JB could hardly believe his luck when he found the thatched cottage just outside of London for their final Christmas Eve. As nice as it was knowing they had enough money to stay in hotels and inns for each of their trips, a place of their own was much nicer. It was the summer home of a wealthy couple who lived in the city, so as long as he made sure to leave it exactly as he found it, there was no harm in borrowing it for a night.

There were two bedrooms, each with its own canopy bed and other furnishings, a fully stocked kitchen, and a bright entry hall. The drawing room, however, was the cottage's best feature. There, tucked inside a brick alcove was a fireplace, large enough to flood the whole room in warmth. A heavily stuffed settee and matching chairs were arranged in the center of the room beside a large window. A grand piano waited in the corner, the perfect finishing touch.

The cottage was still on his mind as he followed Sam into a bookshop in the middle of town that afternoon. It was a small store with long rectangular windows, wedged between a café and a spice shop. The inside held a charming array of bound novels in several volumes. Sam glided straight to the back in her dress of red velvet, which rippled behind her as she walked. JB perused the front of the store, wondering what rare first editions were suddenly at his disposal. It wasn't as easy as identifying the "classics" section and going from there, as names like Charles Dickens and Lewis Carroll were crammed amidst others that would be lost to history. He did notice a case of French language books and wandered towards it, mostly out of curiosity. Then he saw them: stretched across a footlong section of the top shelf were all ten volumes of Les Misérables by Victor Hugo. Gold lettering gleamed on each red leather spine, indicating the title and volume number of each book. His first instinct was to snatch them up for himself—there was a perfect spot in his study if he ever made it back home. Then he glanced at Sam, who now sat on a small staircase in the corner of the shop with a large stack of books in her arms. Yards of red velvet cascaded and pooled around her as she examined her findings. As much as he loved Hugo's work, he knew that no one would appreciate a first edition Les Misérables more than Sam, and he made a mental note to return to the bookstore later and purchase the set for her. It was Christmastime, after all.

Something buzzed in his breast pocket, and instinctively he pulled out the elucidator, forgetting for a moment that no one should be able to contact him.

I JUST WANT TO TALK, K'TAH, appeared on the pocket watch cover. PLEASE RESPOND. How had Cira found him so quickly?

For a minute, he stared petrified at the words. Would Cira appear now to take Sam away and send him to time prison?

Then he came to his senses. There was no way Cira would reach out like this if she were able to access him any other way. She had no power over him, just words. If he ignored her, there was nothing to worry about. For now, at least.

He met Sam in the back of the bookstore and held out a hand for her. "Shall we?"

She glanced at his hand and frowned. "We just got here."

"I know, but don't you want to see the tea shop across the street?" He didn't want her lingering too long or she'd spot the Les Misérables volumes before he had a chance to purchase them.

Sam took his hand and stood up, shrugging. "I guess we can come back later." She scanned the shelves as they made their way back to the front and sighed at the view from the window. "Eleven days and still no fresh snow…Not that I'm complaining." She smiled at him. "This is the most fun I've had in my entire life."

"I just hope I haven't set the bar too high for all holidays," he said. "I have nothing planned for New Year's Eve."

Sam went on again about how the holidays started to dull after Christmas, and he wondered where he should take her next. Too many trips one after the other within a short period was not recommended for time travelers. Studies had shown it could result in confusion and extended timesickness, so he knew they'd have to settle somewhere soon, even if only for a week.

Then, in the middle of their conversation, someone called to them from the opposite corner of the store: "Blimey, am I going mad?" The woman had rosy cheeks and curly gray hair, and he recognized the face. His first thought was, Mrs. Daley looks incredible for a woman in her eighties, but that didn't make any sense. Nobody could age that well in almost fifty years.

The woman approached them cautiously and said, "Do you not know me? My name is Abigail Stafford, formerly Abigail Daley."

Something seemed to click inside Sam's head because she beamed and said, "Abby? You're so grown up! It's great to see you."

JB cringed. Yes, of course. If Abby was five back in 1817, she would be fifty-three years old in 1865. And now that Sam had confirmed that she recognized Abby, JB had to figure out how to explain why he and Sam had not aged at all in forty-eight years.

"Then it's true," Abby said, not moving a muscle. "I was right about you all along."

Sam obviously realized what she'd done because she covered her mouth and shook her head. "We can explain, Abby." The panic in her eyes left JB unconvinced, and it was clear that Abby did not buy it either.

"The night of your departure," Abby said, "I overheard you speak of Thornton's upcoming murder trial. This was long before anyone suspected the man of Mary's murder, mind you."

JB's mouth went dry.

"You said something about an acquittal," she continued, "and that Mary's brother would challenge Thornton to a duel in court before backing out. Imagine my shock when this all came to be."

What could he say? That they were psychic? Mysticism was popular in the nineteenth century, so it wouldn't be entirely ludicrous…

"My mother and father said I'd gone batty when I told them," she went on. "I almost believed them until ten years later in Edinburgh."

Edinburgh? She'd gone to Edinburgh in 1837? But that would mean…

"I saw the two of you again in a churchyard one cloudy winter morning…it was Christmas Eve then, too, come to think of it."

That wasn't possible. They had checked their surroundings.

"I had just stepped outside the church when I saw you, completely unchanged. I ran back inside to tell Mother, but when she came to see, you were gone; and once again, my family thought me delirious."

Sam glanced at him helplessly, but he was just as stunned.

"What are you, then?" Abby challenged. "Are you of the fae folk? Vampires? Immortals? Please, if you mean me no harm, tell me what you are so I may stop questioning my sanity."

"You're not insane," Sam said quietly. JB gaped at her. He could feel the perspiration form at his hairline. He hoped she knew what she was doing. "The Mr. and Mrs. Byron you met all those years ago were as real as they could allow themselves to be without sounding insane themselves. The friendship we formed with your family was genuine. Do you remember when I made those faces with you in the church? You have no idea how terrified I was that day, and you put me at ease. And I so loved watching you at the piano. Do you still play?"

"We are not fae folk, nor are we immortal," JB added once he'd managed to calm himself. "Mrs. Byron surely would have died had your family not taken us in when she was injured. For that we are forever grateful."

Abby's expression softened slightly. "I remember it all fondly. Indeed, I begged Mother for voice lessons after you sang for us, Mrs. Byron. I wanted to be just like you. I've been singing ever since."

"That's lovely to hear, Abby," said Sam.

"I am actually on my way home at this very moment to prepare for the caroling social I host every Christmas Eve. I need only to purchase a new songbook for the occasion."

"Then we should leave you to it," said JB.

"But I still do not understand," Abby said. She no longer looked frightened, just confused.

"It's very complicated, Abby," said Sam slowly. "Time just…moves differently for us. I wish I could say more, but I hope you can forgive us and find some resolution in knowing you are not mad."

Abby bit her bottom lip and considered her. "That is hardly a resolution, Mrs. Byron. However, I am very happy to see you again and will not press further if you are certain it is for the best."

"It is," said JB.

Abby purchased her songbook and caught them up on her family. Mr. and Mrs. Daley had passed on peacefully and Charles now lived in Sweden with his wife and five grown kids. Sarah lived in Edinburgh with her Scottish husband. She was unable to bear children, but had found fulfillment in teaching literature to underprivileged youth and was a mother figure to many.

After saying their goodbyes and exiting the store, they prepared to part in opposite directions, but Abby called to them one more time from across the street. "Wait!" JB and Sam turned around. "Have you any plans this evening?"

...

"Which door is it?" Sam asked as they came upon a row of terraced brick houses at seven o'clock. "They all look the same."

"That one." JB pointed to a red door in the center of the row and led the way to the front steps.

She'd changed from her daytime bodice into an evening one, trimmed with lace and silk poinsettias that matched the red velvet fabric. It was cold enough outside that she shivered even under her wool cape and bonnet, but not a single snowflake fell from the sky. Still, she was hopeful. She recognized the quiet crispness in the air, as if the whole city held its breath in anticipation for something magical. "Do you know how to play 'White Christmas?'" she asked after JB knocked. "I know it hasn't been written yet, but it just feels right…"

"Are you seriously about to tell me that you think you can summon the snow by singing 'White Christmas'?" He gave her an amused look.

"No, but it's worth a try."

"Absolutely not. We're not introducing a song from 1942 to—"

The door opened and Abby welcomed them inside. Next to her stood a tall, gangly man with graying red hair and a bushy square beard. He bowed and said, "A pleasure Mr. and Mrs. Byron. I am Andrew Stafford. I'm delighted to meet some old friends of my wife. Please, come in."

The home's blue wallpaper gleamed in the firelight. The whole place smelled of gingerbread, and a group of people were clustered at a piano, singing familiar ballads. Abby dashed into the kitchen and returned with a tray of sugar cookies and two cups of peppermint tea. It was like a Victorian Christmas card come to life. Sam had hardly taken a sip of her tea when Andrew Stafford slid onto the piano bench and played the intro for "Good King Wenceslas." Abby sang the lyrics in a sweet alto voice and the guests joined in after the first verse, Sam and JB included. As the night progressed, they refilled their teacups, lit the tree, and sang some more. JB even took a turn at the piano and Abby encouraged Sam to lead a song or two for the group. She happily obliged and performed her best renditions of "Silent Night" and "We Three Kings." She could not recall the last time she'd felt this content. How lovely it would be to celebrate the holidays like this every year! She imagined hosting her own Christmas Eve social just like this one, surrounded by friends, singing carols, and drinking tea; JB at the piano, then by her side as they wished their guests a good night and blew out the candles; falling asleep together and waking up in his arms the next day, a blanket of snow outside. Suddenly Christmas morning didn't sound as lonely.

It was long past midnight when the coachman dropped them off at the little cottage for the night. JB lit a fire and Sam brewed them another two cups of peppermint tea and set them on the windowsill. She reclined on the settee and gazed out the window. Still no snow.

JB sat beside her and asked what was on her mind.

"It's silly," she said. "I really have no reason to feel disappointed about the snow after such an amazing night."

"It could still snow," he said.

Sam shrugged. "It really shouldn't matter to me this much. I can't expect real life to work like a movie. Do you still have that saying in your time, 'You can't have your cake and eat it too'?"

JB raised an eyebrow and shook his head. "That doesn't even make sense. Why have a cake if—"

"If you're not going to eat it, right?" she finished. "Yeah, it's a dumb saying. It just means you can't have it all. And hey, I basically did have it all. The best travel guide in the world, twelve amazing Christmas Eves, caroling with an old friend, and drinking peppermint tea inside an adorable cottage in Victorian England. You've really outdone yourself, JB."

"It's been fun for me too," he said. "I don't usually get to travel for pleasure, you know. There's always something to fix or chase or stop. It's nice to experience history without the usual pressures."

Sam took a sip of tea and stared out the window again. She felt JB stand up and cross the room. Great, she thought. I've probably bored him to death with all this snow talk. She turned to see where he had gone and found him sitting at the grand piano in the corner.

"What are you—?" She was cut off by a slow, lilting melody, one she knew very well.

"Care to sing along?" he said.

A sudden radiance consumed her and she drifted to the piano bench, singing.

"I'm dreaming of a white Christmas

Just like the ones I used to know…"

She took a seat at the bench and leaned into his warmth, watching his fingers gently caress the keys.

"Where the treetops glisten and children listen

To hear sleigh bells in the snow…"

She slid her own hands on top of his and let him lead her fingers across the ivories.

"I'm Dreaming of a white Christmas
With every Christmas card I write…"

He smiled down at her, with the soft look in his eyes that she'd grown accustomed to seeing, the one that made her feel like she was floating through the depths of outer time, unbound by gravity, or time, or space.

"May your days be merry and bright…"

He bent down and let his forehead rest on hers. The scent of licorice was intoxicating, almost as hypnotic as the green of his eyes.

"And may all your Christmases be white."

The final lyrics of the song escaped her lips, barely a whisper. His hands cupped her face, as soft and warm as they'd felt on the trail in Gévaudan. Again she felt the flood of weakness, the melting surrender, the coursing gush of heat that deflated her limbs. And the gnawing fear of tomorrow shrank and faded out of existence. He lifted her chin slightly and their lips met, at first just a brush, and then with a deep swell of urgency that made her grip him tight, her one anchor in a fragmented, swirling continuum. His tender mouth blossomed against hers, the floor swayed beneath them; she succumbed to bliss. And just when she thought she might dissolve completely, she realized she was kissing him back.