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“I had to skip the window candles,” he told her. “They’re too hard to light without a step stool.”
“I’ll forgive you.”
Unbelievable. She sank down on the bottom step to better study the room. This was the first time she’d seen this space so quiet. Because it was the palace hub, the archway was a continual stream of noise and people. Sitting here now, in the solitude, felt more like she was in an enchanted forest filled with thousands of golden stars. There was a feeling of timelessness in the air. Watching the shadows on the stone walls, it was easy to imagine the spirits of Armando’s ancestors floating back and forth among the trees. Generations of Santoros connected by tradition for eternity.
And he’d created the moment for her. As if she were someone important. The notion left her breathless.
“Why...” she started.
“I didn’t want your encounter with Fredo to be how you ended your evening. So now, it can end with Christmas trees instead.”
Rosa’s insides were suddenly too full for her body. She was being overly romantic, getting emotional over a simple kindness.
But then, there’d been so many simple kindnesses tonight, hadn’t there.
Armando wedged himself between her and the banister and stretched his legs out in front of him. “When my sister and I were children, we would sneak in here after everyone went to bed and light the trees,” he said. “When it came to Christmas, Arianna was out of control. She couldn’t get enough of the Christmas lights.”
“Neither could you, it sounds like.”
He shook his head. “You know Arianna. She acts first and thinks later. I had to go along if only to keep her from getting into trouble. Did you know she used to insist on sneaking into our parents’ salon to try and catch Babbo Natale every year? I spent every Christmas worried she was going to knock over the tree on herself or something.”
Rosa smiled. “Taking responsibility even then.”
His sigh was tinged with resignation. “Someone had to.”
The Melancholy Prince, thought Rosa. Told as a child he carried the responsibility for a nation. When, she wondered, was the last time he had done something purely because doing so made him happy? She already knew the answer: he’d married her sister. While Christina was alive, he had at least shown glimpses of a brighter, lighter self. Now that side of him only appeared when Rosa arm-twisted him into situations that required it. Like playing Babbo.
Until tonight. Even though at his age lighting the palace couldn’t be called mischievous, his face had a brightness she hadn’t seen in years. You could barely see the shadows in his blue eyes. The look especially suited him. If she could, Rosa would encourage him to play every night.
Again, he had done this for her.
“Thank you.” She put her hand on his knee and hoped he could feel the depth of her appreciation in her touch.
“You’re welcome.” Maybe he did know, because he covered her hand with his.
“Christina and I used to wait up for Babbo, too,” she said, looking up at the twinkling treetop. “Her idea, of course. I was always afraid he would be mad and switch us to the naughty list. I don’t know why, since Christina would have talked our way out of it.” No one could resist her sister, not even Santa Claus.
“True.” He nudged her shoulder. “Your arm-twisting skills aren’t half-bad, either. I bet you could have done some sweet talking, too.”
“No, I would have stuttered and fumbled my words. I would have been the one who fell down the stairs, too. I might still, if I’m not careful. Grace is not my middle name.”
Armando drew back with a frown. “Are you kidding? You’re one of the most graceful women I’ve ever met.”
“I—I am?”
“You should watch yourself walk out of a room sometime.”
“You do know, now that you’ve said something, I’ll never walk unconsciously again?”
“Sorry.”
“No, I am. Putting myself down is a bad habit. I’m getting better, but conditioning takes time to overcome. Hear something enough times, and it becomes a part of you.”
“Yes, it does,” he replied. Like Armando and responsibility.
Together, they sat in silence. Rosa could feel the firmness of Armando’s thigh against hers. Taking its cue from the hand resting atop hers, the contact marked her insides with warmth that was simultaneously thrilling and soothing. She selfishly wished Fredo would appear again so that she might feel Armando pull her tight in his arms, the way he had at the concert hall, and indulge in even more contact.
Instead, he did her one better.
