I gripped the wheel and guided the ship along the coast, turning south when I spotted the sandy shoreline of Herne Bay. I then moved the Stargazer over land, catching sight of the Canterbury Cathedral in the distance. A single airship tower sat nearby. I saw the tower workers rush out as we sped by quickly. They waved as the Stargazer, recognizable by the three-legged triskelion on the balloon, pushed past.
As we moved past Canterbury Cathedral, I saw the red and green bedecked parishioners exiting the church, shaking hands and walking arm-in-arm to waiting sleighs. The cathedral bells began to peal, an avalanche of sound filling the sky. It was, after all, Christmas Day. Well, by all accounts, Angus got his Christmas miracle last night. Maybe I’d have mine this morning. I adjusted my goggles and set my eyes on the horizon. Now, I just needed to get across the Channel…and to find my laudanum. If I didn’t botch it—again—I might just win this thing.
Part 3
“Lily, look! Look!” Jessup bellowed as the airship towers in Calais appeared like phantom fingers poking out of the dark shape of land on the horizon. We had made it across the Channel without incident. In fact, we’d made it across the Channel in complete silence. There was no one and nothing else in the sky with us. That was either a very good thing or a very bad thing. On the one hand, we didn’t see airship pirates—that was always a plus. On the other hand, it could also mean the race was already over, and we were about to limp into port in an embarrassing last place.
“What? Where?” I yelled back.
“Astern!” Jessup pointed behind us. I lowered the binocular lenses on my goggles and scanned the horizon. There, in the distance, were at least a dozen specks in the sky: the other racers.
“Can you see any markings on the balloons?”
Jessup shook his head. “Maybe the Rose and Thistle. I can’t quite see.”
Grabbing a spyglass, I locked the wheel and ran to the bow. I couldn’t see anyone in front of us. There was some traffic around the tower. I couldn’t see if it was other racers or just air traffic. I scanned the racing platform. There was a ship docked there. A Marshal’s ship? I wasn’t sure, but it looked like a private vessel, not a racing ship.
“See anything?” Jessup called.
“I…I’m not sure. I don’t think so. Let’s finish this!” I called back then ran back to the wheelstand. For once, maybe I hadn’t botched it. I pulled the rope leading to the bell in the gear galley, calling for more speed. The gears lurched, and the propeller at the back of the Stargazer turned hard.
“They’re coming in fast from behind,” Jessup called.
“Not fast enough.”
I held the wheel and steered the Stargazer toward the platforms. The sky between me and Calais was clear. The Yuletide Airship Race, and that fat stack of coins, was ours.
“Congratulations, Mademoiselle Stargazer,” a French ground crew member called as he helped anchor in the Stargazer. “You are the first racer to arrive.”
Angus more leapt than crawled out of the gear galley to hug me and Jessup.
“We did it!” I screamed, wrapping my arms around the boys. I could barely believe it. I was a good pilot, and we were a good team, but we were never lucky. Today, however, was different.
“A Christmas miracle!” Angus exclaimed then kissed my forehead. “Good job, lass.”
“Love you, gents,” I replied, hugging them both.
A crowd was forming on the platform outside the Stargazer. Reporters were shouting questions at us while Marshals tried to control the crowd. Snow started to fall, dusting the honey-colored timbers of the Stargazer’s gondola.
“I…I don’t believe it,” Jessup stammered excitedly then wiped his hands across his cheeks.
“Are you crying, brother?” Angus asked with a laugh.
“No, of course not,” Jessup retorted hotly then turned from us to wipe his eyes, causing both me and Angus to laugh.
“Pardon! Pardon,” a Marshal called as the race judges and other important officials came down the platform to meet us. What a festive bunch. All dressed in bright hues of red and green, sporting holly on the brims of their top hats, a contingency of the fancy crowd boarded the Stargazer while the others stayed on the platform chatting with reporters. I heard peals of laughter coming from the crowd but couldn’t see what was so funny.
“Mademoiselle, congratulations,” a man wearing a sparkly red banner with the word Judge on it told me. He had on a long, red-velvet coat trimmed with fox fur and wore a black top hat. “We have a special guest to present your prize,” he added with a smirk. “Oh, Father Christmas? Do you have something for this beautiful young woman?” he shouted toward the crowd.
Just then, I was able to see what all the fuss was about. Someone had dressed in a Father Christmas costume. The full attire, including a long, fake white beard, a green hooded robe, and a tall staff trimmed with garlands of holly and mistletoe adorned the actor.
I had to laugh. The French always had a flair for the dramatic. Carefully, Father Christmas boarded the Stargazer, leaning heavily on his tall staff, his eyes downcast, as he moved to greet us.
“Father Christmas, this is our winning racer,” the judge told the actor, barely containing the glee in his voice. “Do you have anything special in your satchel for her?”
I cast an amused glance at Angus, who was smiling from ear to ear…in fact, he was smiling too much. “What?” I whispered harshly.
Angus laughed loudly but said nothing.
Behind me, Jessup started to giggle. I frowned. I was missing something.
“I have a very special Christmas gift!” Father Christmas boomed. “But first, this pretty girl must give me a kiss!”
Ugh. The French and all their kissing. It got tiresome. And also, what the hell? It wasn’t like they were going to force any of the male racers to kiss Father Christmas. Just then, however, Angus and Jessup broke into a fit of laugher, Angus burying his head on Jessup’s shoulder.
I glanced from them back to Father Christmas. I was not in any mood to kiss some old codger in a scratchy, fake wool beard. This time, however, I really looked at him. It was not an old man hiding under that costume. And come to think of it, his accent wasn’t French either. I took a step toward Father Christmas who, I realized, was avoiding my gaze.
“A kiss, eh?” I asked slyly. “Sorry, Father Christmas. I reserve those for someone special.”
At last, he looked at me. I could see his smirk behind that fake beard. And there was no mistaking those blue eyes. I would know them anywhere. Byron.
With a laugh, Byron pushed back the hood and pulled off the fake beard. Soft snowflakes fell on his curly black hair. In the cold air, his pale skin seemed to glow as if lit up from the inside. His pouty lips were sugar plum red and, no doubt, just as sweet to taste.
From the crowd, I heard people gasp. “Is that Lord Byron?” someone asked in a whisper.
“George?” I whispered softly, reaching up to touch his cheek.
“Yes, Lily Stargazer, there really is a Father Christmas,” Byron said, then picked me up and kissed me so hard it took my breath away. I dissolved into his sweet embrace. What a way to win.
The fireplace in the bed chamber of the small French chalet crackled. The room felt toasty. I stretched out on the soft bed, running my hands along the satiny sheets. The lingering smell of opium hung in the air, Byron and I having just finished a pipe. Byron stroked my bare back then kissed the nape of my neck.
There was a knock on the door. “My Lord?” a servant called.
“Come in,” Byron answered, pulling up the blankets to cover both our naked bodies.
The servant, a primly dressed man with down-cast eyes, entered the room. “My Lord, may I take away your plates?” he asked.
Byron yawned tiredly. “Anything else, my dear? Another bite of plum pudding?” he whispered, then nibbled my earlobe.
I giggled. “I’m more than satisfied.”
“Then I have done my job,” Byron told me, turning to the
servant. “As you will,” he said with a wave of the hand, then pulled the blankets over both our heads.
I could hear the servant clearing away the trays. Roasted goose, mince pie, platters of roasted vegetables, freshly baked sweet breads, nut and currant pastries, puddings, and creamy berry trifle had loaded the table. It was more food than ten people could have eaten. Between the meal and the feast of flesh Byron and I had enjoyed, I was thoroughly sated.
Under the covers, Byron and I lay facing one another. He reached out and touched my lips.
“So sweet,” he whispered. “Sweeter than anything the finest chefs in France put on my table.”
“Father Christmas.” I grinned at him. Even hidden under the blankets, I could see the twinkle in his blue eyes. Nothing could hold in his mischievousness, and I adored him for it.
I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. His sweet scent of orange blossom and patchouli perfumed the sheets. I could still feel his touch on my body, the glow of our lovemaking just fading. The delicious mixture of opium, good food, and Byron was almost more than my senses could stand.
“I’ve left another bottle of champagne, My Lord. May I be of any further service?” we heard the servant call.
“Did you get a good look at him? Any services he can provide you?” Byron asked with a naughty wink, calling to mind the time a Spanish serving maid’s looks were too delicious for either of us to pass up.
“Not today,” I answered.
“No, my good man, we’re sinfully satisfied here,” Byron called.
Byron and I both chuckled.
The man said nothing. China and glass clattered as the man wheeled the serving tray from the room.
Rising, Byron stripped away the blanket and walked, naked, to the table, where he poured us both a glass of champagne. He handed me a flute made from Venetian glass. It sparkled in the dying light. The sun was sinking on a Christmas I would never forget. Byron then pulled a small wrapped bundle from a leather bag.
“Happy Christmas,” he said, handing it to me.
My heart fell to my feet. I felt miserably embarrassed. “I…I don’t have anything for you.”
“Your being here is my treat,” he said, then kissed me on the forehead.
My hands shaking, I removed the sparkly blue bow and silvery paper to find a soft suede cap inside. It was a satin-lined and shaped a bit like the caps some of the newsboys on the streets of London wore but more well-made. The suede was Italian and sewn together with fine stitching.
“The moment I saw it, I knew it would be adorable on you,” Byron said then tossed the cap on my head, wiggling the brim so it sat perfectly. He then pushed my hair behind my ears.
There was a large mirror across the room. I spotted my reflection. The cap was perfect.
“You see! Like it was made just for you,” Byron said, looking very pleased with himself.
“Thank you,” I said simply, but my heart was brimming. It was a true Christmas gift, and the first in my memory, coming from the most welcomed, unexpected, and beloved source.
“It’s nothing,” he said nonchalantly, but I could see he was happy.
Byron threw himself back down on the bed and pulled me close. I draped my arm across him, laying my head on his chest. I closed my eyes. The wafting scents of Christmas and Byron fragranced the air. All the lonely heartache that had plagued me earlier seemed to disappear. This was a Christmas I would remember for the rest of my life, my first real Christmas. The first Christmas I felt the love and magic of the season.
“Happy Christmas, George,” I whispered.
Byron lifted my hand and kissed it. “Happy Christmas, Lily Stargazer.”
Continue Lily’s Adventures in Chasing the Star Garden
Goblins and Snowflakes
Never bargain with goblin men.
Scarlette Rossetti thought her stay at Strawberry Hill Castle during the Christmas holiday would pass by uneventfully. She couldn’t have been more wrong. Enticed by the delights of the nearby village of Twickenham, Scarlette’s life would change in unimaginable ways.
She never expected to be drawn magnetically to The Two Sisters Doll Shop and Toy Emporium.
Scarlette didn’t guess that tinkering clockwork gnomes could have supernatural consequences.
And she didn’t know that one should never, ever, bargain with goblin men.
But during the Christmas season, magic is always brewing.
Charles Dickens meets Supernatural in this magical retelling of The Elves and The Shoemaker. Dive into New York Times bestselling author Melanie Karsak's award-winning fairy tale world set in gaslamp England.
Chapter 1: Oh Little Town of Twickenham
“Plum pudding, get your Christmas plum pudding,” Thomas, the baker’s son, called. Standing just outside the shop, the boy was wearing a tattered top hat trimmed with holly sprigs and red and green ribbons. I cast a glance at the bakery window. The holiday puddings, drying in holly-bedecked cloth bags, hung from hooks. Below them, row after row of bread baked to golden brown filled baskets. Biscuits and other holiday sweets, including a gingerbread house constructed in a likeness of the village chapel, also decorated the window. The sweet scents of anise, cinnamon, and gingerbread effervesced from the bakery. My stomach growled hungrily.
“Miss Rossetti,” the boy called, removing his top hat and bowing with a dramatic flourish. “Has Earl Walpole ordered his plum pudding? There’s no better than ours to be had in all of Twickenham.”
At Uncle Horace’s stately home, Strawberry Hill, the cook had already started preparing the holiday sweets. My uncle had a fabulous holiday gathering planned. Artists, scholars, writers, and tinkers—some of the best minds in the land—were coming, including my father, a renowned artist. He would return from abroad any day now, and I couldn’t wait to see him.
While Strawberry Hill’s kitchen was a flurry of preparation for my uncle’s grand event, I was a bundle of nervous excitement. Uncle Horace had been a wonderful host, but I was ready to return to London and get back to my normal life. While I’d spent much of my time devouring every book in Earl Walpole’s library, I’d also managed to make the acquaintance of many of Twickenham’s residents, including Thomas, the baker’s son.
Thomas was a sweet lad who was a few years my junior, perhaps fourteen or fifteen years old. I could tell by the unsteady lilt in his voice and his red cheeks that he’d taken a shine to me. Given his age, he wasn’t a suitable match, but I liked the boy. He was kind, honest, and a hard-worker.
“I’m not sure,” I called back in reply. My answer was something of a lie. I hadn’t actually seen a plum pudding in the making, but I had no doubt one had been prepared. In fact, I didn’t think there was a holiday dish that hadn’t been prepared in anticipation of the upcoming gathering. I crossed the snow-covered street to meet Thomas. “But I am sure that I won’t survive the morning without some gingerbread,” I said, eyeing the loaves in the window. The white icing on top of the nut-brown loaves shimmered temptingly.
“Well, that’s something we must remedy. A single loaf or two?” he asked, grinning cheekily at me.
“One, but I’ll also take a loaf of pumpernickel and a bag of biscuits.”
“Oh! You are hungry.”
I chuckled. “It isn’t all for me! It’s the sharing season, of course.”
“Anything you say, Miss Rossetti,” Thomas said with a laugh then motioned for me to follow him inside.
I stepped into the bakery. At once, I was delighted by the scent of freshly baked sourdough bread. The air was so tangy with the sharp scent of the bread that I could practically taste the crunchy brown crust and soft, white center. Under the doughy perfume, I also caught the smells of holiday spices, sugar, orange, and lemon.
Thomas dashed quickly behind the counter and got to work bagging up my order.
“Good morrow, Miss Rossetti,” Thomas’s father called. “Send our well wishes to Earl Walpole.”
“Of course, sir,” I said with a smile.
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br /> The other patrons in the store gave me a sidelong glance. I suppose a proper girl who was a temporary ward to the earl should be sitting quietly by a fire at Strawberry Hill embroidering or some other nonsense. But what was the fun of that? Uncle Horace spent his days reading, writing letters, and doing research. I loved his studious, if not eccentric, ways. But unlike Uncle Horace, who seemed to crave quiet, I loved people. I missed London. I missed talking, the bustle, the noise. Why sit around in a castle all day long—despite its being filled with an unlimited number of curiosities—when the village of Twickenham was only a brisk walk away? So, while uncle Horace studied, I made the acquaintance of the villagers.
I handed Thomas my basket so he could pack my order inside then pulled some coins from my reticule. I set the coins on the counter.
Thomas handed the basket back to me. “Now, don’t eat it all at once.”
I chuckled.
“Oh, and…and something special for you,” he said shyly, handing me a shortbread biscuit made in the shape of a dove. It was wrapped in parchment paper. “Made them myself this morning.” His cheeks reddened as he passed the sweet to me.
I took the biscuit from him. The scents of vanilla and almond wafted from it.
“Thank you, Thomas,” I said then took a bite. The sweet tastes of butter, sugar, vanilla, and almond melted on my tongue. “Perfection.”
Thomas grinned. “I’m glad you like it. And you’re welcome to come again tomorrow if you’d like another. And the day after. And the day after that.”
I giggled, surprising even myself at the girlish sound I made.
“Thomas, back to work. I’m sure Miss Rossetti is busy,” the baker called to his son. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who’d noticed the boy was sweet on me.
Thomas smiled at me. “See you tomorrow, Miss Rossetti.”
Frostbitten Fairy Tales Page 30
