Regina has been anxious all day.

But it's a good sort of anxious.

It's been years now since she's had a real Christmas with Henry, and since the beginning of December she's been planning out what this week would entail, set on making the holiday a special one for her son. Mal is visiting a friend in Scotland—a term she's come to realize can mean a variety of things—and she has the flat to herself. There's a tree beside the hearth and festively wrapped presents beneath it, most of which bear a tag with Henry's name on it. All of Henry's favorite snacks were in the cabinets and she'd purchased tickets to see Lights of New York—a film that Warner Brothers had produced that fall where the audience could actually hear the actors speaking. She had no idea what the film was about, but she knew it'd be an experience—and she had a feeling Henry would be dazzled by it.

That week, she hadn't taken any new clients, and she didn't plan on it until the new year—and for that, her fingers were grateful. Up until the day before, she'd taken on as many clients as she could, taking on extra work, no matter how small the project. She dropped and raised hems, let out and took in waistbands, and spruced up an old sweater with new buttons—anything to make a few extra pounds to afford a comfortable couple of weeks with her son.

Mal, of course, thought she was being ridiculous—after all, she didn't need to work in the way that others did. And perhaps, there was some truth in that. Mal was never stingy and never made her feel as though she owed her anything—though she undoubtedly did. Regardless of how much money she had in her pocketbook, she had a place to live, food to eat, and clothes to wear. And it didn't quite matter to anyone other than her whether or not the money in her pocketbook was hers or not, it still spent the same way. Yet, working as a seamstress had given her something to do with her time, a way to spend her days that gave her a sense of purpose. She had a reason to get up in the morning and a reason to get dressed. She interacted with someone who wasn't Mal, and truthfully, the job gave her a perspective that she sorely needed, slapping her with a near-daily reminder that her life wasn't all that bad, despite how lonely she often felt.

She was fortunate. She knew that. She'd always known it, but knowing something and feeling it were completely different things…

She pushed her thoughts away as Mal's driver rounded a bend and onto the road that would lead them to Henry's school.

The scenery was beautiful—and every time she came here, she couldn't help but get caught up in it, regardless of the season. Today, the air was cool and crisp—and she could almost see the frost in the air, spreading like spiderwebs over everything it touched. The sky was a cool gray contrasted by a bright sun that gave the allure of warmth as the leaves on the trees glisten with ice and a fresh blanket of satiny white snow covers the ground. Henry's school was once a great estate and it was impossible not to imagine the history behind it as you approached it. She imagined the grandiose balls that were once held here—horse-drawn carriages pulling slowly up the lantern-lit gravel pathway, the ladies' jewelry shimmering in the dim light. She imagined the Lords and Ladies who'd raised families here and how much the world had changed since then—and wondered about the last Lord and Lady who'd lived here, wondering if they'd been content with their choice to sell it off and start anew in a simpler life.

For a year now, Henry's tuition payments arrived without fail—and though she couldn't quite explain it, she suspected Leopold's pride would keep them coming. The money was nothing to him, but the prestige attached to being afforded the ability to simply mention to his friends the name of the prestigious school his son attended was everything to him. That throw away comment—along with a thousand others—were markers of his status and privilege, and at the end of the day, that alone, made the tuition payments worth it.

Regina's thoughts on that matter were fleeting—she wasn't sure how felt about her son's continued attendance at the school, but she didn't like to linger on it—and as soon as she saw Henry coming down the grand staircase, they were forgotten entirely. Dropping down to her knees, she opened her arms and her chest tightened as Henry fell into them, hugging her tightly as he told her that he'd missed her.

His bags were quickly loaded into the car and then they were on their way back to London—and this time, she didn't notice a single detail about the scenery.

Henry chattered on and on for the whole drive. He told her about his friends and the games they played in their dormitories. He told her about his classes and his teachers, and the short story he'd written for English—a story his teacher told him he should be proud of. She'd beamed at that—and then beamed just as brightly as he sheepishly admitted he'd gotten a 70 on his last math test despite having studied hard. He was nervous about telling her, she could tell, but nonetheless, she reminded him that she was proud of him for working so hard. At that, he'd grinned and carried onto the next story, and all the while, she'd relished in it.

When they reached Mal's flat, Henry hauled his trunks up to his room while she thanked Mal's driver for staying on an extra day to collect Henry from school—and just as Henry trotted down the stairs, the driver tipped his hat and wished her a happy holiday.

"Now what?" Henry asks, leaning against the banister, looking up at her expectantly.

His eyes narrow as she grins and tosses his hat and gloves back to him. "What would you say to us going out to lunch?"

"Where?"

"Anywhere!"

Henry blinks, a slow smile edging over his lips. "Can we go to The Mayfair?" Regina's brow arched at the mention of the hotel where well-to-do flappers, wannabe gangsters, and Bolshevik sympathizers were known to hang out. "They have the best chocolate cake there."

"How do you know about The Mayfair?"

"Mal used to take me sometimes."

Regina's brow arches. "Did she?"

"Yup," Henry replies gingerly. "She'd let me get the cake and whatever else I wanted while she flirted with ladies whose husbands were already stupid drunk and losing more money than they could afford to lose playing cards."

Regina's eyes press close. Somehow none of that had ever come up in Mal's detailed retelling of how she and Henry spent his breaks from school prior to her arrival in London at the beginning of that year.

"The bartender makes this drink I like, too. It has pineapples and raspberries in it." Henry giggles as her eyes widen. "He made it American-style."

American-style meant alcohol free, she and everyone else knew that—but still, the thought of her then-eight-year-old sitting at a bar enjoying cake and cocktails made her cringe.

"Get your coat on. Your hat and gloves, too, and on the way, you can tell me about this chocolate cake."

"Didn't the driver just go?"

"I'll call a cab."

Henry grins and hops down from the bottom stair. "I've never been in a cab!"

"Well, I hate to break it to you—it's not that thrilling, but it'll get us to where we want to go." Nonetheless, Henry looks excited and it makes her laugh. "We'll do lunch first, then some shopping, and run a few other errands."

"Like what?"

"What errands do I need to run?"

Henry nods as she holds his coat open. "Well," she begins, murmurings softly as she considers it. "I have to pick up another gift for Mal—"

"I can help with that," Henry says, slipping his arms into the coat and spinning to face her. "She likes good gin."

Regina's eyes roll. "She does."

"I can help you find the kind she likes. The bottle is pretty and—"

"I don't want to know why you know what kind of gin Aunt Mal drinks."

Henry blinks up at her, confused, as she opens the front door and he points into the sitting room. "She keeps a bottle in there, on the bar…"

"Oh. Right."

"She likes the kind they have at The Mayfair, too."

Regina's eyes roll. "I was thinking… something else."

"She likes red lipstick."

Regina grins. "I know."

"And tart candies."

At that, Regina's head tilts. There's a candy store near the bookshop she wants to take Henry to. "Now, there's an idea."

"She likes these ones that come in this pretty gold foil. The box is tied with a pink ribbon."

"That's… very specific."

Henry giggles. "One of her lady friends sent some to her once. The note thanked her for being so discreet… whatever that was supposed to mean. She's never discreet about anything."

Again, Regina's eyes widen a little. "Henry, were you going through Aunt Mal's personal—"

"I didn't mean to read it. But I wanted to try one of the lemon candies and she said I could, but to open up the box, I had to untie the ribbon, and the note was attached." He pauses and his cheeks flush a little, likely realizing he very easily could have just set the note aside. "It was… it was just... right there."

Regina sighs and his cheeks flush a deeper red.

"But, Mom, she's not discreet. You should see her when she picks me up from school."

At that, Regina smiles and Henry huffs. "What does she do?"

Henry draws in a breath. "First of all, whenever she comes to pick me up, she wears that big fur coat of hers and her red lipstick. Everyone else has a nanny who looks like a Puritan dressed in all even wear funny collars."

Regina's lips press into a thin line as she stifles her urge to laugh.

"And she makes this big production of being so excited to see me and so happy to have me coming home with her."

"That's genuine, you know."

He looks up at her and nods. "But then she hugs me and kisses my cheeks, and Mom, she does it in front of everyone."

"She loves you."

"And I love her, but… people were watching."

"People like your friends?"

"Yes."

"Well, you hugged me when I came to pick you up today."

"That was different," Henry tells her, his shoulders squaring with a hint of indignation. "You were early, so no one was around. Everyone was still having breakfast or packing up their stuff. Most of my friends aren't even going home until tomorrow."

"Ah—"

"And I didn't end up with lipstick smudges all over my face."

Regina shakes her head as the cab turns a corner, slowing as it pulls up in front of Mal's flat. Henry excitedly climbs in and she gives the driver their destination—and then they're off.

She watches Henry as he sits on his knees, watching as they make their way into the center of London. He takes it all in as if it's brand new to him—and though it tugs at her heartstrings a bit, she's glad the big city hasn't lost it's wonder, glad that his amazement hasn't worn out before she can experience and enjoy it.

They arrive at The Mayfair and are seated at a little table for two by the window. Outside, the snow is falling lightly again, the flakes floating down lazily on the windowsill where they disappear into the thick layer of snow already on the sill. There's a fire going in the hearth across the room and the orange flame reflects onto the shiny glassware behind the bar—a bar that she has a perfect view of and where she can't help but imagine her eight-year-old sitting as he eats cake and drinks fancy mocktails as the adult in charge of him looks for her next date.

Henry scours the menu—and she notes the prices, a detail she's never really paid much attention to, but now doesn't have the privilege of ignoring. She'd refused Mal's offer of some extra spending money, even when it was offered up with the ruse of being for Henry's use and not her own. Still, she knew that one mention of the Pendragon name and a bill would never be brought to the table, it'd simply be added to an endless tab that would be paid at the end of the month without thought.

But, as the waiter approaches their table with two large glasses of iced water, she reminds herself that this was the very reason she'd took on all of those extra jobs—and that she had more than enough to cover a week of the frivolous spending she'd once enjoyed without the slightest need for pause.

Henry orders the tomato soup and garlic basil cheese toast, and she does the same—she'd been so caught up in noticing the prices of everything, she'd barely looked at the actual food choices. And when Henry orders a Daisy to drink, the waiter's brow juts up as she clarifies that her son would like one of the virgin variety.

"Are we still going to get cake?" Henry asks, as soon as the waiter is out of earshot.

Regina blinks. "If you finish your soup."

"Can I get my own or do we have to share it?"

A smirk edges over her lips as Henry's eyes narrow—and though she knows they should absolutely split a piece, she finds herself giving in before he even puts up a fight. "Well, I suppose a full piece wouldn't hurt… too much."

Henry beams. "Really?"

Regina nods and her heart flutters as she reaches for her iced water—she enjoys spoiling her son. "I just hope I don't regret it tonight when you inevitably crawl into my bed tonight with an uneasy stomach and—"

"That hasn't happened in a long time," Henry interjects.

Regina smiles gently—she wonders if he means that it hasn't happened because he no longer gets sick from stuffing himself with too many sugary treats or that it hasn't happened because she hasn't been around.

She decides to accept it as the former and not the latter.

"Then after lunch and cake, I was thinking we could head over to that bookshop you like so much. Then the candy store—for Mal's gift, of course."

"The one on Charing Cross Road?"

Again, his whole face lights up and it makes her chest ache in the best possible way. "And I can get a book?"

"That's the whole point of going."

She watches as Henry bites excitedly at his lip. "Not always. Sometimes it's just fun to go and look."

"You like to browse bookstores?"

Henry nods, offering a sheepish little laugh. "We don't go to Foyles—that's too far, obviously—but sometimes on the weekends we go into the little village by school. There's a bookstore there that has a comfy chair you can sit and read in." Henry giggles. "And there's a cat there."

"A cat?"

"Her name is Mabel."

Regina smiles. "Does Mabel sit and read with you?"

She laughs at Henry's expression—he looks unsure. "Kinda," he says, his voice slow as his eyes narrow. "But really, I think she just wants her chair back."

"Well, then you should always oblige."

Henry grins. "I like to test out the books."

"I'm sure the owner of that bookshop loves that."

"He's okay with it," Henry tells her. "We have a deal."

"Do you?"

Henry nods. "I find books I want and make a list, then I send Aunt Mal the list and she goes and buys them." Henry pauses, his brow furrowing a little. "Or her maid does." Looking up with a grin, Henry shrugs. "Doesn't matter, I guess. The books get bought."

Regina smiles—she had no idea.

But she assumes there are a lot of these little things between Henry and Mal, traditions and routines that they'd simply fallen into since Henry was sent off to school in England, things are completely commonplace between them and things that seem so insignificant that they barely earn a mention.

The soup and bread come, and they order two slices of cake—and by the time they leave The Mayfair, they're stuffed.

They elect to walk to the bookstore despite the snow, and all the while Henry rattles on about hoping they have the new Tarzan comics—something he's wanted for awhile now, but hasn't been able to find.

"I want my own," he tells her. "I borrow Neal's copies."

"Your friend—"

"Yep. He gets all the good comics," Henry tells her with a sigh as they round the corner onto Piccadilly. "His dad gets 'em from New York whenever he goes on business."

"It's nice that he shares them."

Henry nods in agreement. "Yeah, but I can't keep borrowing them, and I like to read them more than once."

Regina smiles. "Well, I hope Foyles has them."

"Foyles has everything."

A little laugh bubbles out of her. "Do they?"

"I heard they have four million books." Henry looks up at her, his eyes filled with awe. "Can you imagine having four million books?"

"I can't, honestly."

"Do you think we could fit four million books in the library at home?"

Regina's chest constricts as she thinks of the library in the house where Henry was born with his deep mahogany shelves and the dusty leather bound volumes that sit on them. "Maybe," she muses. "There certainly are enough shelves, it seems."

"What kind of books are in there?"

Regina draws in a short breath, trying to keep her voice light and trying in vain not to think about the fact that home—as Henry himself had deemed it—is a mysterious place to him, that it's hardly a home.

"Classics. Shakespeare. Books on history and economics," she tells him. "There's a row or two of Great Books—whatever those are—and then some that your sister used to read when she was your age."

Henry's nose scrunches. "I bet she likes sappy poetry about love."

Regina stifles a laugh—that's exactly what fills the volumes that Mary Margaret collected as a girl. "She was fond of the romantics."

Henry scoffs. "Boring stuff."

"I've never read them—"

"If I had a shelf, I'd fill it with mysteries and adventure books. And comics."

"You do have a shelf," Regina says, nudging him. "At Mal's. You have five of them, in fact, in your room."

Henry grins. "I've got more at school."

"She spoils you," Regina says, leading the conversation away from Storybrooke. "You know that, don't you?"

"I do," Henry says, grinning. "She's weird, but I like her."

Regina laughs out in a loud burst. "Weird, huh?"

"Yeah! She calls it bohemian."

Regina sighs as they round another corner onto Charing Cross. "And you call it weird."

"Yep."

They spend the next hour browsing through Foyles, and Henry finds the Tarzan comics he'd been searching for. He adds a copy of Conan Doyle's short stories, and at the check out, he plucks a fancy bookmaker from the rack and sets it on top of his stack with a grin—and of course, she happily obliges, once more thinking how worth it all of those extra orders were.

The snow is coming down harder when they leave Foyles and by the time they leave the candy shop—a box of truffles for them to share, and the lemon candies for Mal—it's difficult to even see through the snow. So, instead of walking to the nearest post office, Regina hails a cab. It takes only a few minutes before one of the Crossley's baring the trusty Hansom's logo comes to a puttering stop at the curb.

Regina opens the door for Henry, who crawls in carefully as he clutches his bag of books, and then Regina follows suit, quickly giving the driver their desired destination. In no time, the cab is off again, she can't help but notice the look of wonder in Henry's eyes as downtown London whirs by.

"What's this?"

"What's what?"

"This?" Henry asks, plucking an envelope up from the back pocket of her purse. "Is this what you have to send?"

Regina grins, suddenly feeling a bit nervous as Henry holds her latest letter to Robin. "Yes," she says simply.

Innocently, Henry flips it over, his finger tracing over her cursive penmanship that spells out her name and Mal's address—then, his eyes shift to the center. "Who's she?"

"Hm?"

"Robin Locksley."

Regina holds her breath, considering—Henry doesn't know a thing about Robin or their love affair, and she wants to keep it that way. After all, she is married to the man he believes is his father, and the situation with her and Robin was messy—too messy for a nine year old to understand. "Well, for starters," she says in a tentative voice. "She is a he."

"Oh."

"And he's a friend of mine from back home. We write to each other."

"That's nice," Henry says. "I'm supposed to write to Neal. He lives in Yorkshire."

"You know, the post office has cards. You could send him one."

"But I just saw him this morning. He's still at school until tomorrow. That's when most kids are getting picked up."

Regina shrugs. "Then by the time he gets home, it'll be waiting for him."

Henry grins—he likes the idea.

"How long will that letter take to get to Robin?"

"A couple of weeks."

"That's a long time."

She nods, sighing gently. "It is a very long time, and a very long distance."

"What do you write about?"

"Life," she muses. "Just our comings and goings. He sends me recipes, and I send him…" She laughs. "Well, I just tease him about where he gets them."

Henry's head tips to the side curiously. "Where does he get them?"

"A magazine called Ladies Home Journal." Henry giggles and Regina feels herself relaxing a bit, glad to involve Henry in this part of her life, even if it is in such a limited way. "I tell him a lot about you," she says, daring to elaborate just a bit. "He has a son who's a couple of years younger than you. His name's Roland."

"It is!?" Regina's brows jut up at Henry's sudden excitement. "That's what I called the wizard in the story I wrote for English class! You know, the one my teacher really liked. My Roland had all sorts of neat powers."

"Well, my Roland is just a little boy. No magic, except for his smile." She grins over at Henry. "He has dimples, and I am fairly certain they wield some sort of magic."

"How so?"

"He smiles and gets whatever he wants."

At that, Henry giggles. "Lucky him!"

"As if the same isn't true for you!"

Still grinning, Henry shrugs. "Maybe I should write a sequel. Wizard Roland could have a son based on your friend's kid." And then, Henry suddenly turns shy. "And, if I wrote it, maybe you could send it to your friend."

Regina feels an unexpected stir of emotion as she nods. "He would love that."

"You think?"

"I know it," she says. "Roland, too."

Henry sits back against the padded seat of the cab, looking both pensive and content. "Maybe I'll start it when we get back to Aunt Mal's."

Regina grins as Henry tucks the envelope back into the pocket of her purse, suddenly lost in thought.

It's still snowing hard when they get back to Mal's flat, so Regina makes them go in through the back kitchen entrance. She helps Henry out of his boots, setting them down by the landing in front of the door, before plucking the hat from his head and shaking it off. Henry giggles as he unwinds the red and gray striped scarf that was tucked into his coat—a gift she'd sent him the previous year—and she can't help but notice his red cheeks and watery eyes.

"I think it's gotten ten degrees colder since we left the bookstore," she says, finally taking off her own coat and hanging it on a peg by the door. "Maybe more."

"I didn't notice."

"What?!" She turns to face him, wide-eyed. "How is that possible?"

Henry shrugs, another giggle bubbling out of him. "I don't know. I didn't notice."

"I swear, little boys have the blood of reptiles—indifferent to the cold."

Henry's eyes roll, but still he grins. "What's for dinner?"

"Oh," she murmurs, watching as Henry steps into the kitchen, slowly turning in a circle as he looks around. "Well, I gave Mal's cook the week off."

Henry turns to face her. "Uh oh…"

"I can cook."

Henry's eyes narrow skeptically. "Really?"

"Yes, I've been practicing with all those recipes my friend, Robin, sends to me. Mal says they're not half bad."

"Mom. When she says that, she really means—"

Regina's brows raise and Henry's voice stops abruptly as he presses his lips together in an effort not to laugh. "I have known Mallory Pendragon all of my life, and if there's one thing I know about it, it's that she…" Regina sighs, her shoulders falling as she leans against the counter. "She would absolutely lie to me to shut me up."

"Exactly."

"But," she says, perking up as she reaches into her purse. "I do have one that I liked."

"What is it for?"

"Chicken and…" Her brow furrows. "Slick dumplings."

"What's a slick dumpling?"

"I don't know."

Henry's brow arches. "I thought you said you made it before."

"Well, I did," she murmurs, staring down at the little index card, reading over the index card in Robin's now so familiar block handwriting. "Just because I ate it doesn't mean I know what it is."

"That doesn't sound promising… or make me want to eat it."

Regina sighs.

"You know, I bet Mrs—"

"We are not summoning the cook back here," Regina cuts in as she places the card on the counter. "We are going to figure this out."

"And if we don't, Mal has an account at The Mayfair and I could always be okay with a second piece of that cake." Regina looks pointedly at Henry, and he sighs. "I'm just saying… it's good cake."

Ignoring him, Regina reaches for two of the aprons dangling from a hook on the wall, and she tosses one to Henry and tells him to put it on as she gathers the ingredients—items she painstakingly located at the corner store that morning—and piles them up on the counter.

Skeptically, Henry watches as she hauls a heavy pot up onto the counter.

"First, we make the soup in this thing."

"A Dutch oven."

"Why do you know that?"

Henry shrugs. "I think everyone does."

"I didn't."

Henry giggles. "Again, that cake at The Mayfair—"

"Of all the things you inherited from me, you had to inherit my attitude."

"Aunt Mal calls it your sass—and then rhymes it with—" Henry stops as Regina shoots him a warning look. "So, um… is the chicken in the ice chest?"

"It is. It's in the brown butcher paper. It's all cut up and… dismembered, so we can skip that step of the recipe."

"That sounds gruesome," Henry says as he lifts the paper-wrapped chicken from the chest. "Now what?"

"Unwrap it and drop it in the Dutch oven, then fill it up with water while I cut the onions and garlic."

Henry makes a face at the onions and she laughs as he turns to the sink to fill the pot with water, awkwardly carrying it back to the counter. She helps him hoist it back up then tosses him a bunch of carrots and instructs him to start chopping.

In no time, the soup is simmering on the stove and a big bowl of the dry ingredients necessary for the dumplings sit before them, just waiting for the milk.

"I think you're going to like this part," Regina tells him as she measures out six cups of milk, remembering the letter that came with the recipe and how Roland had been captivated by the dry ingredients as they soaked up the milk to form a gooey dough.

"Why?"

"You'll see," she says, smirking as she adds the milk, one eye on Henry.

At first, he seems confused as the milk floods the bowl, but then as the milk begins to absorb, he leans in and watches it more closely. "It's like a science experiment," he whispers—and she beams, remembering that Robin told her it was one he thought Henry would enjoy both making and eating.

"Now mix it up," Regina says, nudging Henry's arm with her elbow. "Use your hands and really mix it."

Henry kneads it into a ball, smoothing out the sticky dough and rounding it with his hands, before dropping it down onto the floured countertop and laughing it flattens upon impact.

"Now what?"

"We need to roll it out," Regina says, handing him the rolling pin. "You can do the honors."

Henry accepts it happily and she watches as he runs the roller over the dough again and again until it's a large, thin oval. "It says to cut it into strips," Henry says, scrunching his face. "That… sounds wrong."

"If I know one thing," she begins, peering over his shoulder to look at the index card. "Ladies Home Journal is never wrong."

"Says who?"

"Robin."

She grins when Henry giggles. "I don't know your friend Robin, but I think I like him."

"I… think you'd like him, too." Regina takes a breath, feeling a sudden rush of emotion hit her—emotion she knows she has to keep in check. "So, let's start making the dumplings, hm?"

They cut the dough into strips and set it aside, and then Henry looks to the index card. "It says we still have over an hour before we can add them to the soup. That's... forever."

"Well, that's an exaggeration, but… it is a long time." She frowns. "We could…"

"Go outside."

"It's… literally freezing, Henry."

"I know, but it's also snowing."

"Even more of a reason not to go out."

"We could go play in it."

For a moment, Regina just stares at him, and as much as she wants to say no, she feels her resolve waning as she realizes she doesn't remember the last time she played in the snow with her son—and if she doesn't remember, he certainly doesn't.

"We're going to need extra sweaters and—"

Henry doesn't let her finish; instead, he's already darting up the stairs to get dressed. A bit reluctantly, she follows, going to her room and layering on another sweater, and changing from her knee-length skirt into a pair of trousers that she ends up tucking into her socks. With a long sigh, she looks at herself in the mirror, assessing her outfit before wrapping a thick scarf around her neck and tucking it into the front of her cardigan—and all the while, she can't help but think about how glad she is that Mal isn't there to see her like this.

Just as she laces up her boots, Henry runs into her room, looking like he's bundled up in what appears to be every sweater and pair of trousers that he owns. He grabs her hand and pulls her up from her bed, running and he drags her down the stairs and back to the kitchen where they put on their coats, hats, and gloves. Regina winds his long knit scarf around him before heading out into the bitter cold.

"Come on, Mom!" Henry calls as he hops through the snow that's now well above his ankles. "Try to catch me."

Regina hesitates for only a minute before darting off the patio in his direction, chasing him as he zigzags across the yard—and when she finally catches him, her lungs aching from the cold air, she wraps her arms around him and tugs him to her, and they both fall backwards into the snow. Henry's laugh rings out and her chest tightens, a smile exploding over her face as her own laugh joins his.

They spend the better part of the hour playing tag and making snow angels, and though the snow is still too fluffy to really pack, they make a little snowman whom Henry dubs Roger.

When the kitchen timer goes off, they go back inside, red-faced and hair wet, quickly stripping away their snowy layers.

"It smells good in here," Henry says, grinning up at her as he pulls the lid off of the Dutch oven. "And it looks really good, too."

"See? And you doubted me."

"I guess Ladies Home Journal wasn't wrong, after all."

At that, Regina laughs—Robin would've appreciated that line, she thinks.

They add in the strips of dough, then peel off all of the additional layers, tossing their extra sweaters and socks—and in Henry's case pants—into a pile on the stairs, and by the time they're dressed normally again, the dumplings are bubbling.

They eat together on the stools in front of the counter, not bothering to go into the dining room, and she can't help but laugh as one of the dumpling strips continually slides off of Henry's spoon teaching him exactly why they're called "slick dumplings."

Henry has a second bowl as she transfers the leftovers into containers to store in the ice chest—lunch for tomorrow, they decide.

When Henry is done and his bowl is watched, they turn back to the kitchen, surveying the mess they've made—and then, as they exchange similar looks of dread at the mere thought of cleaning it all up, they both start laughing.

When dinner is done and put away, and all of the dishes are washed and dry, she and Henry retire into the sitting room where a fire is crackling at the hearth. Regina lingers, leaning against the door jamb as she watches Henry pull the bag of books from Foyles from it's spot on the armchair to the carpet—he looks so excited, so content as he rolls onto his stomach. He doesn't even seem to remember the chocolates.

He's comfortable here—here, at Mal's—and that's evident by the way he stretches out on the carpet to put his comics in order. Smiling wistfully, she watches him—watching as he looks at the covers and checks the publication dates, arranging each one as he kicks his feet back and forth.

In the year that she's been here, she and Henry haven't had much time together. She arrived unexpectedly at the tail end of last year's holiday break and Easter had only been a long weekend. During the summertime, Henry was off from school for several weeks, but Mal had every day packed with activities, and they'd spent the majority of their time en route from one place to the next. Henry, of course, had the time of his life, it seemed, and truthfully, so did she; but summer came and went, and again, she was left with the occasional weekend that she was allowed to collect him from school. But tonight, it's just the two of them—the two of them and nothing pressing to do, no one to entertain, nothing looming in their future, and it's nice. She feels like they can finally breathe, finally reflect…

She's worried—year after year that Henry was away from her—that he wouldn't adjust, that he'd have no home base, that there wouldn't be a place where he felt he could simply be. Mal was never the sort of woman who felt the need to keep a home or have a place where she could put down roots. She was content to spirit around from place to place, enjoying one spot until she tired of it and then moving on to the next. Henry hadn't been wrong when he described her lifestyle as bohemian—she liked to go out and stay up late, to drink and smoke and have a good time. She juggled complicated romantic relationships the way other women their age juggled luncheons, and the thought of ever settling down bored her to tears. Her life in London was as sedentary as it got—and though she was only responsible for Henry when he was on leave from school, Regina worried that her son would pick up on her antsiness and feel that he was in the way.

But tonight it's been clear to her that Mal made him comfortable, that her rented flat was where Henry considered home. That was evident in the way he ran up and down the stairs, the way he climbed up on stepping stools in the kitchen to put away dried dishes, and now it was evident by the way he sprawled out on the carpet with his comic books.

"Mom, can I… keep these?"

Her brow furrows as Henry pulls her back into the present, away from her thoughts. "Of course you can. That's why we bought them," she murmurs, her head tipping to the side in confusion. "We certainly won't be returning them."

"No," he replies, a slight giggle rising into his voice. "You said these were Christmas gifts."

"They are."

"So, do I get to have them now or do we have to wrap them in and put them under the tree so I can act like I'm surprised to get them on Christmas morning."

At that, Regina laughs, shaking her head as she comes into the sitting room and sits in the armchair across from Henry. "Well, I don't see any point in doing that."

"Aunt Mal does that sometimes."

"That's because she hasn't the slightest clue what ten-year-old boys like."

Henry grins. "I like that she lets me pick out my own gifts. That means I always get exactly what I want from her."

Regina's eyes shift to the tree—a large spruce covered with silver and gold ornaments and a glittery gold star resting on the top. One day she'd come in from the tailor's shop and it was simply there, ordered from some company that usually decorated large estates. Mal had offered a fleeting comment about it and then… that was that. She gave it no other mention, it was like the tree wasn't even there.

"She always gets silver and gold together," Henry says, following her gaze. "She says red and green are too tacky for her taste."

Regina looks back at him, and for a moment, just stares—and then, both she and Henry laugh.

"All the paper is gold or silver, too," Henry explains, nodding to the tree again. "Except one gift."

"I don't see one that looks any different."

"That's because it won't get put out til Christmas Eve, after I go to bed." A little grin pulls onto Regina's lips as Henry looks back to her. "The gift wrapped in tacky paper is always from Santa."

"Oh—"

"Since Aunt Mal isn't here, I wonder if—" His voice trails off as Regina's brows arch. She didn't know that he didn't still believe, and she watches his grin turns bashful. "I figured it out two years ago," Henry explains. "Aunt Mal was gluing this big fake poinsettia onto a present and she spilled the glue. I woke up because she was swearing up a storm."

Regina sighs. "That's…. that's just great."

"Don't tell her, though, okay?"

"Don't tell Mal that you heard her or—"

Henry shakes his head. "That I know that she's Santa."

Regina presses her lips together, wishing she could repeat that exact phrase to Mal, just to watch her reaction. "I won't tell. Promise."

"Good. It's… kind of funny watching to see what she comes up with every year."

Regina draws in a breath, her eyes shifting back to the tree, searching for a little box wrapped in silver paper and topped with a glittery gold bow—the gift she'd deemed would be the one from Santa Claus. "Well, since the cat's out of the bag," she murmurs, rising to her feet as she spots the gift. "Do you want to open one now?"

She looks back over her shoulder, watching as Henry sits up, his eyes wide. "Really?"

"Sure, why not?"

"I thought the stuff from Foyles was my early gift."

Regina laughs as she crouches down by the tree. "All but two of these presents are for you, so I think you can have one more early gift." Plucking up the gift, she rubs the edge of the box with her fingers. "Besides, I'm pretty excited about this one."

She holds out the gift to him and he rises up onto his knees reaching for the little box. "It's light."

"But it's also your biggest gift."

She watches as Henry's eyes light up, brimming with curiosity and excitement. Slowly, he tugs at the bow, chewing at his lip as his fingers work to undo the knot—and all the while, Regina fidgets with anticipation.

Finally, the paper is off and his finger slips under the thin line of tape that holds the box closed. She holds her breath as he lifts the top and pulls back the tissue paper—and a soft, anxious little giggle bubbles out of her as Henry whispers a barely audible what are these as his fingers dip into the shallow box.

"Tickets?"

"They are, indeed."

Henry looks up at her and grins, then turns his attention back to the gift. "They're for…" His voice trails off as he reads the ticket and she hears a little gasp escape him. "These are for that new talking picture!"

Regina nods excitedly. "I thought we could go to the cinema and see it on Christmas Day."

"Really? On Christmas?"

"Sure, why not?"

Henry considers it and then laughs and shrugs his shoulder, and then a bit unexpectedly, he launches himself forward. His arms go up around her neck and he hugs her tightly—and she can't help herself from hugging him back, rocking him gently the way she used to do when he was small.

"So, you like the gift—"

"I love the gift. I always love going to the cinema, but this picture is going to be so fun! Mom, we'll actually get to hear the actors' voices!"

Regina leans back on her heels, listening as her son waxes poetic about the cinema—from the comfy seats to the concessions to the organ music that plays for some of them—and she relishes in it, glad to have given him an experience that he'll not only enjoy, but always remember.

Eventually, Henry calms down, and they settle in by the fire with their Foyles finds. Henry starts with the first Tarzan comic—reading thoroughly through the text and assessing each image before turning the page—and she sits back on the armchair, the holiday edition of Ladies Home Journal in her lap.

She's not sure when Henry falls asleep, but he does. His face pressed to an open page that bears a drawing of a character she can only assume is Tarzan—with his mangy hair and loincloth—swinging from a thick green vine in some forest in a land far, far away.

She almost hates to wake him.

But she does.

"Hey," she murmurs softly as she shakes his arm. "Why don't you head up to bed."

"Not yet," he murmurs in reply. "I'm reading—"

"You were reading, and Tarzan will be waiting for you in the morning."

Henry groans as she helps him up, and she grins as he carefully closes his new comic, smoothing the paper and tucking it beneath his arm before lazily walking toward the stairs.

"Make sure you brush your teeth—"

"I will," he mutters groggily as he makes his way up the stairs. "Night, Mom," he calls once he reaches the top. "Love you."

Her heart swells as she watches him disappear up the stairs, listening as his bedroom door opens and closes and the water in his bathroom turns on—this obviously isn't the first time her son has told her that he loved her before going to bed, and it won't be the last. But for the first time, in a very long time, she's felt like his mother.

It's an odd feeling, she realizes, and she's not quite sure she knows how to explain it, but as she turns to the little desk by the window and pulls out her ink pen and stationery set, she's intent on trying.

Dear Robin, she writes.

Today was a beautiful day...