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.
