The Holly Groweth Green

by Amy Rae Durreson

  Well, that was the nature of a magic trick, he told himself uneasily. The secret wasn’t supposed to be obvious.

  Behind him, his host laughed, warm and amused. “Why, sir, are you of the sort to come to the house of a wizard and claim all his spells are the result of mere tricks and devices? Fie on you for lack of imagination!”

  “The house of a wizard?” Laurence put the candlestick down. He turned around warily. That had sounded quite sincere. Perhaps there was more wrong with this man than a little harmless eccentricity brought on by the war.

  “Of course—was that not why you sought me out? I am Avery.”

  “I took a wrong turn and couldn’t find my way back to the station, and now the train has gone without me. I’m not part of whatever….” He stopped for words, and a reassuring thought occurred to him. “I apologize if I have interrupted some private game or tradition, but I am quite simply lost. I should be on my way.” He stepped toward the door.

  “No!” the stranger—Avery—snapped, and every candle in the room blazed up into a pillar of shining light. In the sudden flare, Avery too shone, his light brown hair golden, and gold too in his eyes. “Out of this house do not desire to go!”

  Laurence jumped then clenched his fists. He wasn’t one to be scared by parlor tricks. “If you will excuse me, I would like to get back to London tonight.”

  “To London?” Avery said. Suddenly the flames sank down to their previous levels. “Why, ’tis near twenty leagues, and night is upon us. You cannot—”

  “I damn well can,” Laurence snapped back. Then he added more honestly, “If you’ll point me in the direction of the station, that is.”

  Avery bowed his head, saying, “I had forgotten the trains—I am still not quite accustomed to their passing. Nonetheless, I will walk you to the station, if you so wish.”

  “Thank you.” Laurence wasn’t sure what to say next. He didn’t quite know what was going on here.

  “However, although I will not stay you if you truly wish to depart, are you certain there will be another train? I admit I do not understand the patterns and rules of their passing, but the hour grows late, and the snow is deep.”

  He wasn’t wrong. Damn it.

  Avery took a wary step closer. “I promise I mean you no harm. It has been so very long since I had company in this house, and I fear I have forgotten all I once knew about keeping company with my fellows.”

  Laurence hesitated.

  “Unless you have family waiting for you,” Avery said, looking dismayed. “I will not keep you from those you love.”

  Laurence studied him. Strange and a little frightening he might be, but he had opened his home, rushed to make Laurence welcome. If he was mad, it seemed a benign enough form of madness.

  “I have no one.” He held out his hand. “Laurence Payne.”

  Avery’s grasp was warm and strong. “I am glad to meet you, sir. Avery Copland, forever of this parish.”

  “And you are a wizard?” Laurence arched his brow to turn it into a shared joke.

  “A herbalist by trade and a seeker after wisdom, though they called me a warlock at the end, before my reputation forced me to flee London for this place, with my kin, my books, and barely coin enough to purchase this land.” His expression shifted, suddenly sober. “Even I am not sure quite what I am now. ’Tis unwise to dabble in the affairs of fairies. They are not wrong to call us mortals fools.”

  Laurence opened his mouth to argue, then stopped. The man was a harmless loon, by all appearances, and there was no point upsetting him with the application of logic to his madness. Instead he just said amicably, “I’ll remember that.”

  Copland—no, it was easier to think of him as Avery—grinned, a quick flash of white teeth. Whatever he claimed, he had certainly had the benefit of modern dentistry.

  Or magic.

  But no, Laurence would not be drawn into this. He could keep the man company without losing touch with reality himself, perhaps even find out enough about him to offer some professional help. Relaxing, he sat down again.

  Avery’s smile brightened, and he dropped back into his own chair, stretching out his legs and regarding Laurence with wide eyes, clearly contemplative.

  Uncomfortable under the scrutiny, Laurence said, “Don’t let me keep you from what you have planned for your evening.”

  “Nothing of interest, I assure you. Will you stay, then?”

  “If the offer still stands.”

  “It does.” Avery tilted his head, blatantly curious. “But who are you, Laurence Payne, blown to my door by the storm? A soldier?”

  “Navy medical,” Laurence said and then shrugged. “Or I was. War’s over.”

  “God be thanked,” Avery said with sincerity. “And what are you now?”

  Laurence’s heart sank. “Nothing,” he said. “I’m nothing now.” And wasn’t that a despondent thought? What was he going to do with the rest of his life? He could retrain, he supposed, but as what? There was no place in the world for a doctor with a broken brain.

  Avery’s expression was sympathetic, but he didn’t ask any more questions, and Laurence was glad of it. It was pleasant just to sit and listen to the fire crackle without the knowing eyes of nurses or the vague ones of fellow patients upon him. It was what he’d hoped for from his club, but without the awkward stilted conversations of sailors on land.

  And then, to his embarrassment, his stomach growled.

  Avery laughed, not unkindly, and rose to his feet. “As good a sign as any. I can cook a meal for us if you wish to eat. It will be a simple meal, I fear.”

  “What, no airy spirits to prepare your food?” Laurence asked drily.

  Avery grinned at him. He had dimples, which made him all the more unthreatening. “Since my magic causes you such distress, friend, I will do without their aid.”

  Laurence laughed, acknowledging the hit, and said, “Then let me help. I’m no chef, but I can boil water without burning it.”

  Avery shook his head and clapped a hand to his chest. “You are my guest.”

  “An uninvited and unexpected one,” Laurence pointed out. “Come on. Show me your kitchen and put me to work.”

  A glimmer of moonlight shone in the kitchen window as Avery hung his lantern on a hook by the door. A candle on the windowsill sprung alight. Then the flame dwindled rather sheepishly and went out.

  Avery flashed him a guilty look. Laurence refrained from comment, watching as Avery went around the room painstakingly lighting each candle by hand.

  It was an old-fashioned kitchen, with bundles of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling. The range was an iron one that looked at least a hundred years old, but it was radiating a pleasant heat. A few pots and pans hung from hooks on the wall.

  “I have eggs and milk in the pantry and a goose hanging up for tomorrow,” Avery said. “Bread, of course, and apples, both stewed and those stored in autumn. Potatoes for roasting tomorrow, and flour and fruit aplenty for the pudding.”

  “And clearly no rationing whatsoever,” Laurence said weakly, envisioning a type of feast he hadn’t seen in years.

  Avery looked confused and then said, “Oh! Ah, that is—I fear I really cannot explain this without mention of magic.”

  Magic or the black market, Laurence thought cynically, but the idea of a proper meal allayed his conscience. It was Avery’s sin, and he was sick of canteen food.

  “Little meat besides the goose, I fear,” Avery said, then brightened. “I have a rabbit or two. Are you averse to rabbit pie? My guests in latter years have seemed less fond of it than was common in my time.”

  “And what time was that?” Laurence inquired, leaning back against the side of the freestanding sink as Avery unlatched the door to the pantry and disappeared into its cool dark.

  “Why, I was born in the year of our Lord 1579.” Avery came back out, somehow balancing a rabbit still in its fur, a small sack of flour, two enormous onions, and a clay pot of fat.

  Laurence went to h
is rescue, taking the rabbit and the fat. “Well, you look good for your age.” He looked like he was in his midthirties at most.

  Avery laughed, bright and easy. “Oh, I have not lived every moment of those years. A full pie, I thought? ’Tis cold enough it will not spoil if we keep what we cannot eat for another day.”

  “I’ll bow to your wisdom.” Laurence noted the change of subject, but chose not to remark on it. “I can boil an egg, make toast, and throw together a basic curry sauce to put on anything.”

  “Curry? Of the Inde?”

  “I was born in Calcutta,” Laurence said. He smiled himself when Avery’s eyes went wide with delight. The whole act was ludicrous, but he had to respect the man’s consistency. Although when had curry been introduced to Britain? He hadn’t the faintest idea.

  “But you are an Englishman?”

  Laurence shrugged. He tended to think of himself as more of a product of the British Empire than of England itself. His family had been in the Indian service for generations, and it was clear from his coloring that not every marriage his ancestors made had been quite as European as his father liked to claim. On the other hand, he wasn’t sure nationality had much to do with race or birth country anyway—he had met more than a few native Indians who had been pushed through so relentlessly British an upbringing that they gave the impression they would bleed a nice cup of Earl Grey if they cut themselves shaving, and everyone knew a few chaps born in the home counties who’d gone native after a decade or two in India. He’d always thought nationality was something best decided from within, rather than by another man’s standards—not an attitude that had gone down well at Harrow, or with his father.

  “English is as English does,” he said in the end, deliberately vague. No point starting arguments, after all. “Now, unless you want the rabbit curried, you shall have to tell me what to do.”

  “Leave the rabbit to me. If you could, there are carrots and artichokes in the pantry, and an apple would sweeten the dish.” He looked pensive. “Raisins too, I think.”

  Laurence followed instructions carefully, chopping and mixing as he was told and paying close attention to every action. He should have been the one dealing with the rabbit, he knew—he had no qualms about skin and guts—but he did not trust his hands with anything save the simplest of tasks.

  It was a pleasant way to spend an evening, working with another man by the soft glow of candlelight, not to stem bleeding or stitch a wound but simply to prepare food. He found himself pausing to watch Avery as he moved around the kitchen, fascinated by his long, clever hands and the way he hummed softly as he worked, and occasionally broke off as if he’d suddenly remembered someone else was there.

  The next time Avery landed on a tune Laurence recognized, he joined in, humming along with “God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen.” Avery sent him a startled look but then broke into song, his voice ringing out in a warm baritone. After a moment’s hesitation, Laurence joined in a little awkwardly—he had no qualms about humming, but singing was something he only ever did when obliged to go to church.

  There was something comforting about it, though—about throwing self-consciousness aside and sinking into the familiar words, trying to match his voice to Avery’s.

  By the time the pie was in the oven, they were both talking easily, sharing memories of Christmases past—at least on Laurence’s part. He wasn’t sure how much to believe of Avery’s account of the Feast of Fools and king’s cake on Twelfth Night.

  “It sounds like that was more of a celebration than Christmas Day itself,” he observed.

  “Oh, it was,” Avery said, pouring them both a generous glass of the red wine left over from the pie. It gleamed in the dancing light, full of merry flickers of flame. Avery raised his own glass in a quick toast and then drank, his lips shining red and dark with the touch of the wine.

  He had a pretty mouth. Damn, but the whole of him was pretty—not the curves and lipstick prettiness of the nurses from the hospital or the photos of the girls at home that wounded sailors had clung to like talismans. No, Avery’s prettiness was all male. Height and broad shoulders matched with pink cheeks, a wine-dark mouth, and soft brown curls bouncing at his collar—too long for decent fashions, but right for him.

  Dear God, and all this after just a sip of wine. Laurence really needed to rediscover his willpower.

  But it had been years since he’d last touched a man properly, and he missed it. There had been no chances in the hospital, and nothing more than the quick exchange of busy hands or eager mouths on board ship.

  And for all he was a little mad, Avery had a pretty mouth.

  Avery turned out of the kitchen and back toward the parlor. As he went, he said, his voice oddly somber for the topic, “Twelve nights. From tonight, when it begins, to Epiphany, when it ends. Every year, twelve nights to celebrate new chances. New beginnings.”

  “New beginnings,” Laurence repeated. Wasn’t that what he was hoping for too? Though he had no idea what that fresh start might look like.

  Avery swung round, raising his glass. “A toast, then! To new beginnings!” He didn’t sound optimistic.

  Laurence raised his glass and clinked it carefully against Avery’s. “Hear, hear.”

  Back in the parlor, with the warm scents of the baking pie drifting in to mix with the smoky tang of the fire, they both settled into their chairs to drink quietly. Laurence, who prided himself on his ability to adjust to any situation, sought for a neutral topic, trying to recall everything he knew about Christmas in the country—his childhood ones, once he’d come to England, had all been spent with his godfather in grand London hotels. “Not worth braving the weather for midnight mass, I think.”

  “I am not welcome there,” Avery said, still sounding a little sad and distant. “The church is not forgiving of transgressions such as mine.”

  “So how do we celebrate tomorrow? Roast your goose and sing a few carols? Or do you have other plans?”

  “I rarely plan anything,” Avery said. “Not these days. Christmas comes again all too soon. I grow weary of it.”

  “Well, I’ve not had a proper one in years,” Laurence said firmly. “Humor me with one or two things, please.”

  “Roast goose and mince pies?” Avery suggested, his expression lightening. “A wassail bowl and the king’s speech?”

  “A famous Tudor tradition, that one,” Laurence observed before he could stop himself.

  Avery shrugged. “I bought a wireless some winters ago. I like to listen to it, when no one else is here.”

  Laurence said hurriedly, because that stung, “And carols and ghost stories by the fire, and a Yule log, of course.”

  “It’s already burning. That’s the one tradition I’ll never neglect.”

  Laurence leaned forward and squinted into the golden heart of the fireplace. And there, sure enough, was a huge log, blackened ribbons still hanging off its sides.

  “Twelve nights and twelve days it will burn,” Avery said, that sad, faraway note in his voice again. “And when it is done, so is this Christmastide, and we must wait for all to begin again.”

  “But we’ll have a good Christmas before that,” Laurence said.

  Avery’s smile shone out again. “Yes. Yes, we will. And methinks our pie is close to done, and dinner awaits.”

  They ate in yet another room, one that seemed to be waiting for them—white tablecloth draped perfectly, candles glowing along the table, already lit when they walked in, but not so burned down that they could have been burning long. Their places were set, and when they brought the pie in, there was a trivet waiting in the middle of the table.

  Maybe there was something to this idea of magic.

  The pie was good, and by the time they’d plowed through half of it, Laurence was blinking back sleep. It had been an unexpectedly long day.

  It wasn’t long before he had to catch himself and avoid falling face-first into his empty plate. Avery smiled at him and ushered him upstairs, despite Laurence�
�s protests that he could help with the dishes.

  The bedroom was cozy—a fire smoldering in the hearth, a soft bed with piles of soft blankets, and a rag rug covering the polished boards beside the bed. Laurence barely heard the door click closed behind Avery before he was asleep.

  It was, he thought as he drifted away, rather magical.

  Chapter Three

  HE WOKE warm, snuggled under layers of thick, comfortable blankets and entirely bemused. The angle of the light was wrong for either the hospital or the hotel he’d been staying in since his release, but it was too quiet to be Portsmouth. The only sounds were a soft whisper of wind outside and the quick trill of a robin defending its territory.

  And someone downstairs was singing softly, a warm, quiet rendition of the “Coventry Carol.”

  With that, Laurence remembered where he was. For a moment he just lay there, wondering. Last night still seemed a little dreamlike. Would Avery look as lovely and sound as strange by the light of morning?

  Laurence had no grounds on which to call anyone else strange. Sitting up, he made a decision. He would do what he had always done when faced with a new place—accept without question, be agreeable, and observe until he knew both what to expect and what was expected of him. And if by doing so he won himself a pleasant and entirely unexpected Christmas, that was all the better.

  When he pushed his blankets back, there was a winter sting in the air. The fire was still burning, though, and there was a basin of warm water on the table by the bed. How was it warm, when the air around it was not? More of Avery’s magic, or whatever it was?

  Accept, be agreeable, observe, Laurence reminded himself. If that meant temporarily believing in magic, so be it.

  He dressed quickly and went to the window, drawn by the blue edge to the light.

  From here, he could see right down the low valley, over the holly bushes that grew almost as high as his windowsill. Everything was deep in snow, but trails of smoke rose from the chimneys of lone farmhouses and, in the distance, a little cluster of houses around a tall church spire—the village he had failed to find last night.