Prologue

6 years ago

Winter was normally Julian Hawthorne's favorite time of year. All the warmth and joy that came with Christmastide filled Julian with joy. His family, the Duke and Duchess of Thornmire, and his older sister, Elizabeth, upheld many holiday traditions, from their own private Yule log celebration with just their family and close friends, to decorating the mansion from top to bottom with beautiful, extravagant ornaments. In his youth, he would help his mother and sister handmake lush garland strands. As a grown man, his role in the preparations became to help hang decorations in places that were hard to reach for the women in his family, and to help gather berries and flowers to make the décor.

However, during the Christmastide of his twentieth year, the holiday season was the furthest thing from Julian's mind. The snow in which Elizabeth and he once loved to play, even once they were grown, now felt oppressive and uninviting. The fires burning in each hearth throughout Thornmire Manor did nothing to chase away the chill that settled in Julian's soul. The lack of decorations, which had been postponed when the duchess fell ill, was the only thing that matched the dreary way Julian felt.

As he stood outside his mother's chambers, he leaned against the cold walls, trying to pull strength from the air around him and finding none. He closed his eyes, sending up another futile prayer to the heavens for a miracle recovery for his mother. Just two weeks prior, she had seemed to be getting better. But then almost overnight, her illness had worsened, and she had been bedridden ever since, getting sicker by the day.

Just outside the manor gates, the cheery voices of carolers could be heard, muffled by the thick walls. The notes of "In the Bleak Midwinter" grazed Julian's conscious, but he paid it no heed. The song felt too personal that particular season, and he wanted nothing more than to tune out the music. His mother once led their family in singing carols of their own throughout the season. Now, it sat collecting dust, just as the grounds collected snow.

He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. Reality was too cruel, too sharp, and he couldn't bring himself to face what his unconscious mind knew was to come. The typically lively household had fallen eerily quiet. Rooms in which Julian's family experienced so much love and joy were now filled with frantic whispers and fear. Even the servants, who were happy to serve in the duke's and duchess's employ, had grown sullen and solemn in the wake of the hushed conversations with the family's physician.

The door to her chambers opened suddenly, startling Julian, and setting him on high alert. A moment later, the physician appeared once more, looking graver still than he had when he first entered the duchess's room earlier that day. Julian rushed toward him, pulling him away from the slightly ajar door and looking at him with earnest.

"What is it, Doctor?" he asked.

The physician sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with the fingers of one hand while holding his spectacles in the other.

"Just since I arrived, her strength has waned," he said. "Her fever broke, but only for a short time. It has already returned, and it is far worse than ever before. I'm afraid there's nothing more I can do for her."

Julian shook his head, feeling as though the floor had vanished and he was now falling into a black, bottomless oblivion.

"How much longer…" he trailed off, unable to voice the rest of his question.

The physician understood, even though Julian couldn't say the words.

"I cannot say for sure," he said. "But she will surely not last much longer than Christmas day."

Julian was reeling, and his stomach tried to force the coffee, which was the only thing he had consumed in days, from his bowls. The physician reached out with strong hands and held onto Julian's arm until the sick feeling passed. Then, he patted Julian softly on the back, gesturing back toward the door.

"I recommend spending as much time with her as possible," he said. "It could be any day now. As I said, I cannot be sure. Prepare yourself for any scenario."

Julian nodded, stepping aside so that the physician could see himself out. Then, he turned and headed toward his mother's bedchamber door, tears stinging his eyes. With each step he took, he felt a tightening in his chest, apprehension squeezing his soul. Taking a deep breath, he pushed open the door, revealing a scene that he never wanted to confront.

Her thin, waxy figure lay still and as white as the snow outside against gray sheets that had replaced her bright pink and purple bedclothes as her illness had progressed. The physician had been right: she looked infinitely worse than she had even the day prior when Julian had looked in to see about her. Her once glowing eyes, the exact same shape and shade as his own, were dull, their light and life lost to the illness that was rapidly taking her from their family. Her laughter was long gone, replaced by a harsh, rasping cough that made him flinch with every heave of her chest.

She tried to greet her son with a weak smile, which to Julian only looked like a pained grimace. With a great effort, she motioned to the space beside her on the bed.

Swallowing hard, Julian complied, his feet feeling heavier with every step. He gently lowered himself onto the bed, feeling the mattress dip beneath his weight. Tentatively, he reached out, taking his mother's hand. It was impossibly thin, the delicate veins visible beneath skin that had become almost transparent. Despite the cold, her hand felt feverish, and it was all Julian could do to keep from recoiling from the heat.

"Julian," she whispered, her voice barely audible, but imprinting him with all the warmth and affection it always had. "My dear boy."

"Mother," he choked out, struggling to keep his voice steady, "I'm here."

Her eyes, still filled with so much love, brimmed with tears.

"I am happy to see you, sweetheart," she said.

Julian blinked back his own tears, his regret pressing heavily on him.

"I should have come to sit with you more often," he said. "In fact, I should have never left your side. Please, forgive me, Mother."

She squeezed his hand, but he only knew she had done so because he watched her make the effort. Her fingers were no stronger than the legs of a newborn pup, but the effort was apparent in her eyes.

"You are here now," she said. "That's all that matters."

Julian lifted her hand onto his lap, covering it with his free hand. Emotions were building within him faster than he could register them: fear, sadness, pain, worry, and anger at a universe that could do such a terrible thing to a woman as sweet and loving as his mother. He held her hand tightly, fighting with all his might to blink back his tears.

"Is there anything you need me to do for you right now, Mother?" he asked.

The duchess shook her head, her eyes becoming briefly unfocused as she did so.

"No, darling," she said. "I am just glad you are sitting here with me."

Julian nodded, swallowing again.

"I am happy to sit with you for as long as you like, Mother," he said.

They sat in silence for a while, his mother's increasingly raspy breathing filling the wordless room. Julian's mind raced, and he had to keep pushing his anguish to the back of his mind. He wanted to offer his mother comfort and keep her adequate company. But all he could think about was the moment when the rasping would stop, and her last breath would leave her.

He desperately wanted to turn back the clock, to relive those moments of joy and laughter. He would do anything to have such an opportunity. The wild notion of the magic in storybook tales being worth a try crossed his mind more than once. If he thought even for a second it might work, he knew that it would. But for now, he would cherish the time they had left. He would hold her hand and offer her solace and try not to let the storm cloud of his grief drown him.

As the days wore on, Julian couldn't help but behold his mother's dignity and grace with awe. Even as the illness took over, as the pain and discomfort increased and her strength decreased, she maintained much of the poise Julian had known all his life. It showed in her weak but gentle smiles and in the serene acceptance of what awaited her in her eyes. She seemed at peace with her situation. While Julian did not share the sentiment, he respected his mother's bravery. It helped him make the most of the time he had left with her and forget the hopelessness that was quickly sinking into his heart.

The Christmas season continued outside the walls of his mother's bedchambers. The servants bustled about, making preparations for the holiday feast and family events, and carolers came to the gates more frequently and in larger numbers. The duchess seemed content to listen to them from a cracked window in her chambers. But Julian's heart found no comfort in the songs that used to fill him with immense Christmas spirit.

As the final days of the year drew to a close, the notes of his mother's favorite song, "Auld Lang Syne" began to drift in through the window. His mother closed her eyes, her weakest smile yet on her lips, but the song was nothing more for Julian right then than a reminder that time would move on, no matter how much he wished he could make it stop. It wasn't just a year that was ending for Julian. It was the end of the life Julian had always known. It was the end of Julian's ability to open his heart to the world.

As the clock signaled the new year's beginning, his mother drew her last breath. The stillness left in the wake of her passing was palpable, and all Julian could do was weep. Grief-stricken, he found himself falling into the cold, dark pit of loss and heartbreak. His mother's death left behind a hole in his heart that no merriment or celebration could ever again fill. Every holiday song, every joyful well wish and holiday tradition, served as a reminder of what his family had lost, forever turning him bitter toward the time of year that had once meant the world to him. No world that had cruelly ejected his mother from it would ever be worth celebrating to him again.