What? Why would you do that?"

France stirred his coffee nonchalantly, but Evangeline could see he was trying to stay calm, for his hand was trembling. "Believe me, when I bought the roses I had the full intention of giving it to her with my name, but when I heard she had planned to go to America, I changed my mind."

"B-but why? Why would you help your rival win her?" She ripped a chunk of her biscuit and chewed it angrily. "You're supposed to be the 'charming romantic', but it seems like you were too hopeless and lost your mind—"

France rose from his seat. "I did it because I didn't want her to think I'm stealing her from Alfred, okay?" Although his face was one of fury, his eyes were glowering at her helplessly. "I'm not going to force myself on him, but he doesn't know that. Arthur can take the roses as a congratulatory gift. From me!" He sat back down, his expression softening. "Do you understand now, Evan?"

He didn't realize that he's switched pronouns, Evangeline thought. But at least now I know the person is my Mum. "It's alright, if you tell her I'm sure she'll—"

"He—she won't understand because he'll think I'm joking." He sighed one last time. "But I'm not."

Evangeline lowered her gaze. "I'm sorry."

He shook his head heavily. "No," he replied. "I should apologize for raising my voice." He finished his coffee in one gulp and put two fingers to his temple. "Let's go back after this and we'll start again tomorrow, is that okay?"

She nodded again behind the cover of her teacup. It actually hurt seeing her dad acting so pathetic. He was France, the Francis Bonnefoy, yet here they were, father and daughter sitting in a coffee shop sulking in their own corners like strangers. But while France was ranting, Evangeline had devised a plan: she would find her mother's address (France had to have it somewhere in the house) and send the invitation herself without him knowing. She had to do this.

She took another glance at her dad. He was tried and frustrated; the war wound on his arm was probably aching right now, seeing that his hand was shaking just by holding up his coffee cup.

Her dad had tried his best, Evangeline concluded. Now it was her turn.


November 30, 1960, France's house, 3:21 A.M…

France finally went to bed at one forty-six, but not before he'd had six glasses of wine. Evangeline sometimes wished her dad would stop swimming in his own miseries, but it was probably because of her. She'd went to sleep at ten o'clock exact, was woken up by France at one when she heard him bustling in the kitchen, and waited until three to execute her plan.

Evangeline tiptoed downstairs with a flashlight, careful not to trip over an empty wine bottle and break her neck. Finding the stationary and England's address wasn't hard; they were both in the drawer of a table which had a single, nearly dead rose on it.

She wrote quickly in the flowing handwriting that was her dad's that she'd long learned to forge. The stationary was simple, bordered with printed baby pink ruffles; Evangeline penned the entire message (okay, it was only a couple of sentences, but she thought they were quite emotionally heart wrenching—alright, that was another lie. She wrote things that she herself would like to hear from a guy) in France's heavy fountain pen and sealed the letter neatly.

There was a folded woolen blanket sitting on the arm of the couch, and she was thankful for that, because she had decided to spend the next two hours sleeping on the couch until it was time to go to the post office.

She hoped France would be too drunk to hear her sneak out at five in the morning.


November 30, 1960, London, Trafalgar Square, 3:53 P.M…

Charles had been tailing after the two for an hour or so, and he had yet to find any suspicious activity regarding Alec. James and the doll had finally settled in Trafalgar Square, and he situated himself on the opposite end of the fountain, well-hidden behind the rush of water. Here he could easily observe them without getting caught. Or so he hoped.

Alec sat idly on the edge of one of the fountains. James had brought him here and promised to return with coffee, and Alec was thinking if he should leave right now when James ran back with said items.

"I didn't know which type you like, s-so I—"

Alec took the cup before James dropped it. "Thank you, James."

James, fumbling with his own cup of coffee and scone, nervously sat next to Alec. Alec sipped at his coffee and wondered why James was moving closer. "D-do you live here?"

"Oh, well, my parents move around a lot. Lived in Paris and moved to London and then America." Sip. Sip. "I guess I'm here as a tourist."

"Oh. Would you mind if we go to my house—"

Alec rose instantly. Uh oh, Ethan Cole Alert. "Don't you have your girlfriend waiting for you? Charles mentioned a person named Jane…"

"No, you've got it wrong! She's not my girlfriend, but—" But now I've found you, was what James wanted to say, but Alec continued for him.

"But you don't know how to approach her, isn't it?" Alec sighed; so he'd been worried over nothing. The guy just wanted dating tips. "First off, you should act like yourself, but in your case I guess we can bend that rule…" He sized up James, who was looking at him confusedly. "Well, I'm not sure, you look decent enough."

James took it as a compliment; he'd been stifling himself all day, and even Jane noticed him and waved shyly for the first time ever. But he didn't pay her any attention. "That's because I did it for y—"

Just as he was standing up, the scone rolled down to the ground and was immediately attacked by rabid pigeons. To James's delight, Alec actually laughed. James was acting so much like Adrian it was uncanny. Perhaps he should just enjoy this 1960s date—day, he'd meant to think day, not date.

"I wish I could take a picture of this," Alec blurted. And now I will smooth-talk my way out…somehow…

"I have a Polaroid at home, but it's an heavy thing. Someone should make it more lightweight." James stared off into the distance, where a man was enthusiastically testing out his new Polaroid and giving photos to people he took. "I see a man with a Polaroid. I think he's taking pictures for free. Should we ask—"

Oh yeah. This was the age of no digital photography, what a disappointment. Alec searched in his pockets and fished out his cell phone, which he had not turned on yet (he didn't think it would work in 1960 anyways). Who cares if James sees it? It's not like he has anyone to tell.

"He looks kind of crazy," Alec replied, watching the photographer snap pictures one after another, letting the photos fall on the ground.

James set his coffee down, eyeing the cell phone. "What's that?"

Alec snapped a photo of the birds and was about to slip it back into his pocket when James plucked it out of his hands. "It's my phone, now give it back."

Okay, he regretted taking his cell out, since James was practically going through all his photos and text messages. "You're joking. No phone can be this tiny."

"Yes, I'm completely joking, now give it back."

"Wait, wait." James flipped through the touch screen and opened a message. "This one says, 'ill c u at the mall ilu –Adrian.' Who's Adrian? What's…" He squinted. "…eyeloo?"

Alec finally snatched it back, his face flushed. "Nobody. That's nobody."

James narrowed his eyes. Alec had gotten embarrassed when he mentioned the name 'Adrian.' Seriously, he could care less about Alec's magical fake phone when now he now knew that someone called Adrian wanted to meet Alec at the mall to eyeloo, whatever the hell that meant. He could feel envy brimming up to his ears and burning at his throat like acid.

"Is Adrian your friend—"

The crazy Polaroid man had stalked up to James and snapped a quick picture. "Pictures? Do you want a picture with your girlfriend? Free of charge. I'm testing out my new camera, see, I just got it today—"

James rubbed his eyes. "No, I don't want a picture—"

Alec raised his eyebrows. Did the cameraman just refer to him as James's girlfriend? He was about to punch the idiot in the nose when he realized what a great opportunity it would be for him to distract James from his cell phone.

The blond suddenly clung to James's shoulders and batted his eyelashes, which he hadn't done since the trip in D.C. when he had to pretend he was some guy named Collin Bitt. "We'd love a picture! Take two, how about that?"

The cameraman nodded excitedly. "Of course! Anything for such a lovely girl!"

"Just take the picture." Idiot…

The camera flashed and Alec beamed his best plastic-Barbie smile. Meanwhile, James's face was getting warmer when he felt Alec leaning on his shoulders and smiling that super cute grin. What should he do now, he was getting nervous; the cameraman had called Alec his girlfriend…it wasn't difficult to mistake Alec for a girl, but Alec didn't look like he cared, so maybe he still had a chance! Before the camera flashed a second time, James decided to put his arm around Alec, who barely noticed.

"Here you go, Miss—"

Alec snatched the photos quickly and waved it around, shooing the photographer away. "Yeah, see you."

The pictures actually turned out pretty well, except for the fact that Alec would have to burn his part unless he wanted Adrian to rape him for two days straight for getting chummy with another guy—which was not a bad idea, Alec thought, then shook his head. No, what in the world was he thinking?

He gave away the one with James's arm around him; better not have that one around him, just in case. "Don't we look so vintage in black-and-white photos, James?"

James couldn't help but stammer. "I-I guess so?" He held on tight to the picture, careful not to smear it.

Alec, for his part, couldn't figure out why James was still gazing at him in a way he'd seen other guys look at pretty girls. He suddenly felt uncomfortable and got the sense that he should leave, fast. Alec picked up his coffee cup finished it in one gulp. "Well, it's getting kind of late, I think I should go now. I'll see you tomorrow…" Not likely. "…and maybe we can talk again!" Hope we don't.

On his end of the fountain, Charles was about to fall asleep. Nothing was happening, unless he counted the weird cameraman going up to James and Alec whipping out something shining and tiny from his pocket. Probably a whistle of a sort, James guessed. He shrugged his backpack on and was about to leave when a sudden movement from James grabbed his attention.

Alec turned on his heels to walk away, but once again, James grasped his wrists, although this time he pulled him closer so it'd look like Alec was huddled against his chest. Alec flinched; this encounter was getting increasingly like that Ethan Cole scene at the airport.

"Um…what are you doing?"

James was certain that he loved Alec, this strange, alluring person he'd happened to chance upon. "I won't see you tomorrow, or the day after that."

"That's great—I mean, that's too bad!" Now please let go because I really don't care…!

"I'm going to France. To Strasbourg for the Christmas market. I'll be back on Friday." He paused. "Will you wait for me 'til then?"

Alec could feel James's heart pound faster and faster. "I-I'm not sure, probably not—"

"I love you."

Alec stopped squirming. What. The. Hell? "I don't think you know what you're talking about—"

James pushed his face closer, and Alec leaned backwards. "I know exactly what I'm saying. I love you, Alec Bonnefoy. I want you to know this before I leave."

The blond resumed twisting around in James's embrace. "I think you're just upset about Jane. I mean, the whole world isn't just about her, there's plenty of other girls, like those girls with Charles. And if you're serious, I have to say that I already have a—mmph!"

Out of nowhere, James pressed his lips on Alec's gaping mouth and kissed him deeply, his eyes closed; Alec tasted like coffee and milk and sweet and he wasn't pushing him off. On the other hand, Alec was too shocked to do much of anything; he lost his hold on his coffee and it rolled onto a pigeon, which began pecking furiously at the paper. B-but he likes Jane! Why is he—oh no. Oh no. He was targeting me after all, I'm such an idiot!

Charles's mouth dropped, though it seemed as if his throat had been glued shut. He could only point frantically at the doll and his best friend kissing like a loon, but all that did was make a nearby old lady look at where he was gesturing and smile, saying, "That's lovely couple right there, isn't it?" He understood then why no one was freaking out: it was because the doll looked like a girl to begin with! Charles gripped his bag before it fell on the pigeons and ran out of Trafalgar Square.

Finally, James let go of Alec, both boys catching their breath. Alec hand automatically rose to touch his lips; he felt like a bug had kissed him.

"Wait for me on Friday," James said. "I promise I'll be here."

"Y-you—"

Alec didn't know what came over him. His head was feeling light and his heart too tight for his chest. He raised his right hand and slapped James, hard.

James touched his cheek, which was beginning to sting. "Alec—"

"You're a selfish jerk, you know that?"

He didn't wait for James to respond. Alec dashed out of Trafalgar Square and he thought he must've run two blocks to a small park before he could no longer hear James calling his name. He crumpled his Polaroid photo and tossed it in the wastebasket. He did not want to see him anytime soon.

Alec didn't care about being kissed. He didn't run away from James just because he was forced into it. It was that stupid expression James made after Alec had insulted him that reminded him of Adrian last year at the airport. He'd lashed out recklessly at both of them, and truly did hurt them. He had been the one playing the bad guy the entire time, not James.

It felt like all his energy had been sapped after striking James. As he made his way back to England's house, he knew he had to leave 1960 before Friday. Leave 1960 England and James Chase and that pitiful look he had made. And it was all because of him.


November 29, 1960, England's house, 11:47 P.M…

England adjusted himself into a comfortable position on the sofa and opened his book. The lad had come home at around six, looking sullen and sick. He had gone upstairs right after dinner, and England couldn't figure out a plausible explanation for the boy's behavior since he'd ordered dinner from a restaurant, so it couldn't have been a stomachache.

Nevertheless, Alec had told England he was ill and gone to bed early. England was starting to doubt if the boy was even lost; he didn't seem intent on finding his parents, if he'd really lost them. What's more, Alec had gotten agitated when England talked about Francis's letter and replied that he wasn't going. But Alec didn't look like a conman or a spy or anything of the sort. Who Alec looked like was actually Francis, especially today when he'd greeted England with that melancholy expression. He'd seen it on Francis so many times when the Frenchman thought he wasn't looking; it had started when England accepted America's invitation, but England could never figure out why. After all, Francis was one who acted as if he didn't care if England visited him or not.

The blond spotted a petal detach itself and float to the table. He got up and went the vase to straighten the bouquet. It was thoughtful of Alfred to get him flowers, but when he thanked the American on the phone, Alfred's tone was skeptical and said he didn't send any flowers. As England parted each individual rose, a small piece of paper fell out of the bunch and landed on Francis's opened letter. On the card were the words in flowing cursive, With love from Alfred F. Jones.

England's face got warm. That was sweet, though he'd never actually admit it to Alfred's face. It was nice to know that Alfred still cared about niceties like this even when they had no time to see each other anymore, courtesy of the WWII aftermath.

Alfred and him…what were they now? They hardly talk anymore, save for political reasons and that one time Alfred suddenly asked him to come to his home. But Alfred barely called him; it was Francis on the other end whenever the phone rang, inquiring how he was doing and his economy, although that had stopped when England had decided to visit America. If it weren't for Alfred's last minute begging, England thought he might've gone to France. It was almost as if all his conversations with Francis had been lost once he accepted Alfred's invitation. Francis must've meant those phone calls to be a joke then…

He was about to tuck the card back into the roses when he realized he'd smudged the ink on the card. The words weren't printed, and Alfred could never write out such even, perfect letters by hand, much less in cursive. England took out Francis's letter and compared the handwriting to the card.

It was exactly the same.

At first England supposed that Alfred got Francis to write it for him, but Francis had been quite hostile to the American and would've never agreed. The only other option was that Francis himself sent the flowers, which seemed to solve why Alfred was puzzled when he mentioned the bouquet.

England wanted to smack himself on the forehead. Roses! He should've known! Who else other than Francis would give him roses? Was Francis mocking him? Or was he for real?

Yesterday while Alec and he were chatting during their search around the city, England told him about Francis's phone calls and stated jokingly on how annoying they were getting, and Alec had answered solemnly that, "I think he might love you. Mr. Bonnefoy, I mean."

"Excuse me?" he had retorted. "I-I'm sorry, I didn't catch that—"

Alec had shrugged. "I think he loves you. Why else would he keep calling you? He quit it because he failed to win you over."

"We're just friends—"

"That's what you want to think."

England had looked away then, slightly unnerved that Alec somehow was able to supply his questions about Francis with a reasonable answer. Heck, he was already shocked that Alec was speaking so casually about him and Francis, but he gave in at the end. "How do you know that? Maybe he's playing around. Maybe I—"

"I know this because I know you. And also because I'm dating someone right now." He'd touched that scarf of his gently after saying that. "And what were you going to say? That maybe he's the one you truly like, not Mr. Jones? Well, he doesn't know that, does he?"

After all, Francis was one who acted as if he didn't care if England visited him or not…

Francis was the one who acted as if he didn't care…

Maybe Alec was right. England pocketed the smeared card and pressed his palm to his forehead. What was he to do now? And what could Alec have meant by he knew him?


November 30, present, Evangeline's house, front lawn, 3:29 P.M…

While the nations were discussing inside the house, Eirik and Annelise dawdled on the front lawn, watching car after car pass by Evangeline's house. Eirik flipped a page in a novel he'd found in Arthur's basement (his dad had fixed the lights) and Annelise turned another cartwheel in her yellow dress.

"Hey, Yukiko, do you think they've found their kids yet?" Annelise asked when Yukiko returned with a basket. Inside were small cakes she'd taken from Arthur's fridge (they looked edible, so Yukiko assumed either Evangeline or Francis made them), a pot of fruit tea, and Arthur's porcelain tea cups.

Annelise fell on that last cartwheel and crawled to the cake basket. Yukiko kneeled and picked at the strawberry on her cake. "I don't know," she answered, "But I think they've arrived."

"How can you tell?"

Yukiko shrugged and looked away. The last thing she wanted to think about was the creepy mirror. Annelise settled next to Yukiko and peered at her face. "Are we celebrating your birthday early?" She gestured to the cakes. "You're turning fifteen, right?"

She turned back, surprised. "You remember?"

"Of course I do, it's this Friday. You know, I sent your present just before I left. Dropped it in the post office on our way to the airport. I hope I remembered to change the address to England's house." She contemplated this, then exhaled softly. "I think I did. It's a really pretty dress. Mom and I looked in so many stores, but this one is the prettiest."

"Thank you, Anne." Annelise was still a kid, but Yukiko hoped that she wouldn't change when she became a city. What a pity it would be to lose this bubbly young personality.

The front door was open, and the three kids could hear noises from the house. "What's going on inside?"

Annelise ate the strawberry Yukiko had been stabbing at before the girl attacked it. "Mom found out that Dad brought his axe along, and now he's irritated."

"How'd he get it past security?"

"He wrapped it up, put it in a cello case, and said it was a metal cello."

Yukiko laughed. "And the guards actually believed your dad and ignored the x-ray scanner, very smart. So why did he bring it?"

"Mom wrote that there was trouble in his note, so Dad wanted to be on the safe side."

"It's a double-headed war axe. He can help by chopping that mirror frame into firewood after Arthur-san comes back—"

A delivery guy walked up to the kids and grinned. "Having a tea party, girls? Did you run out of dolls so you had to make your brother join?" he asked Annelise, who looked the oldest.

Here was another person who thought of them as little kids. It got so annoying sometimes. "We're having afternoon tea, I don't see why we must have dolls. Who's the package for?"

The deliveryman was a bit shocked when Yukiko responded. "A-are your parents at home?" he stuttered.

Annelise pointed at the box. "That's the gift I sent Yukiko. That's pretty fast delivery service. Give it to her, Mister, she'll sign it."

Most delivery guys could've cared less, but this one must've been either really dumb or new at his job. "Where are your parents? This is addressed to a Miss Yukiko Karpusi—"

"That's me."

The man raised his eyebrows and bent down to Yukiko's level. "Where's your mommy? I think she should sign it—what the—!"

Just as the guy was about to walk up to the front door, Denmark's axe sailed from inside and missed the man's nose by two inches. It imbedded itself in the delivery truck, the impact making the truck nearly tip over.

The deliveryman was this close to shrieking like a little girl. "Did you two see that? Look at my truck—!"

From inside the house came Norway's voice: "Annelise, will you do me a favor and take that to the backyard?"

"Okay, Mom." Annelise pulled the axe out as if it was stuck in nothing more solid than butter. She smiled benignly at the deliveryman. "It's a good thing your truck was parked there. Mom would've definitely hit the house across the street."

"You know, Hanna's dad can probably throw it harder," she told Yukiko, carrying the axe on her shoulder. She slammed the blade on the lawn and stuck it there. "I'll put it away later—hey, where'd the delivery guy go?"

"He ran away. But he left the package."

"Oh. Okay, then."

"…you know what we should do?"

"What?"

"We should have Hanna's dad and your dad compete in an axe throwing contest. The person who chucks it the farthest, wins."

"Sure they'll agree to that," Annelise chuckled, "if they don't kill each other first, that is. Let's open your present now."

Eirik poured himself another cup of fruit tea and looked up. The girls were fawning over a white dress with blue ribbon hems. He also saw his Dad's axe that had inexplicably stuck itself in the grass nearby…

…well, he'd seen stranger things happen around Annelise. He flipped another page in Arthur's book and tuned out the girls' excited chattering.