Page 126 of Fated

I’m pulled back to the hilltop. I’m lying in Aaron’s arms under the soft shade of the whistling pine, the breeze whispering through the boughs, the needles crinkling beneath us, letting up piney scents, Aaron’s heart beating against my cheek as he holds me tight and we look out over the island.

“Why are you crying?” Daniel asks, stepping forward and putting his hand on my arm. “Fi?”

I shake my head. Hold the watch in my hands. “I’m not.” And at Daniel’s disbelief, because there are truly tears trailing down my cheeks, I say, “It’s only, I’d forgotten how beautiful it was.”

He nods. “It is, isn’t it? The McCormick.”

I glance up at my brother then, standing next to me, his hand resting on my forearm, comforting me.

“I’m still not sold on the name though.”

I smile at him. “Tough. I like the name.”

“What does it mean?”

I think about it for a moment, then I say, “Some say it means an almost, a never-was, a dream that didn’t happen, but I say it means an always, a dream that still goes on.”

Daniel lifts an eyebrow. “That’s poetic, Fi.”

“You know me.”

“You don’t like poetry.”

“I do now. People change.”

He smiles at that and steps back, seeing that I’m no longer in dire need of comforting. “I have to head out. I’ll see you tomorrow? Mila wants to ski and I want to drink hot chocolate, so.” He shrugs, a happy gleam in his eyes.

“See you tomorrow.”

Daniel leaves. I’m left at Abry, in an empty winter-hushed building, with sunlight fading and snow falling outside.

Instead of closing the watch back in its box, I open the clasp and I put it on my wrist.

44

The sittingroom at the chateau still smells of the popcorn Mila, Max, and I strung on a long thread while we watched “Drei Haselnüsse für Aschenbrödel”—Mila’s favorite Christmas movie. We watch it every year, just in case we’re tempted to forget there’s magic at Christmastime. When the movie was over we draped yards of popcorn garland over our little tilting family tree set in the corner of the sitting room.

Now Mila’s tucked in bed, full of ham-and-cheese crepes, Christmas pudding, Brun de Bâle—crumbly chocolate hazelnut cut-outs (beloved by Max)—and Miroir—delicate vanilla cut-out hearts filled with strawberry jam (beloved by Mila).

Outside silver moonlight falls over the hushed quiet of snow falling over bare-limbed trees and watchful pines. The night is black, quiet. The only noise is the pop and crackle of the logs burning in the stone fireplace.

The little fire glows red and orange and gold as it sparks, cheerful and hopeful, in opposition to the cold night and the icy flowers drawn in frost on the tall, lead-paned windows.

I breathe in the smoky popcorn scent and smile over at Max. We’re settled on the thick handwoven rug in front of the fire. I lean against his side, and the gentle heat of the low-burning orange flames curls over us.

He’s in a hunter-green cashmere sweater and dark jeans. The green brings out the gold flecks in his brown eyes, and the fire casts a golden glow over his blue-black hair. In the four months we’ve spent dating we’ve kissed—occasionally—we’ve held hands—often—and we’ve laughed—always.

Max is still my best friend. And by the way he’s been twisting his ring, by the solemn gravity in his eyes, and by the way he wraps his arm around me and pulls me close, I know.

He takes a long breath and then exhales, his chest expanding, the softness of his sweater rubbing against my bare arm. I’m in jeans and a silver silk camisole. I took off my sweater hours ago, when the fire warmed the room so much that I felt like I was back on the island.

Now it’s died down to a low golden heat, but I won’t put my sweater back on.

Max draws his hand down my arm, stroking my skin slowly, absently, as he stares at the fire.

“I have your Christmas present,” he finally says, his voice deep and controlled.

“I know,” I say, and when I do he looks down at me, his eyebrows lifting in that supercilious expression my mum said she’d recognize anywhere. “You said so earlier,” I tell him with a smile.

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