It was a crime and a scandal, how beautiful she looked. Bellatrix stood talking with Rodolphus, Narcissa, and Lucius and seemed like a dark angel in her black silk column gown, her raven curls pulled partially back. She laughed a little and nodded at something her husband said, then turned to her little sister and whispered surreptitiously. Voldemort sighed.

The Malfoy Christmas party of 1978 was as merry as ever, for the war had turned in Voldemort's favour. Though several Death Eaters had been killed or captured in the last year, the casualties on Dumbledore's side were far more devastating. Voldemort was succeeding in instilling fear and trepidation throughout the Wizarding World. He'd recently acquired fourteen new vaults' worth of gold at Gringott's and had secured six new spies and three new Ministry plants. All in all, things were going well. So the party was in full swing, with everyone dressed to the nines and the ballroom of Malfoy Manor decorated most beautifully.

"My Lord," Tullia Malfoy said very reverently, walking up and holding out a tumbler of firewhisky. Her face was pockmarked from the bout of Spattergroit she'd survived a few years earlier, her beauty long gone. She smiled weakly, her greying hair thinned considerably where she'd pulled it back into an elegant chignon. "I've had Dobby make you up a Christmas cocktail, My Lord. Firewhisky with cardamom, cinnamon, and clove, garnished with orange. Please enjoy. I do hope you are enjoying yourself."

"As ever, Tullia." Voldemort accepted the drink from her and gratefully sipped from it. His tuxedo robes were crisp and perfectly fitted; Thabo Shacklebolt had agreed to become Voldemort's personal tailor around 1972 when it no longer was feasible for the Dark Lord to go venturing into Twillfitt and Tattings. Thabo also provided clothing for the wealthy Death Eaters who needed attire for events just like this one. Voldemort couldn't help but wonder if the man was responsible for Bellatrix's luxe, watery black dress. It fit her so perfectly. Only Thabo could ever pull such a look off.

"My Lord, I must tell you that Bellatrix Lestrange was hinting so strongly, when we were speaking with her and Narcissa and Lucius, that she hoped you might ask her to dance tonight," said Tullia Malfoy. Voldemort snapped to attention, and Tullia nodded urgently. "I know the witch fights most valiantly for you in the war effort, sir. She does pine so for your attentions. I just wanted to inform you that she had very high hopes… you know, that you might grant her a dance."

"Of course I will," Voldemort said numbly. He passed his drink back to Tullia, who wordlessly accepted it as Voldemort stalked away, off toward the cluster where Bellatrix stood with her husband, her sister, and her brother-in-law. People parted for him like the Red Sea, bowing and curtsying, showing obedient reverence to him as he walked by. He paid them all no heed whatsoever. As he approached Bellatrix, she turned to see him coming and dipped into a very low obeisance. Narcissa curtsied, too, and the wizards with them bowed respectfully. Narcissa seemed meek as ever and shrank back a bit into Lucius' embrace, murmuring some timid Christmas greetings to her lord, and Bellatrix just gazed in doe-eyed wonder. But Rodolphus said brashly,

"My Lord! Have you tried the Christmas firewhisky cocktails they've got? Cinnamon and clove and orange and everything? I've had three already."

"Two too many, I should think, Rodolphus," Voldemort said tightly, glaring at the wizard, who went a bit red-faced and stared down at the mostly-empty tumbler in his grasp. Voldemort sniffed and turned his eyes to Bellatrix, and he nodded down to her. "Happy Christmas, Bella."

She curled up her lips and bowed her head, murmuring, "Happy Christmas, Master."

"Dance with me, will you?" he asked her, and she raised her face to him, looking ecstatic. She grinned broadly and followed him out to the dance floor, not sparing a glance back to Rodolphus. She let Voldemort bring her up into a waltz stance, though he kept her more distant and tight than he would have liked. Suddenly he felt panic rush over him, for his mind and his chest whirled with the idea that he needed to tell her. He needed to tell her right now, whilst they were alone, here at this Christmas party, whilst they were dancing, with her in his arms.

He needed to tell her that he was in love with her.

But instead he just glanced down and noted, "You've got on the necklace I gave you at your birthday. That pleases me."

She smiled more contentedly than ever and gave him an almost frantic nod. "I adore it, Master. It is so beautiful. And so meaningful. And it's… erm, you know, because it is from you, it is so precious to me."

Her wide eyes seemed to be searching him, and they rimmed red suddenly. She seemed on the verge of tears, and her full bottom lip trembled visibly. He heard her breath quiver, and he felt her fingers curl tightly around his shoulder, as though she were afraid to fall away from him. His heart raced inside his chest as his soul absolutely screamed at him to just tell her, to just say the words, to just inform her once and for all that she was beautiful, that he loved her deeply. But he just said,

"At yesterday's meeting, you smelled like fire."

She choked a little laugh and dismissively shook her head. "I… I burned down a house, My Lord. The night before, I was in Shropshire, and I lit fire to Maura Henson's cottage. I confess I lingered on site, Disillusioned, to witness my handiwork. The smoke seeped into my clothes. I didn't change before the meeting. I do apologise."

"Never apologise for serving me as well as you do," Voldemort murmured as they danced. They were quiet and serious for a moment then, until finally he sighed and asked, "Is she dead, then? Maura Henson?"

"Oh. Yes. I tied her to her bed and Silenced her before I lit the house on fire. I checked that she'd been burnt and was dead before I left the scene, My Lord. It was probably a horrid thing for the Order to find." Bellatrix giggled maniacally, and Voldemort's chest stirred. He wanted to stop dancing, to seize her face, to crush her mouth with a kiss. He almost did all of that, but the song ended, and Bellatrix reluctantly let her hand slide from Voldemort's shoulder. As it did, her fingers trailed just a bit down the chest of his jacket, and he shivered. She took a moment to release his other hand, lingering for a while in the waltz stance as she stared at the buttons on his white shirt. She wasn't smiling anymore, he noticed. He wanted to tell her that her curls were very beautiful tonight. He wanted to kiss her. He needed, very badly, to confess how deeply he loved her.

"My turn! All right if I steal my wife back from you, My Lord? Ha." Rodolphus came sauntering up, and Voldemort gulped as he and Bellatrix snapped to attention. Voldemort just nodded, feeling hollow, feeling distantly like someone had punched his abdomen. Bellatrix stared up at him, her eyes wet again, and Voldemort quirked up his lips, nodding.

"Happy Christmas, Bella," he said, hearing a strange grit in his own voice. He turned on his heel and briskly walked away.

Voldemort blinked his eyes open from the dream - the memory - and realised there were tears streaking down from his eyes and dampening his pillowcase. His chest physically ached from the memory, from the thought of how he'd passed up the opportunity to tell Bellatrix how he'd felt. He blinked quickly and heard the sound of rain falling outside the windows of Praelia House and glanced to see the grey light of early morning. He felt Bellatrix's fingers curl around his bicep, felt her lips kiss at his chest, and she murmured quietly,

"Your sleep seemed troubled, Master."

"I'm fine," he lied in a whisper. She did not believe him. She pushed herself up onto an elbow and hovered over him, her curls falling down and tickling his chest. She stared into his eyes and gave him a serious look, and she said gravely,

"I hope, My Lord, that you realise I love you so very much."

His eyes seared badly, and he just shook his head as he heard himself say to her, "So many times, I meant to tell you…"

"But it doesn't matter now, My Lord," Bellatrix told him, bending to kiss his forehead. She hummed against his skin, "I am sixteen years of age, and I am your student and your servant. I am your wife. I beg you, Master, make love to me now, before you have to go to Malfoy Manor."

He did as she asked of him, lying behind her with her cradled before him, his arms wrapped around her, spooning her as he rocked into her body. From time to time he hissed words in Parseltongue, not thinking about the language he was speaking, telling her she was beautiful, that he loved her. He made her come by caressing her clit with expert fingers, and he kissed her through her climax, which pushed him straight to his own edge. Once they were both spent, he panted into her curls and held her breast in his palm, whispering again in English how much he loved her.

He had not told her at the Christmas party in 1978. He would tell her now, whilst she was his sixteen-year-old bride, over and over again. This was his second chance, and he did not intend on wasting it.

"Oh, hello, Tom. What are you doing here?" Druella Black was walking down the corridor of Malfoy Manor, and Voldemort frowned as he gestured toward his office. He scoffed.

"I work here. How are you, Druella? What brings you to the Manor?"

"Tullia's hosting some ladies for a brunch," Druella said with a little smile. Then a bright look came over her face. "You ought to come and say hello. Just, you know, to network."

Voldemort shifted on his feet. "Network," he repeated. "I'm fairly certain I've been networking with most of those witches' husbands."

"Don't be misogynist, Tom," Druella scowled. "Witches have political agency. I control far more of the fortune in my marriage than Cygnus does. You don't think many of the witches at this brunch might have some gold to contribute to your cause? Hm? It might be good to remind some of them that supporting your movement is a good idea. Pop in and take a seat. You know very well that Tullia wouldn't mind a bit. And I happen to know there are to be some very wealthy witches at this event."

Voldemort hesitated. He put his lips flat in a line and began walking with Druella down the corridor, toward the dining room. Druella cleared her throat and asked primly,

"How's Bellatrix doing?"

"She's adjusting well," Voldemort promised. He blinked then and said softly, "I think she's happy."

"Good," Druella said stoutly. "Cygnus and I got an angry letter from Dumbledore about Bellatrix withdrawing from Hogwarts. Very amusing."

"Yes, I got a letter, as well," Voldemort smirked. "Dumbledore is not happy. Ah, well. I am not in the business of making Albus Dumbledore happy. Hello, Tullia. Druella says it might be possible for me to intrude upon your ladies' brunch."

He and Druella had come into the dining room then, and Tullia Malfoy stood talking with Iris Flint. Tullia turned and grinned, flicking her eyes between Voldemort and Druella. She nodded, looking a bit awkward for a moment before she whirled and barked at her House-Elf,

"Dobby! Add a place setting… actually, adjust things so that… so that… The Dark Lord is at the head of the table."

The Dark Lord. There it was. Voldemort flinched. Tullia had said it here so much earlier, years earlier, than she'd said it in his memory. He found himself standing much taller and straighter after that. Suddenly Freya Travers was rushing up to him, and his mind flooded with the recollection of their dalliance at Borgin and Burke's in his younger days, when she'd already married Bram Travers but before she'd had her children. She'd been younger then, too. She was still lovely now, though she carried her years visibly, and a cloak of motherhood and of marriage was thick about her. Freya had wavy brunette hair and hazel eyes, and as she stared at Voldemort, he was taken back to days decades earlier, times with her in a Slytherin dormitory and later in Knockturn Alley. He smirked and said politely,

"How are you, Freya?"

"I am well. Congratulations on your marriage," she said carefully. "Bellatrix Black. Quite a young witch."

"She is indeed," Voldemort said, laughing quietly. He tipped his head. "I know that many people doubted I would ever settle down at all, but I am quite happy, I assure you."

"I can tell." Freya smiled nervously. "My husband Bram would love to meet with you sometime, I know. He's intrigued by your movement. He works for the Department of International Magical Cooperation. He says he should like to… erm, to keep you informed of things."

"Good man. I'll be in touch with him." Voldemort nodded. "And you have three children now? How are they?"

Freya pinched her lips tightly and huffed a breath. Her cheeks pinked darkly. At last, she said, "My youngest will just be starting at Hogwarts in September. She and my middle one, my middle son… the two of them are blond like Bram, you know. Light little children. But my eldest… he's sixteen. And he has raven hair and coal-black eyes."

There was a beat of silence in which Freya's gaze bored into Voldemort's, and then she whispered,

"Just like his father's."

Voldemort licked his bottom lip and nodded. His stomach churned. One stupid dalliance, he thought. But, of course, no contraceptive spell had been cast, and Freya had been married. Why had young Tom Riddle been stupid enough to assume she'd been protected in any way? Obviously, she hadn't been, and he'd put a child inside of her. His child. His offspring, which apparently had been roaming the planet for the last sixteen years. In his memory, in the life he'd lived, he had never found out about this boy. That struck his chest through, too. He shut his eyes and asked quietly,

"What is your eldest son's name, Freya?"

"Thomas," she murmured. "Thomas Travers. Bram and I named him after an old family friend, you see."

"Mmm." Voldemort nodded. He opened his eyes and just stared straight into Freya's eyes. He shrugged a little and helplessly asked, "Do you need anything?"

She smiled weakly and shook her head. "Bram is a very good husband and father. We have money. A very fine home. Thomas has a loving family and a good inheritance. He's a sixth-year Slytherin. He's actually on the Quidditch squad with Rodolphus Lestrange; he was helping to console the poor boy when your wife left him earlier this summer."

"Oh." Voldemort smirked. "I see. Well. I shall… I shall send an owl to Bram about…"

"About the movement. Yes. He'd like that. Thank you. So good to see you. We always knew you'd accomplish marvelous things, sir." Freya bowed her head and turned to walk away, and Voldemort was left in cold, shocked silence. He did not know what to do or say. He could peer into Freya's mind with Legilimency to see if she was lying, but he could tell that she was giving him the truth. And, anyway, she wasn't extorting him. She didn't want money. She didn't even want a job for her son. She didn't want anything. She just wanted Voldemort to know the outcome of the sex between him and Freya in the back of Borgin and Burke's all those years earlier. Voldemort had put a child into Freya, and now there was a son.

Thomas Travers.

"Please take your seats," Voldemort heard Tullia Malfoy trill merrily, and for a moment he considered telling the witch that he couldn't stay, that he needed to go home immediately. But he forced himself into the chair at the head of the table, and he watched as food materialised on the plate before him. The witches at the table oohed and ahhed at the deviled eggs, black truffle puff bread, and salmon tartare on the plates. As Voldemort picked up a deviled egg and numbly popped it into his mouth, Agnes Carrow leaned over and informed Voldemort stiffly,

"My husband and my twins, Amycus and Alecto, have been speaking with Kit Rowle and with your father-in-law Cygnus Black. Apparently, you've got some interesting political ambitions since returning from the Continent. My twins, in particular, are interested. They're still at Hogwarts, but I hope you'll find them as interesting as they find you."

Voldemort nodded with a forced smile. The Carrow twins, in his memory, were surpassed in their cruelty and skill by Bellatrix alone. Their battle prowess had been downright frightening. He turned to Agnes and quirked his head. "I think Amycus and Alecto will have very special places within my movement, should they want those places, Agnes. How are you?"

She smiled shyly. Her cheeks reddened, and she poked her fork at her salmon tartare. "Let's just say that life with Aloysius isn't nearly as thrilling as sixth and seventh years in Slytherin were, dashing constantly off to the dormitories. Hmph."

"That was all a very long time ago," Voldemort reminded her. "We're all different people now, hm? You're a married mother. I'm a married wizard, with a loyal young wife. I've got a political movement to run. Things are different now than they were in our youth."

"Yes. Some things change very radically, Tom Riddle," Agnes said, drawing in a mouthful of the salmon tartare and keeping her face stoic, "and some things, I think, don't change at all."

Voldemort opened his mouth to ask what exactly she meant by that, but before he could, Tullia Malfoy had risen from her seat and was holding a goblet of pumpkin juice aloft. Everyone at the table went quiet, and Tullia said quite cheerfully,

"It is always such an honour and a privilege to gather my friends in my home on days like today for a happy meal. What joy to socialise, no?"

The witches clapped happily and smiled and laughed among one another, giving saccharine expressions round the table. Tullia continued,

"You may have noticed a wizard among us today! Please, Lord Voldemort, do grant us a few words so that today's brunch might not feel so silly and trite. Ladies, welcome The Dark Lord, if you please."

There was more quiet applause, though the smiles grew a little hesitant and even fearful now. As Voldemort stood holding his own goblet, he looked around and realised he had bedded nearly every witch at the table, including Tullia. Druella Black, his one mother-in-law, had escaped the fate of intimacy, as had Kit Rowle's wife, who had been a few years too young for such a thing. But almost all of the others had writhed and moaned and even screamed beneath a young Tom Riddle. They'd come for him; they'd clenched around his fingers. They'd drenched sheets with sweat with him. They'd taken his seed into their bodies and they'd moaned his name. And then he'd watched them pull on their school uniforms, and he'd sent them back out to the Common Room to the humiliated Pureblood betrothed wizards that wound up marrying them and fathering their children and giving them their surnames.

Except, of course, for Freya Travers, who was staring up at Voldemort with her goblet in her hand, having informed him gently and calmly, asking for nothing but saying so very much, that her eldest child had been fathered by Tom Riddle himself and not by Bram Travers.

Voldemort trembled where he stood and felt queasy. He shut his eyes for a moment and struggled to collect himself. For some reason, he was tossed back to this morning, when he'd awakened from his dream of not being able to bring himself to tell Bellatrix how much he loved her, of having to pass her back to Rodolphus Lestrange. For some reason, his mind reminded him that he and Bellatrix needed to kill Albus Dumbledore as urgently as possible. His mind swirled and thudded, and he was so certain he was going to faint that he actually swayed a bit where he stood, and he heard Freya Travers ask quietly,

"Tom, do you need something?"

"I…"

He opened his eyes and looked around the table. He met the gazes of Iris Flint, Agnes Carrow, of Tullia Malfoy, of Druella Black, of Sadie Crouch, of Freya Travers. He cleared his throat very roughly and said simply,

"As most of you are already aware, I left England many years ago in search of esoteric and obscure knowledge on the Cotninent. I know that many people were left confused, even baffled, when I disappeared. I spent over a decade traveling many countries, learning trades of magic that many had thought lost forever, some forms of which had been buried for centuries. I learnt from witches and wizards in the underground magical world; I learnt from Vampires and Seers and Werewolves and Goblins. My knowledge is now so complete, so thorough and deep and Dark that one almost struggles to know what to do with it all. But I know, my friends, that my task is to unite wizarding Britain under the ideal that magic is supreme, that magic is right and good, that we as witches and wizards must exist not only separately but superiorly. I aim to serve as leader of this movement as I believe myself uniquely qualified to do so. I ask for financial support, for physical and political support. I ask for the backing of your Houses, for the influence of the Sacred Twenty-Eight in the form of gold and wands and words and deeds. I ask you to take this request to your families and to consider it yourselves as educated and prestigious witches. Thank you."

He sat slowly then, and there was raucous applause from all of those gathered. Some of the witches banged their palms on the table in approval. Druella Black clanged her spoon on her goblet and laughed happily at her son-in-law's speech, and Iris Flint set off sparks of approval with her wand. Voldemort forced a smile and waved at the witches as he just sat and let them all eat their deviled eggs and bread and salmon in contented conversation. He ignored his food and stared at his pumpkin juice, finally getting up after awhile and walking over to where Freya Travers sat. She turned in her seat a little and reassured him,

"Bram really wants into everything you're doing. And I know he's only a sixth-year Slytherin now, but… perhaps in a few years' time, you might consider making space for my son Thomas in everything you've got planned, as well."

"Do you know, I think Bella and I would love to have dinner with you and Bram," Voldemort said lightly. "Would you host us sometime soon? And your children must dine with us, of course. All three of them, before they go back to Hogwarts. Please, plan something soon. Send an owl."

Freya's eyes went red and wet, and she just nodded silently. Voldemort hurried to thank Tullia Malfoy for letting him invade the meal, and he bid Druella farewell, and then he stalked quickly out of the dining room out down the corridor of Malfoy Manor. He Disapparated out of the gardens and came to outside of Praelia House. He could see Bellatrix sitting cross-legged under a tall tree beyond the house; it had stopped raining earlier and was calm and cloudy now. Voldemort walked as quickly as he could to wear Bellatrix was sitting and noticed that she had several large books spread around her on the mossy earth.

"What are you doing?" he asked as he approached. She looked up and smiled, and she was so pretty that Voldemort's chest hurt.

"I can't do magic yet," she reminded him, "but I can memorise Charms. So that's what I'm doing. Memorising Charms. I'm trying to cut down on all the teaching you'll have to do, My Lord."

"You don't have to teach yourself," he said in a grouchy tone. "I pulled you from Hogwarts so I could instruct you myself."

She gave him a sceptical look. "Did something happen at Malfoy Manor?"

He huffed a breath and shifted on his feet, realising he still had his yew wand out. "Are you close friends with… with Thomas Travers?"

"Tom Travers? Erm… I mean, he's mates with Dolph. He's the Keeper on the Slytherin Quidditch team. He's quite good in classes. It was rather funny, actually; about five months ago, he and Dolph got into a really awful fight because Tom Travers told me my hair looked pretty and, oh, Dolph did not like that."

Voldemort scowled deeply. "I hardly think that's funny."

Bellatrix cocked up an eyebrow. "Has something happened to Tom Travers?"

"Thomas, his mother said," Voldemort corrected, and Bellatrix gave him an odd look.

"Well, everyone calls him Tom, My Lord. What's happened to him?"

Voldemort paced a few steps. All of a sudden, a low rumble of thunder sounded, and the wind picked up just a little bit. Bellatrix scrambled off the ground and started shutting the books she had laid out around her, hurrying to stack them as she mumbled,

"Oh, no. It's going to rain again. Please, Master, will you help me get these back inside? They're heavy."

"Leave them. I'll fix them if they get wet," Voldemort said distractedly. The rain began to fall then, softly and delicately, just a little patter. Bellatrix stared right at Voldemort with confusion and doubt in her chestnut eyes, and she shook her head.

"Please, will you tell me what's going on? Why are you talking about Rodolphus' friend? What's going on with Tom Travers?"

Voldemort shut his eyes and stopped his pacing. He adjusted his grip on his yew wand and noted through clenched teeth, "I really and truly do not like keeping secrets from you. I felt abject relief when you awakened from that dream and we debriefed the fact that I'd traveled through time to you. The fact that you know the truth about that is a profound relief for me. The fact that you know that I am in love with you, after thirteen excruciating years of me hiding every emotion from you… Bella, I do not like keeping secrets from you. I will not do it. I will not hide the truth from you. I ask you… please, know that I… none of this was intentional. None of this was meant to hurt you, or to damage anything, to wound you, or to put distance between -"

"What on Earth are you talking about?" Bellatrix interrupted in a broken whisper. The rain was still falling quite gently, in a satin finish, but it had been falling for long enough now that both Voldemort and Bellatrix were sodden. The books on the ground were hopeless. Bellatrix looked terrified as Voldemort struggled to find the words to explain the truth to her. He licked his lip and finally said,

"You know I was with many witches in my youth. I was not, perhaps, always as careful as I ought to have been."

Bellatrix's face shifted strangely, and he knew then that she'd immediately cottoned on. She was no fool. Still, he took a little step toward her and clarified,

"Some seventeen years ago, Freya Travers, who had truly enjoyed my company during our Slytherin years, came into Borgin and Burke's without her husband Bram to do some shopping. Conversation became flirtatious. I took her to the back of the shop. It was one time. One single time, but she was married, and we didn't… I didn't use a spell to protect her. I just assumed. I was stupid. I never followed up; I never asked. I left. I went to the Continent. I never thought about it again. And today she told me that her eldest son Thomas… that he's… he's not Bram's. He's from that day. So."

Bellatrix was crying, Voldemort could see. Even through the rain, he could see the way tears were absolutely streaming down her cheeks. She shrugged a little and asked,

"Does she want money?"

"No," Voldemort said. "She doesn't want anything. I said… perhaps we could go to their house and… I might like to meet the boy over dinner, you know."

Bellatrix stood up straighter and nodded. She tipped her chin up and stared off toward the brick house behind Voldemort. She spoke loudly then as the rain picked up a bit.

"If you are trying to engage him in conversation and you want to interest him," she said, "his favourite Quidditch team is the Tutshill Tornados. His favourite Keeper is Merwyn Finwick. He doesn't like Butterbeer, and he likes to talk to people about how he dislikes Butterbeer. It's too sweet, Tom says. He likes to play Gobstones, even though the other boys our age have mostly outgrown it by now. He's quite gifted with Potions and Transfiguration. There's a rumour he's a Parselmouth. Maybe you can ask him about that."

She turned her face back to Voldemort and gave him a serene sort of look, and he just closed the gap between them and took her face in his hands. He bent down and kissed her, quite softly at first and then more urgently. He expected resistance; he expected anger from her. He expected her to be hurt, to feel betrayed. But she drank in his kiss, her hands going to his shoulders and massaging a little. When at last Voldemort broke the kiss, she smiled gently at him and then stroked his jaw, murmuring,

"Mmm… that was so long ago with Freya, wasn't it, My Lord?"

"Yes," he nodded. "A very long time ago."

She grinned. "I love you."

He touched his forehead to hers. "I've loved you for longer than you know."

"And," she said, with an almost maniacal, quiet little laugh, "when you really think about things… you are really fifty-five years of age, but here in this life, I am only sixteen… oh, it's all rather wonky, isn't it? The years, they're all a bit upside-down."

"Yes," Voldemort whispered, nodding against her and giving her another kiss.

"Time," she hummed, "is a very, very funny thing. I do think dinner with the Travers family is a very fine idea. Now, My Lord, will you please help me get these books inside and dry them? I really would like to memorise these Charms so you and I can accomplish as much as possible in our studies this autumn."

She pulled away from him and stalked toward the house, her wet woolen skirts dragging on the grass behind her.

Author's Note: Phew! So much to unpack in this chapter. As always, thanks for your patience during this profoundly busy Christmas season. I will continue to update when I get the time. I do sincerely appreciate you continuing to read and give feedback when I do update. Thanks so much!