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He obeys her. Mostly.

"The garland would look better on the beam," he says, standing at the fireplace with it draped over his arms.

"It'll look better on the mantel."

"The beam is more central."

"Garlands go on mantels."

"Says who?"

"Me," she says. "And if you wanted to be in charge of decorating, you should've thought of that before you left everything rotting in the attic for years."

Zarek opens his mouth, then he closes it, and he turns around and hangs the garland on the mantel.

I have to sit down. I'm laughing so hard I can't stand up. Zarek glares at me over his shoulder, and that only makes it worse.

Kaelen, meanwhile, turns out to be extremely useful. He moves the big sofa so she can get to the window. He lifts the bookshelf so she can tuck a ribbon behind it. He reaches the high beams without even stretching, hanging ornaments where the rest of us would need a stool.

Every time he finishes something, she turns and smiles at him. Big and warm and grateful.

And every time, Kaelen ducks his head.

Kaelen. The Feral King. The man who's torn through armies. Ducking his head and looking at his boots like a shy stable boy because a pretty woman said thank you.

Slowly, the cabin changes around us.

The candles go up along the beams, and when I light them, they glow gold, little points of warm light stretching from one end of the cabin to the other. Garlands drape over the mantel. Ribbons hang in the windows. The glass ornaments catch the firelight and throw tiny colored sparks on the walls.

And the dragons. Her parade of grumpy little dragons, marching along the hearth.

For years, this place has been somewhere to hide. Three restless, miserable dragons slinking away from the world every winter so we wouldn't have to look at everything we didn't have. Now she's standing in the middle of it, flushed and dusty and laughing at something Kaelen grunted, and it doesn't feel like a hiding place anymore.

It feels like home.

I let myself imagine it. Next solstice. And the one after that. And a hundred more after that. Her, bossing us around and stringing ribbons and laughing in front of the fire.

Please, I think. Gods, please let her see it too. Let her see how happy we could make her.

When we're done, we all stand back and look at it.

"It's perfect," she whispers.

It is.

"Right." Kaelen rubs his hands together. "Eggnog."

Elara turns and stares at him. "What?"

"I'm making eggnog. My spiced eggnog."

"It's famous," I add. "Kingdoms have fallen for it."

"You cook?" she asks Kaelen. Her eyebrows are halfway up her forehead. "You?"

I have to swallow my laugh. Kaelen looks so offended that I half expect smoke to come out of his ears.

"Being large and unpleasant," he says, with great dignity, "does not make me incapable of making a decent drink."