Table of Contents
Blurb
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Author’s Note
About the Author
By Amy Rae Durreson
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Copyright
The Holly Groweth Green
By Amy Rae Durreson
When wounded doctor Laurence Payne is stranded in the snowy English countryside on Christmas Eve, 1946, he is surprised to stumble upon Mistle Cottage and its mysterious inhabitant. Avery claims to be an Elizabethan wizard, and Laurence struggles to explain away the atmosphere of the cottage as mere coincidence and trickery. He spends a magical twelve days of Christmas celebrating with Avery, but then wakes to find his lover has vanished and the cottage has fallen to ruin overnight.
Laurence’s investigations lead him to the story of an ancient fairy curse—Avery is doomed to spend only Christmas Eve to Twelfth Night in human form until he finds true love. Laurence sets out to give Avery the greatest gift of all—his heart and with it the chance to live for more than the fleeting winter weeks he’s been sentenced to.
Our task today is to mobilise the Christmas spirit and to apply its power and healing to our daily life.
—King George VI, Christmas Message, 1946
How like a winter hath my absence been
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
—William Shakespeare, Sonnet 97
As the holly groweth green
And never changeth hue,
So I am, ever hath been,
Unto my lady true.
—King Henry VIII, “Green Groweth the Holly”
Chapter One
December 1946
THIS TRAIN clearly wasn’t going anywhere.
It had been sitting in the station for the best part of an hour now, and although at first Laurence had not minded, content to watch the snow sift down onto the white fields and tiled roof of the station house, it was starting to wear on his nerves. The train had been stationary long enough that the carriages were starting to grow cold, and he was increasingly aware of the hour—already almost three, and the light would soon be fading fast. He’d suffered from an irrational dislike of the cold and dark since the Colonsay went down, and he would like to be safely in Portsmouth before the sun set.
Wearily he heaved himself to his feet, left his compartment, and began to make his way down the train.
He found the guard in his van, making tea over a primus stove. He jumped up in surprise as Laurence came in. “Blimey, I didn’t think there was anyone still down that end of the train.”
“Is there a problem?” Laurence asked.
“We’re stuck, guv. Snow across the mouth of the West Meon tunnel ahead of us. Waiting to hear if we can get a line back to London, but there’s problems at Alton as well.”
“Good Lord,” Laurence said, because a reaction seemed to be expected. “Any chance of getting down to Portsmouth tonight?”
The guard shook his head. “We’ll be lucky to get back to town. If you make a change at Woking, maybe, but word is that the snow’s bad at Petersfield too. Wouldn’t risk it if I were you.”
“Damn.” Laurence hadn’t really been looking forward to Christmas in the Officers’ Club, but it would at least have had the comfort of familiarity. Town would mean a hotel and the weary process of making polite conversation with chance acquaintances.
“Most of the other passengers have gone over the road to The Privett Bush. If you wanted to warm up, I’ll walk over when we get the signal to depart.”
“I’ll do that, thank you. Can I bring you back a drink?”
“Best not, guv—I’m on duty. Thought’s appreciated, though.”
Laurence nodded at him and returned down the train to pick up his kit bag. Out on the snowy platform, he took a long breath, the cold air sparking through him, and made his way back along the deserted platform to the station exit. The whole world seemed quiet in the falling snow—the peaked roof of the station house coated in white, and every spike of the fence wearing a tiny white cap. Outside the station, he paused again, startled. From the size of the station, he had been expecting a sizable village, but all that stood here was a terrace of railway cottages and the railway hotel. Behind them the fields rolled out, pale and quiet, until they began to rise into low hills dotted with the occasional farmhouse or cottage. There was nothing moving on the road, no tire or wheel tracks that weren’t half-filled with snow—no sign of life save the train sitting behind him, its boxy lines softened by the feather pattern of snow on its cooling boiler.
But there were lights in the inn, and so Laurence made his way carefully across the road.
The Privett Bush was bustling, humming with cheerful conversation. Blinking at the light and noise, Laurence fought his way to the bar. A thought had struck him as he crossed the road, and he ordered a pint and inquired of the barman, “Have you any rooms?”
“Full up, sir. Sorry.”
“I assume I wasn’t the only one to have that particular idea?” Ironic, on this night of all nights, that there was no room at the inn.
“I’m afraid not, sir. The Holly Bush down in the village still has a few rooms. Old Les just drove some of the other folks from the train down there in the trap, but he’s not back yet.”
“Is it far to walk?”
“Just over a mile.”
“Well, if the train’s not on the move soon, I’ll think about it,” Laurence said as cheerfully as he could. He didn’t much fancy walking through this weather, but the idea of Christmas in the country was much more restful than taking on one of the big London hotels, and he’d never been afraid of a bit of an adventure. He glanced around the taproom and thought if the village pub was like this, it could be quite pleasant—there was a crackling fire in the hearth, holly and ivy strung over every window, and the warm scent of mulled cider floating through the air. Even though food was likely to be limited by rationing, he’d lay money on the hope that an inn like this kept its own hens, which might just mean eggs for breakfast.
Definitely better than London, and on a sudden whim, he drained his pint, picked up his bag, and headed back out into the snow. Maybe he’d meet Old Les and the trap on the way. Maybe he’d just get to stretch the cricks out of his legs.
It was still light enough that he could see the village across the fields that sloped up from the other side of the station. There was a lane leading that way. Even with his sense of direction, it looked an easy enough walk—all he had to do was keep the houses in sight and not deviate from his path. Cheerfully he slung his bag onto his back and set out at an easy stride, whistling under his breath. It felt like an adventure. He had never really seen much of the English countryside—his early years had been spent in India, and his schooldays boarding at Harrow or with his godfather in various expensive hotels during the hols. Rural England was a foreign land to him, albeit one where he could speak the language. He’d been growing stale and self-pitying in town—maybe a little country air would knock him out of it.
The road behind the station was narrow and high-hedged, but he could still look up and see the village ahead. Lights were on in the windows. Were there any other sailors there, finally released from duty to come home to their families? He hoped so. The war was long over, and it didn’t seem fair that so many lads were still waiting to be demobbed.
He wasn’t expecting the road to end. Neither turning led straight toward the village, and for a moment, he panicked.
Then he took the left turning, remindin
g himself that he would need to take any opportunity to turn left again.
No, right.
Left. Right.
He stopped, took a breath, and held out his hands in front of him, pointing his thumbs away at right angles. The village above was on the other side from the L-shape of one hand.
L was for left. So he had to turn away from the left at the first opportunity. Turn right.
He strode on, feeling the snow press down under his boots. All he could hear was the muffled sound of his own steps and the barely perceptible patter of snow on snow.
The lane was a long one, and he was uneasily aware that the lights of the village were retreating behind him.
This was ridiculous. He stalked on, trying to decide whether to turn back—except, God damn it, if he couldn’t have faith in the simplest of decisions, how would he ever function in society again?
At last he reached a crossroads, held out his hands again, and turned toward the L, climbing uphill. This better get him to the damn village soon.
With the snow thick underfoot, he didn’t notice that the paved road had turned to earthy track, not until he turned his foot in a rut. There were trees on both sides of the track now, blocking his view. For the first time, he felt seriously uneasy.
No one knew where he was. No one was expecting him. There was nobody to send up flares if he vanished, not until his next appointment in Harley Street on the fifteenth.
The snow was still falling, and now that soft, relentless whisper in the air felt dangerous. It no longer made him think of the old-fashioned charm of a country Christmas, but of convoy duty to Archangel, of frightened boys with the eyes of children bringing stiff white hands to his infirmary to be thawed.
Carry on. If in doubt, carry on. That was the rule he’d followed since the first time he’d come to England as a scrap of a child who’d never seen an oak tree or suffered through a frost. Carry on—whatever they say, whatever happens to you, when your own mind rebels against you—just carry on.
So he did, climbing grimly until the track broke out into a proper lane. That was something, at least. Roads always had destinations.
Then he heard the whistle of a train. He turned toward it and glimpsed the puff of smoke against the pale fields and the little squares of lighted windows in motion as the train, too far below him for him to run for it, moved out. He couldn’t tell which way it was going, whether it was heading for town or south to the coast, but it was clear it had left him behind, and he doubted there would be another tonight.
If he could get back to the inn, they should be able to get him to the village, or at least let him kip in the taproom for the sake of Christmas spirit. All he had to do was find his way to the main road.
But which direction was it? Back toward where he had just seen the train? Or would the road bend unexpectedly again?
As he was about to make a wild guess, he saw a light through the trees ahead of him. It was a soft, flickering light—candles or firelight, not electricity—but it wasn’t far away.
Right now, Laurence had no qualms about knocking on a stranger’s door. With any luck, they’d let him in to warm up. If nothing else, they could point him in the right direction before it got completely dark.
He crossed the road and followed the track opposite toward the light. It was only a narrow track, too narrow for farm vehicles, and bushes clustered around it in a deep, green wall of holly, points poking out of the coating of snow. He had never seen so much holly growing wild—he tended to think of it as a plant of suburban hedges—but it was unmistakable, red berries gleaming even in the gloaming.
And then the path opened up again, into a small patch of grass with wild, ragged edges. A cottage stood on the other side of it, the holly coming round full circle to press against its back walls. The windows were bright, though he couldn’t make out much more than a hint of half-timbered walls and a low, snow-covered roof. Cautiously Laurence crossed the lawn, leaving dents in the snow behind him. He was too cold to hesitate, so he lifted his fist and banged hard on the door, surprised at how worn the wood felt beneath his hands.
For a long moment, there was no response, and his heart sank.
Then the door opened—no, was flung open—and a man stood there, a lamp raised in one hand and his eyes wide as he stared at Laurence.
It must have been the lamplight that made those eyes seem so strange—a green that almost seemed golden. Or maybe it was the expression of raw hope with which this stranger regarded him, or the way his lips parted a little but he did not speak.
Maybe it was because he was so very beautiful. He was tall, taller than Laurence, long legged and broad shouldered, and the light falling on his face washed him with gold. Not just his eyes shimmered, but also the light brown hair that curled loosely around his face. He was dressed strangely, in loose trousers and a thick waistcoat over a loose shirt, like something out of one of the more drearily worthy productions of Shakespeare Laurence had seen in London before the war.
The silence went on too long, and Laurence cleared his throat and said, feeling awkward, “Sorry to disturb you on Christmas Eve, but I’m lost and was hoping you’d point me back towards the station.”
“Lost,” the stranger repeated. His voice was warm, and now he smiled a little hesitantly. “Lost, and here on my doorstep on this night of the year.”
“Yes,” Laurence said. “I’d be very grateful for directions, if—”
“No!” The man looked surprised at his own outburst, but then he offered his hand. “Please, come in. Warm yourself. You are welcome. You are very welcome.”
It was a little odd, but given Laurence himself had come out of the war with parts of his brain broken, it was hardly his place to judge another. He certainly wasn’t going to turn down a chance to warm up before he set out again. “Thank you,” he said and stepped over the threshold.
It was a dim hallway, though he caught a glimpse of white walls, dark beams, and some low furniture. The stranger started ahead of him but then stopped, swinging round. The light from his lantern—an old-fashioned metal thing—bounced across the walls. “Your coat! Let me take your coat, good sir!”
“I only need—” Laurence began.
The man’s face fell. “I’m sorry. It has been so long since I had company at Christmastide, and all my manners have escaped me. Please, warm yourself at my fire before you venture into the night once more. I would not be the kind of man who casts a stranger into the night, on this night of all nights.”
It was close enough to what Laurence himself had been thinking that he decided to tolerate the man’s peculiarities. He had known plenty of eccentrics, both onshore and aboard ship, and they had been no more nor less likely to show courage under fire than any other man.
He took his coat off, looking around for a place to hang it, and then belatedly realized his shoes were soaked through.
The stranger firmly took his coat from him and disappeared down the hallway, leaving the lamp on the floor behind him. Laurence toed his shoes off and looked for a rack to put them upon.
“Allow me to place them before the range,” the stranger said, returning. “I pray you, go and sit before the fire. I will be with you anon.”
Perhaps he was an actor—there was a certain Shakespearean tinge to his language, though it was interwoven with more modern phrases. Still a little uncertain, but too practical to turn down such a warm welcome, Laurence turned through the doorway the man had indicated.
His first impression was warmth. The room was small and cozy, with a fire burning warmly in the hearth. Layers of holly and ivy lay along the windowsills, blocking any drafts, and decorated the mantelpiece around the base of gleaming candlesticks. Two chairs stood on either side of the hearth, heaped with cushions. A low table stood beside one, lit by a squat candle. A book had been abandoned there, and a pair of spectacles.
Laurence wasn’t about to steal what was obviously his host’s seat. He lowered himself into the other seat, surprised to fin
d it was solid wood, though layered in enough cushions that it was not uncomfortable. He leaned back, stretching his feet out toward the fire to toast his damp socks, and sighed with delight as the heat began to soak in.
“Excellent,” his host said from the doorway. “Is there anything else I can get you? A cup of tea, perhaps?”
“You’re too kind,” Laurence replied nobly, though he would happily have fought a bear for a decent cup of tea. “I wouldn’t want to trouble you.”
“Milk and sugar?” There was a definite twinkle in the other man’s eyes.
“Both,” Laurence admitted sheepishly. The room seemed to be getting lighter, and he wondered what could be causing it. He had seen no sign of electricity in the place yet, nor of gaslights.
Then one of the candles on the mantelpiece lit itself.
Laurence blinked, blaming the dim light and his imagination, but then it happened again, the next three candles in the row springing alight one after another.
“What the devil is that?” he asked, fascinated and delighted. As a boy, he’d had a passion for silly gadgets, and this was clearly some delightful trick of a Christmas decoration.
His host looked puzzled. “Why, ’tis magic, of course. What else could it be?”
Chapter Two
“MAGIC?” LAURENCE echoed, laughing. “Don’t spoil the fun. I won’t tell your secrets. Just show me how it works.”
His host frowned, brows drawing together. “I can teach you the incantation, and with time you too may learn to call a flame at will, though I would advise against it, good friend. True power requires an alliance with spirits of another sort—and their whims, as I well know, can prove perilous.”
But Laurence was already on his feet examining the candles on the mantelpiece. He could see no obvious fuses or wires, no hint of hidden flints to light a spark. It was simply a candle, burning in an old-fashioned candlestick. He lifted it up, examining the base for clues, and found nothing.
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