The lake lay in a hollow at the edge of the park, ringed by bare willows, the slender branches of which glimmered with frost. The sky was that clean winter blue that promises both sunlight and cold in equal measure. The Fielding and Roxton children were already careering across the surface like a barrage of cannon-balls. Their shrieks of delight echoed against the frozen banks.
Joshua arrived with a coil of rope and a sense of readiness like a good soldier, born more from experience than optimism. No family expedition near a frozen body of water had ever gone entirely without incident.
Merry was there too, of course, her cheeks bright beneath the edge of her fur-lined hood, her skates slung over her arm. She was laughing with Penelope’s little boy, who was determined to tie his own laces despite the evidence of three failed attempts. The sight of her—alive with motion, her hair escaping its pins—struck Joshua with sudden, quiet force.
“Uncle Joshua!” cried Roger, sliding perilously near to his knees. “You must come—Father says you can skate faster than anyone in the army!”
“That,” said Joshua dryly, “is because the army pays us to run from danger.”
Merry looked up then, her eyes bright with mischief. “You always did run faster than the rest of us, even when we were children. If I recall correctly, you pushed me straight into the hedge when you tried to pass me on the pond.”
“I did no such thing,” he said, feigning outrage. “You fell of your own accord.”
“You tripped me,” she insisted, her tone all mock severity, “and I have never forgiven you.”
“You forgive easily enough,” he said, a smile tugging at his mouth. “You proved it five minutes later by pelting me with snow until I begged for mercy.”
Her laughter warmed the cold air. “I might be persuaded to repeat that victory.”
“Not before a rematch, surely?”
Her brows lifted in challenge. “Do you wish to race with me?”
“I do. Although you may recall the result from the last occasion.”
“Indeed I do,” she said, fastening her skates with brisk efficiency. “You lost.”
“I allowed you to win, Miss Roxton. You were ten, and my honour could withstand the defeat.”
“Then it will not survive today,” she said, rising gracefully. “Children, you shall judge!”
At once, half a dozen small faces turned eagerly toward them, and a chorus of “Race! Race!” filled the frosted air. Joshua sighed, knowing full well he had sealed his fate.
They set off side by side, their skates cutting clean arcs across the ice. Merry moved with speed and confidence, her cloak flaring behind her like a crimson banner. He followed close, her laughter floating back to him—bright, reckless…and free. For a few glorious moments, he forgot the heaviness that had been sitting upon him for days. He was not Captain Fielding, soldier or spy, but the boy who had once chased a laughing girl across a winter pond and thought her the very definition of joy.
When they reached the far end of the lake, she spun sharply and came to a stop in a spray of ice. “Admit it,” she said, breathless but triumphant. “You cannot beat me.”
He came to a halt beside her, smiling despite himself. “Perhaps not, but it is a race I would gladly lose again.”
She laughed, the sound soft and unguarded. For that moment she seemed herself again—spirited, radiant and untouched by care. Joshua, watching her, thought with a pang how fiercely he wished to keep her that way.
If he had to stand between her and disappointment, between her and the man who would wound her pride for sport, he would do it without hesitation. For now, though, he said nothing of Tremaine, nothing of secrets or scandal. He would let her laugh, and skate, and forget the weight she carried—if only for a single winter morning.
The cheers of their race had no sooner died away than the boys, flushed with excitement, clamoured for their own.
“Let us try!” cried Roger, his nose pink and eyes bright. “Uncle Joshua must race us all the way to the willows and back. Last one across the line is a coward!”
Joshua laughed. “A coward? You had better skate faster than your tongue, young man.”
Within moments, half a dozen boys were lined up upon the ice, their faces alight with anticipation. Merry joined the girls at the edge, calling good-natured encouragement. Joshua crouched with the others.
“Ready!” shouted Merry. “Go!”
They flew forward in a cloud of frost. Joshua hung back slightly, unwilling to rob them of victory but determined to keep watch. Arthur, the youngest, lagged behind at first, but spurred on by laughter and pride, began to push harder, his small legs churning the ice in uneven strokes.
Halfway across, Joshua saw it—the faint ridge of thawed snow refrozen into a shallow seam. He shouted a warning, but Roger’smomentum was too great. The boy’s skate caught, and he went sprawling forward with a cry, landing hard upon his arm.
Merry gasped and was on the ice almost before Joshua reached the child. The boy sat hunched, teeth clenched, his face pale beneath the rosy glow of play.
