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 find 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?”