Part One

Christmas Past

Alphard had meant to be late—but not this late.

He pulled out his watch—silver, engraved with his initials and the year it had been given to him in neat lettering on the back—and winced at the the hour hand dangling there, so close to the top of the clock-face. Anytime after ten could no longer be called fashionable lateness, and it was one of the unfortunate downsides to having magic that there were few acceptable excuses for tardiness.

That his steamer had been late docking in Portsmouth would certainly not have been one of them.

Of course, his family had no idea that he occasionally traveled by Muggle train or boat. Indeed, Alphard thought, as he mounted the steps to the dark brick townhouse that had been the London home of the Blacks for over a century—the thought had never occurred to him to explain the appeal. He supposed he could have apparated off the boat, except he'd been having such an interesting conversation with that widow from Aberdeen—who had he been to deny her the pleasure of his conversation all the way to Charring Cross?

Anyway, they expected it from him. He rapped three times on the door, already thinking up excuses.

Can't say a missed portkey, again—told them it was that at the garden party last July.

It was the elf who answered—from thecool reception he received ("Mistress was wondering when Master Alphard was coming—perhaps his owl got lost?") he rather thought there'd already been rumblings about his absence from the proceedings.

"I'll announce myself." The creature blinked up at him, but didn't dare argue. Alphard tossed his cloak at the family servant, instructed him to bring in his trunk from the front of the house, and strode through the foyer towards the dining room.

Dinner was long over, but Alphard knew the dregs would be set out, along with hors d'oeuvres—and the finest vintage of every conceivable wine.

Only the best for his family.

He passed a smattering of guests lingering in the front hall—by luck, none were relations, and his beaver hat and newly acquired beard must've been an effective disguise, for he avoided being hailed quite deftly.

They probably think I'm a footman who has been hired on for the evening and was out front for a smoke.

There was a larger crush of people in the dining room than he would've expected at this hour. The place settings and silver had long since been cleared away, replaced with a magnificent crystal centerpiece of holly and garland. It took a moment for him to see the ice serpent cleverly hidden admit the shimmering trimmings.

A snake in the grass—how apropos.

Alphard popped a grape in his mouth and scanned the room. No sign of Mama or Papa—ah, brief respite!

"Thank God you're here."

At the familiar and entirely welcome voice—a rarity in this house—Alphard grinned and spun on his heel.

"Why, Lucy!" He embraced his older cousin—nearly as tall as he, and wearing tonight a magnificent ostrich feather hat and green watered-silk gown. "You're a sight for sore eyes, old girl—and looking very stylish, aren't you? You pick that up in Paris?"

His cousin flapped her fan at him, impatient for his compliments—idle flatterer by nature that he was.

"Never mind that! You've no idea how relieved I am you've arrived. You're the only man in the family Ignatius can stomach." Alphard laughed and pulled off his hat. "I'm in urgent need of you. You must help me free him."

His grey eyes twinkled merrily, and he scooped an abandoned glass of wine from the table and took a festive swig.

"From what, pray tell, does your new husband need a rescue?"

Lucretia shot him a dark look.

"It's not a 'from what', it's a 'from whom,' and you know, Alphard!" He chuckled—there was only one person who could get such a rise out of his bold cousin. "Papa's cornered him in the kitchen, of all places."

"Good Lord, what could they be doing there?"

"Cards, I think. It's the second time in a week he's done it—we were up in Suffolk only a few days ago for the big to-do. What an unbearable time of year this is." She tossed her head. "At least there's a fire poker down there, should he need to fend Papa off."

Alphard gave his cousin a sympathetic pat on the arm. He was very fond of Lucretia—who had proven them all wrong the year before in her unexpected marriage to Ignatius Prewett. She had never been a great beauty, and had been quite given her up for an old maid years before by most of the family.

"How was your father's birthday bash? Can't say I'm sad to have missed it."

"Oh, you know." She rolled her eyes to the ceiling. "He kept going on about being in his dotage, now he's sixty-five. Please! Everyone in the family knows he'll never die, and if he does, by chance, he shall come back as a ghoul and make us all attend on him."

"You are wicked, Lucretia!" Alphard laughed—knowing full well she had looked around to make sure there was no one nearby who could pass on that she'd been talking so. Lucretia might've been bold enough to abuse her domineering father behind his back, but she was also shrewd, and knew better than to do it to his face. "I'm glad to see Ignatius hasn't tried to curb your tongue."

"Why would he?" She asked, amused. "It's the part he likes best."

"A man of excellent taste."

And a better one for Lucretia to be living with than her father, for her own flourishing. A wit and whip smart—she more than made up for any lack of beauty with her style and vivacity—but Arcturus could dominate even her, on her best days.

"Ignatius has vowed he'll never go again," she continued, waspishly. "And he says if I should try to make him, he'll sue for divorce."

"I shouldn't think that will stand up in court. I'll see what I can do for you vis-à-vis your rescue—" His eyes had fallen on the remotest corner of the room. Alphard's lips turned up—a-ha! "—In a little while. I need to get my bearings first. I think my trunk's still sitting in the front hall. What are the state of the servants in this place, these?"

"Dreadful, per usual—though Burgie's whipping them into shape." She flapped her fan idly. "That's right—I'd forgotten you only got back tonight." Lucretia turned her head in the direction her cousin was looking and smirked. "Oh, dear—he's found a new one, has he?"

They exchanged a knowing look.

In the corner of the dining hal, tucked away from most prying eyes, lay a love seat, and on it sat Alphard's younger brother, Cygnus—deep in conversation with a woman who was most certainly not his wife.

A devious grin spread across Alphard's face.

"I see you have to attend to the important task of amusing yourself before you help me." Lucretia said, sardonically. "You can't resist, can you?"

Her cousin rubbed his hands together with undisguised glee.

"That's the cauldron speaking to the kettle."

She waved him off with one of her feline grins and the promise that she would find him later, when all their relations were staggeringly drunk and at their most amusing—or unbearable, as the case may be.

Alphard edged his way around the room so as to prevent his little brother from spotting him. Luckily Cygnus was so engrossed in his—ah, companion—that there was little danger of having his approach ruined.

The girl who his brother was currently regaling with a long list of his many hunting exploits was exactly Cygnus's type—young, buxom, dark-haired, and about as unlike his wife Druella as it was possible to be.

"—And if I hadn't thought to confound the damned Jarvey in the back of the head, ol' Mordred Sampson would've been done for!"

Alphard positioned himself behind a potted plant to observe from a distance of several feet away. His brother's technique possibly needed refining—he had his hand resting on the back of the sofa chair, where it slowly crept toward one delicate cream-colored shoulder, though the girl seemed to be utterly oblivious to the wandering hand. Of course, she looked hardly older than her conversation partner's daughters, so perhaps she didn't see the danger.

"—But where is your brother?" He caught a snippet of her reply—schoolgirlish and grating. "I thought he was supposed to be in attendance."

"Alphard?" The eavesdropper stifled a laugh—Lord, Cygnus sounded cross. "Oh, if he hasn't shown his face by now, I don't expect we'll see him until tomorrow morning. He'll slink in after breakfast, play contrite, and charm our mother out of her fury. What's it to you, Adelaide?"

"Oh, nothing really—I've just—well, one hears interesting stories about him." She lowered her voice to a whisper. Luckily for Alphard the girl had one of those reedy, natural nasal numbers that carried all on its own. "One does wonder…"

"Wonder what?"

"Well—why hasn't he married, for one thing?"

Cygnus's fingers ceased their relentless march towards Miss Adelaide's exposed décolletage.

"Oh. That." He paused—and cleared his throat. "He's—an odd man, my brother. Some people call him the black sheep of the family."

Both of Alphard's dark eyebrows flew up—if Cygnus turned his head slightly to the right he would have spotted them through the parlor palm his brother'd crouched behind.

"Why's that?"

"Well, he's not like the rest of us." He sniffed. "Has queer views on everything. Likes to do things 'his own way.'" He shook his head, disapprovingly. "And we barely see him ourselves, his own flesh and blood! He's never in the same place for longer than a fortnight. Always on the move."

"He travels…a great deal for his writing, doesn't he?"

"More than any man should."

Adelaide let out a little sigh—which unfortunately lead to her sitting up and away from Cygnus's wandering hand.

"Well—I've read his book about the Carpathian mountains," she said, in the tone of a blushing schoolgirl. "I was…rather hoping for an autograph."

Alphard didn't have a good view of his brother's face, but he could well imagine the expression those words would have elicited. Cygnus's views on his elder brother's literary exploits were well known to him—snickered into the shrub, hoping against all hopes that this was not the first time Cyg had been prevailed upon by a fetching lass for his brother's signature.

"You don't actually read that rubbish, do you?" From this angle Alphard could see the throbbing vein in his brother's neck. "It's all nonsense! You know he makes half of it up, and steals the rest—"

"—Now, now—'black sheep' I can take," Alphard emerged from behind the plant. "But plagiarist is too much for even my brotherly charity!"

At the hail from his elder brother, Cygnus jumped in his seat and inadvertently slapped poor Adelaide on the arm.

"Alphard—what in the blazes—? "

Cygnus and the girl both rose from the love seat—she managed to untangle herself from the companion quite deftly and stumble several feet away.

Well done, my dear! Alphard thought, as he watched her sidestep just out of arm's reach. Safe again.

Cygnus strode forward, his chest puffed out, wand hanging at his side. Alphard, not in the least intimidated by this display—grinned affectionately at him, even when he poked his index finger straight in Alphard's chest.

"What the devil do you mean by it, Alphie?" From the redness of his cheeks, Alphard guessed Cygnus was at least six drinks to the wind, and very much feeling it. "How long have you been standing there and listening?"

"Long enough." Alphard smiled and waved at the young lady at Cygnus's elbow. "How d'you do?"

The young lady turned out to be a Miss Adelaide Avery—a delightful girl, only too happy to introduce herself as an avid devotee of the Mr. Alphard Black's mystery series, as well his autobiographical travelogues, which were in fashion amongst the literary set of society, long starved for books deemed both appropriate and entertaining.

She was a pretty thing, Alphard thought, idly, as he observed his younger brother growing even more red-faced and livid from the corner of his eye—but he knew that it was for the love of winding Cygnus up far more than her beauty that motivated him to flirt so shamelessly.

Five minutes later he had sent Adelaide hurrying off to find her mother, with the promise that he would inscribe a personal note in every manuscript old Mrs. Avery had managed to fit in her handbag that night.

"Just as well you turn up two hours late and still manage to bungle thing for me," Cygnus grumbled, as they watched the curly head disappear through the doorway. "Typical Alphard."

Alphard waggled his finger in Cygnus's face and tutted. It was a teasing gesture he'd employed since his youth to rile his poor hapless brother up. These days, sadly, it only had the power to mildly vex.

A shame, he reflected—Cygnus was so entertaining when he was in a pet.

"Now, that's no way to welcome your only brother into the house of his fathers, is it, Cyg?" He looked him up and down. "Gained a bit of weight since the summer, I see. You'll be as rotund as Horace Slughorn before too long."

It was true. Cygnus had the natural dark hair and haughty good looks of all Blacks, but he had always been on the stocky side—so was Alphard, their line of the family was built that way—but a steady diet of resentment and roast beef had thickened his middle in years of late. He was quite on his way to resembling their dear father, a fact that Alphard never tired of pointing out.

He threw his brother a decidedly resentful look.

"If only you'd caught a tropical disease in whatever accursed place you've been."

"Cheer up! No doubt I will, one day." His eyes gleamed. "In the meantime, I'll keep bungling things for you—though in this case I think you were well on your way to bungling it yourself."

"I had her in the palm of my hand."

Alphard snorted and beckoned him over to the table, where a few nibbles still sat about in tepid piles. Most of the vultures had descended and had their fill, and having fled the room for cards and after dinner socializing upstairs, they had the dining room to themselves.

"You have no shame, Cyg." He poured himself a generous tipple of champagne. "Your wife could've walked in at any moment and seen your…" He tilted his head down jabbed his brother in the side. "Palm—and the backside you caress with it."

Cygnus rolled his eyes.

"Dru wouldn't have cared." He popped an olive in his mouth, still eyeing the doorway with sullen irritation, like the fisherman whose trout has slipped the hook. "Doubt she'd have even noticed. She lets me go my way, and I do the same."

"How liberal-minded of you both!"

Knowing his sister-in-law as he did, Alphard had some doubts about this supposed arrangement—just as he was sure his little brother would've taken a wand to the throat of any man whose eyes lingered for too long on his stylish, willowy blonde wife, however much her looks 'weren't to his taste.'

Hypocrisy was not something Cygus was accustomed to noticing in either himself or his family, though, and Alphard saw little point in drawing his attention to it, now.

At least he had done Druella a good turn.

"Anyway, she's too busy with those girls of hers."

"'Those girls of hers?'" Alphard repeated, highly amused. "Didn't you have a hand in them as well, Cygnus? Or are you trying to tell me something?"

Immediately his little brother puffed up, not able to take even a light joke at the expense of his manhood.

"Oh, they're all three mine, believe me—" He shook his head at the thought of his houseful of witches. "They already have the makings of three difficult Black fillies."

"Have you found them studs?"

"Bellatrix could have her pick of the lot, though I don't think she cares a fig for any of 'em."

That his eldest daughter and heir presumptive—for it seemed unlikely Druella would have any others, if this was the current state of their marriage—was not disposed to any of her suitors was apparently a matter of indifference to Cygnus.

"Is there a frontrunner?"

"Lestrange's eldest." Cygnus downed a glass of pilfered sherry in one. "Has money and seems keen. We'll draw up a contract when she's of age." He jabbed his head to the door. "They're all in the drawing room, if you want a peak."

"Don't make it sound too enticing, now."

Alphard had a dim view of his three nieces—like most girls of their age, they seemed all much the same to him, a jumble of hairpins and giggles and hardly a subject of interest for a man such as himself. It was difficult to imagine Cygnus Black and Druella Rosier producing offspring of any imagination.

Of course, one could probably have said the same of his own dear mama and papa. One never knew what came out in the Black blood, when combined with some other strain.

With any luck at least one of them would prove the original their sire never was.

"People say Bella looks like Burgie at that age," Cygnus remarked, wrinkling his nose.

Alphard smiled—he had an idea that of the three, Bellatrix was his favorite—the most like the son he never had. All his letters from their parents spoke of her as the classic Black beauty, in style and manner.

She also most resembled her father in temper and willfulness.

"She certainly reminds me of her aunt some days, if you catch my drift."

"She won't have any trouble snagging a good husband, then—" Alphard said, slyly. "Walburga was considered a great beauty, after all."

"I never saw the appeal."

"Why would you? She is our sister, after all."

"Burgie's more like a tiger."

Alphard couldn't help but laugh at the description—it was not without merit. His brother and sister were far more alike in temperament than either resembled him, and he often thought it was the qualities they shared that annoyed one another most.

"And Orion wanted her." He shook his head. "Poor devil."

The elder of the two stroked his beard, thoughtfully.

"As he held out for our sister's hand—I don't think he minds overmuch. Nor regrets it." Alphard watched the telling twitch in his brother's cheek. "Two sons, after all."

"They certainly took their time producing them," Cygnus muttered. "Four years. An age."

It might've been cause for suspicion that it had taken so long—Walburga was a Black herself, after all, and passing off a bastard as legitimate issue was not unheard of, particularly in such unions where the necessary family resemblance could be drawn from the mother—except by all reports, the eldest boy was a near copy of 'Rion, and the younger had Melania MacMillan Black's eyes and distinctly rounded chin.

As with Cygnus's girls, no one could doubt they were Blacks—double Blacks.

"Her older one is a terror, from what I hear."

If the terror in question had been Cygnus's son, and his sister the one who had only produced three daughters, Alphard felt certain that he would be speaking with pride rather than ill-disguised jealousy.

"The terror who will one day be the head of this family."

Cygnus stuck his hands in the pockets of his silver dress robes and muttered some remarks about how the governess had been given the run around all afternoon by said terror. Alphard pretended to listen. The nephews were an even bigger mystery to him than the nieces—they were far too young to have discernible characters—at least to an uncle that was always away and saw them three times a year, at most.

No, it would be five or six years at least before they were worth paying attention

They wandered out of the dining room and into the front hallway. Alphard eyed the stairwell that lead up to the first floor with unease.

"Who else is in the drawing room, Cygnus?"

His brother shrugged.

"Oh, you know—the whole blinking pack of 'em—Mama and Papa, the girls—Burgie, fluttering about like the queen of the manor…I'm sure Lucretia and she will be up to some plot, they always are—"

He noticed the look of trepidation and uncharacteristic hesitation in Alphard's step and chortled, knowingly.

"What's the matter?" Cygnus punched him in the arm. "Not afraid of the old dragon, are you?"

"What an infamous way to refer to our mother, Cyg."

"Oh, you've called her worse!"

The devious grin on Cygnus's face confirmed his worst fears—that Irma had a nasty surprise waiting for him in the drawing room, one his brother was certain to take no small pleasure in watching grapple . He had an idea the moment he entered the room he would find a rich, plain spinster at her elbow, a goddaughter of her oldest friend, Andorra Burke.

Mrs. Burke seemed to have nothing but rich, plain goddaughters in need of husbands, and Irma never missed an opportunity to shove them in his direction.

As she had the strongest grip of anyone he'd ever known (and was not afraid to use it) there was little hope of escaping such encounters without at least a half-hour of tedious smalltalk, facilitated by Irma's loud inquiries from what both parties as to what they were saying—for she was already starting to go deaf in one ear.

The thought gave him indigestion.

His little brother gave him a rare look of superiority. Cygnus shook his head with mock gravity.

"She's not going to give it up—I don't know why you think you can get out of it, either. Even old Lucretia's gotten herself hitched up." He laughed, derisively, for he was no great friend to their cousin—she was everything he disliked excessively in women, in fact—clever, outspoken and thoroughly unimpressed with him. "And no one thought that would happen."

"How ungallant of you!"

"Ungallant—it's the truth. Everyone knows she only married that dull dog Prewett to escape her father." He laughed. "And now it's only you left to put the noose round—as it were."

He began to mount the stairs—then paused, halfway up, when he noticed Alphard was not following him.

"But why should I marry?"

"No one in this family goes unshackled," Cygnus observed, cynically. "It's the thing to do."

Alphard shook his head.

"Mama should worry herself with your girls." He stroked his beard, in the style reminiscent of their father. "I am confirmed old bachelor."

"Old! Pah! You're not yet forty, Alphie—there've been Black bridegrooms twice your age." And there was always an elderly dowager mother poking them down the aisles with her wand. "You're no different from the rest of us."

Oh, but I am, little brother, Alphard thought, and a chill ran up his spine—a shiver. He looked down at his empty champagne flute, suddenly feeling much older.

"Anyway—once she's had her first pounce on you, she'll settle down soon enough." Cygnus began to unscrew the knob at the end of the stair-post—an old habit from their boyhood he'd never been able to shake. "You know she always dotes, no matter what you do."

He tossed the knob into the air a few times, as if it were a Quaffle—one he might fling at his brother at any moment. Cygnus made no effort to disguise his bitterness. Alphard could not blame him for the resentment—it was not without grounds. Cygnus had followed Black convention—had married young to a witch selected for him, dutifully produced children, stayed close to home—he had conformed to every expectation and responsibility that Alphard had deliberately shirked.

And still their parents preferred him.

There was no accounting for taste—and tastes were rarely just.

His brother leaned over the bannister.

"If you've got a piece on the side, don't worry about it," Cygnus advised, in a lowered voice. "No one cares about that sort of thing these days but Mama. Just keep it quiet and do your duty."

Of course…one could see the appeal of himself over Cygnus.

"I've no intention of marrying," Alphard remarked, sardonically—passing over his brother's 'advice' altogether. "I'm far too busy to keep a wife."

"More like you won't take the trouble." Cygnus jammed the knob back on the bannister, roughly. "This is why they call you the 'black sheep', you know."

He fixed his face in an expression of cherubic innocence.

"Because I do as I wish?"

"Yes—and act morally superior for it, into the bargain!" Cygnus snorted. "You could at least pretend to regret how selfish you are."

Alphard tried to hide his smile and failed. He knew that was the trouble—if he had the sense to be properly ashamed of himself for his faults, for his individuality—or learn to play-act it convincingly enough—he wouldn't have been the cause for nearly so much tongue-wagging in his family.

But he saw no fault in his actions, or his life. To be a bachelor suited him—and so he would go on being one, never losing a night of sleep over it.

Alphard would not play the black sheep for them.

That was his true crime—not meeting the expectations that Blacks, even the ones those clinging to the periphery of the family were expected to conform with.

"Perhaps you are different, Alphard."

"In what way?"

"No conscience, for one thing."

"That would hardly be out of the common way, in this family, would it?"

They met each other's eyes—and both laughed. Alphard rounded the corner and fell in step behind him. The Christmas cheer of the garlands and holly that Walburga had wrapped around every bannister and light fixture was putting him in a slightly more charitable mood.

One couldn't quarrel with family on Christmas, could one? Whatever his innumerable faults were, Cygnus was his brother.

Anyway, the foibles of his family kept them interesting.

And elf met them on the upper landing and informed him that the Master of the House had been made aware of his arrival (he was sure he had Lucretia to thank for that), that his trunk had been sent up to the Emerald Room (his usual digs), and that Master hoped they could have a brief, private audience before Alphard retired for the night.

"If Lucretia's been to see Orion, the jig is up, as they say," Alphard remarked, ruefully. "They must all know I'm here by now."

"Not necessarily. 'Rion's not in the drawing room. Locked up in his study, last I checked."

"What's he doing there?"

Cygnus laughed, meanly.

"What d'you think?" He sneered. "Holed up with those great account books of his. He actually told me he was worried about how much all this is going to cost."

If Cygnus was hoping for commiseration on the absurdity of a red-blooded Black wizard concerning himself with something as trifling as the amount of gold one had to spend to entertain a hundred of his fellow men, he found himself disappointed by his brother's reaction.

Alphard grinned to himself and laughed.

"Just like Ebenezer Scrooge."

Cygnus furrowed his thick brows together.

"Who's that?"

The older brother clapped him on the shoulder and smiled, a little wistfully.

"No one you know." He began to mount the steps up to the second floor. "I'll go see Orion directly and—rouse him out of his un-festive mood. It's wholly unsuitable for a Christmas party. Especially one he's host of!"

He ignored the protests of his brother—the taunts about him 'getting cold feet'—which he knew was just Cygnus way of expressing disappointment he would be delayed in his great enjoyment at witnessing their mother dress Alphard down—and began to climb the steps that lead to the second floor, and Orion's study, where he hoped to find their cousin and the master of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.

It would not do for him to greet their host after everyone else.

Traditions had to be observed, after all.

And it would allow him to stall for time, where Mama was concerned.

Happy Christmas (early!) This is a story that I've had cooking in my brain since last year, but I didn't have the time to write it. Consider it a thank you to all my readers and reviewers. For those who have read my Black Sheep Dog series, I would consider this adjacent to it, but not necessary to read beforehand. If you enjoy this portrayal of the Black family, please consider checking out In the Black and Black Mask.