“Don’t come near me with those,” Annabelle said firmly. She shook her head with a grin, watching as Evie solemnly held up her own arms for Lillian to cut holes beneath her sleeves. This was one of the things she most adored about Evie, who was shy and proper, but often willing to join in some wildly impractical plan or adventure. “Have you both lost your minds?” Annabelle asked, laughing. “Oh, what a bad influence she is on you, Evie.”

“She’s married to St. Vincent, who is the worst possible influence,” Lillian protested. “How much damage could I do after that?” After flexing and swinging her arms, she rubbed her hands together. “Now, back to work. Where’s the box of candles?…I’ll wire more of them on this side.”

“Shall we sing to pass the time?” Annabelle suggested, tying a little angel made of cotton batting and a lace handkerchief onto the tip of a branch.

The three of them moved around the tree like industrious bees, singing the “Twelve Days of Christmas.” The song and the work progressed quite well until they came to the ninth day.

“I’m sure it’s ladies dancing,” Annabelle said.

“No, no, it’s lords a-leaping,” Lillian assured her.

“It’s ladies, dear. Evie, don’t you agree?”

Ever the peacemaker, Evie murmured, “It doesn’t m-matter, surely. Let’s just choose one and”

“The lords are supposed to go between the ladies and the maids,” Lillian insisted.

They began to argue, while Evie tried to suggest, in vain, that they should abandon that particular song and start on “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” or “The First Noel.”

They were so intent on the debate, in fact, that none of them were aware of anyone entering the room until they heard a laughing female voice.

“Lillian, you dunderhead, you always get that wrong. It’s ten leaping lords.”

“Daisy!” Lillian cried, and went in a mad rush to her younger sister. They were uncommonly close, having been constant companions since earliest memory. Whenever anything amusing, frightening, wonderful, or awful happened, Daisy had always been the first one Lillian had wanted to tell.

Daisy loved to read, having fueled her imagination with so many books that, were they laid end to end, would probably extend from one side of England to the other. She was charming, whimsical, fun-loving, butand here was the odd thing about Daisyshe was also a solidly rational person, coming up with insights that were nearly always correct.

Not three months earlier Daisy had married Matthew Swift, who was undoubtedly Thomas Bowman’s favorite person in the world. At first Lillian had been solidly against the match, knowing it had been conceived by their domineering father. She had feared that Daisy would be forced into a loveless marriage with an ambitious young man who would not value her. However, it had eventually become clear that Matthew truly loved Daisy. That had gone a long way toward softening Lillian’s feelings about him. They had come to a truce, she and Matthew, in their shared affection for Daisy.

Throwing her arms around Daisy’s slim, small form, Lillian hugged her tightly and drew back to view her. Daisy had never looked so well, her dark brown hair pinned up in intricate braids, her gingerbread-colored eyes glowing with happiness. “Now the holiday can finally begin,” Lillian said with satisfaction, and looked up at Matthew Swift, who had come to stand beside them after greeting Annabelle and Evie. “Merry Christmas, Matthew.”

“Merry Christmas, my lady,” he replied, bending readily to kiss her proffered cheek. He was a tall, well-formed young man, his Irish heritage apparent in his coloring, fair skinned with black hair and sky-blue eyes. Matthew had the perfect nature for dealing with hot-tempered Bowmans, diplomatic and dependable with a ready sense of humor.

“Is it really ten ladies dancing?” Lillian asked him, and Swift grinned.

“My lady, I’ve never been able to remember any part of that song.”

“You know,” Annabelle said contemplatively, “I’ve always understood why the swans are swimming and the geese are a-laying. But why in heaven’s name are the lords a-leaping?”

“They’re chasing after the ladies,” Swift said reasonably.

“Actually I believe the song was referring to Morris dancers, who used to entertain between courses at long medieval feasts,” Daisy informed them.

“And it was a leaping sort of dance?” Lillian asked, intrigued.

“Yes, with longswords, after the manner of primitive fertility rites.”

“A well-read woman is a dangerous creature,” Swift commented with a grin, leaning down to press his lips against Daisy’s dark hair.

Pleased by his obvious affection toward her sister, Lillian said feelingly, “Thank heaven you’re here, Matthew. Father’s been an absolute tyrant, and you’re the only one who can calm him down. He and Rafe are at loggerheads, as usual. And from the way they glare at each other, I’m surprised they don’t both burst into flames.”

Swift frowned. “I’m going to talk to your father about this ridiculous matchmaking business.”

“It does seem to be turning into an annual event,” Daisy said. “After putting the two of us together last year, now he wants to force Rafe to marry someone. What does Mother say about it?”

“Very little,” Lillian replied. “It’s difficult to speak when one is salivating excessively. Mother would love above all else to have an aristocratic daughter-in-law to show off.”