She took the letter at once, fingers already trembling slightly, and forgot almost immediately where she was standing.
The hall seemed to recede.
The noises of the house blurred.
She broke the seal and unfolded the pages.
As she read, her face transformed by degrees.
First anticipation.
Then delight.
Then a small laugh she did not mean to let escape.
He had laughed at her letter.
Not cruelly — she knew that at once — but warmly, with the kind of amusement that made her feel seen rather than foolish. She could hear his voice in the rhythm of his writing, in the teasing line about his sisters, in the remark that he would perhaps exchange one of them for Fredrick but never for Arthur.
She smiled helplessly.
Then his words deepened.
The north.
The snow.
The Erskine Christmas.
His mother.
His sisters and their children.
The image of him there — among his family, moving through cold northern rooms lit by candlelight, laughing at things she could only imagine — filled her with a tender ache.
And he liked the gift.
He had truly liked it.
Not merely thanked her politely, but read about it. Understood it. Appreciated the thought she had placed into it.
Her chest felt unbearably full.
Then she came to the passage about the pelts.
She lowered the letter for a moment, startled, and turned to the chest with sudden urgency.
At some point while she had been reading, Laurence had begun descending the main staircase.
He had first noticed her because she was standing unusually still — in the center of the entrance hall, letter in hand, face so entirely absorbed that she did not seem aware of the world around her.
That alone was enough to draw his attention.
As he descended further, he saw the expression on her face.
Softened.
Lit from within.
Not unlike the look she had once worn in summer when Florian crossed a room.
Something in him tightened immediately.
He approached quietly.
Sophia did not notice until he was nearly beside her.
She started sharply, turning so fast that the letter rustled in her hands.
Laurence's gaze dropped at once.
At the bottom of the page he saw the signature.
Florian Erskine
He felt heat rise within him.
It was instant.
Controlled outwardly.
Violent inwardly.
Sophia, flustered, folded the letter too quickly.
"I—someone sent me a gift," she said, far too hastily.
Someone.
Laurence said nothing at first.
His eyes moved instead to the chest.
She followed his gaze and realized, with a sinking feeling, that she could not hide that as well.
He crouched and opened it before she could stop him.
Inside lay the pelts.
White rabbit, soft and fine.
And beneath them, the unmistakable brilliance of albino fox fur — rare, immaculate, luminous even in the muted winter light.
Sophia stared.
They were beautiful.
Far more beautiful than she had imagined anything from him could be, and because they were from him they seemed doubly precious.
Her heart began racing again.
Laurence's expression did not change.
But he was not pleased.
Albino fox.
From the north.
Extraordinary quality.
No trivial token.
He straightened slowly.
"What," he asked very quietly, "is your relationship with Florian Erskine?"
Sophia looked at him, startled first by the question and then by the tone in which it had been asked.
"Pardon?" She was frozen in shock from how Laurence was talking to her.
He repeated himself.
"What is your relationship with Florian Erskine?"
Her first instinct was indignation.
Her second was fear.
"We are just exchanging letters," she said quickly. "And he is kind. He heard there was snow and—he was worried I would be cold. That is all."
"That is all?" His voice remained level.
Too level.
"How long have you been writing to him?"
Sophia faltered.
That moment of hesitation was enough.
Laurence's jaw tightened.
"How long, Sophia?"
She felt suddenly cornered.
Judged.
As though what had seemed sweet and private and entirely her own had been dragged into harsh light and made shameful.
"Why does it matter?" she burst out.
Laurence looked at her in disbelief, "Why does it matter?"
"Yes!" she cried, tears rising almost at once from the force of her own hurt. "Why does it matter if I write to him? He is kind to me. He writes properly. He tells me things. He—"
She stopped, breath shaking.
Laurence's restraint thinned, "You are ten. A dukes daughter."
"And you are insufferable!" she cried suddenly.
The tears spilled now.
Hot, furious.
"Why can you always be surrounded by women and attention and no one says anything, but I cannot exchange letters with Florian?" everything she was trying to contain spilled out.
Laurence stared at her.
She was trembling now with anger and humiliation.
"It is not as though you or Maxim ever write more than a paragraph!" she went on, voice breaking. "You send dreadful little scraps of information and expect me to be content. Florian actually writes. He tells me things. He is thoughtful!"
She pressed the folded letter against her chest, "You are stupid brother and I hate you!"
With that she turned and fled.
Up the staircase.
Her skirts catching against the steps.
At the top landing she nearly ran straight into Maxim, who was just coming down.
She swerved past him without stopping.
Laurence made no move to follow.
He was too angry.
Too stunned.
Maxim descended the remaining steps, brows lifting slightly as he took in the scene: Laurence rigid by the open chest, white hides exposed, the air still charged with what had just passed.
"Is Sophia alright?" Maxim asked, concerned for Sophia who had fled from Laurence in tears.
He knew Laurence could be stern or harsh at times but it has never been directed at Sophia.
With Sophia he always contained himself. Treating her gently, lovingly, like a glass figurine that could break at the slightest touch.
Laurence drew a slow breath, trying to contain himself.
"Sophia and Florian have been exchanging letters," he said. "And Florian has sent her a gift."
Maxim looked into the chest, then back at Laurence.
He shrugged, not sure how letters and gifts being exchanged deserved such a reaction. Nobles did this often as a way to form friendships or allegiances.
Laurence stared at him, "That is all?"
Maxim's expression remained calm.
"I understand that we should protect her," he said. "But it is only letters and gifts. Florian is a good man and I'm sure he sees her like a sister. Why not just let them be?"
Laurence looked at him in disbelief.
Maxim, seeing no further use in prolonging the moment, patted his shoulder once in passing — almost sympathetically — and moved toward the drawing room, where Arthur and Fredrick were, predictably, already quarreling over some new and urgent point of nonsense.
Laurence remained where he was.
He looked down again at the white hides.
Rare.
Thoughtful.
Intimate in a way he did not wish to name.
"Have these stored properly," he told the nearest servant at last.
The servant bowed and obeyed.
Christmas Day dawned under a veil of frost.
The house was bright with candles, evergreen, and the bustle of holiday ritual.
Yet beneath it all, one thread remained strained.
Sophia and Laurence did not speak.
Or rather — Sophia did not speak, because she was too hurt, too proud, too angry to offer him anything, and Laurence, for his part, thought she ought to relinquish the matter and cease dramatizing what should have ended the moment he challenged it.
Only Maxim knew the cause.
Fredrick and Arthur noticed the tension but cared far less than they cared about gifts, food, and the license Christmas seemed to give them to become even louder than usual.
The Duchess noticed it too, of course.
But she assumed it was merely one of those sharp sibling disagreements that seemed enormous to those involved and trivial to all others.
She did not interfere.
For a few days the house continued in this uneasy arrangement.
Then, as always, departure came too soon.
Laurence was to leave for university shortly after Christmas.
He and Sophia still had not properly reconciled.
No goodbye was exchanged.
No apology made.
Laurence left early.
But before he went, he entrusted something to a maid.
A small velvet box.
And a note.
The maid brought them to Sophia later that morning.
Sophia, still nursing the remains of her anger, took them without much thought at first.
Then she opened the note.
Laurence's hand.
Brief, yes — but more than usual.
He wished her a Merry Christmas.
He thanked her for his gift.
He apologized — in his own restrained way — for not writing as much or as often as he ought. He said he would try to send more letters.
Sophia read that line twice.
Then she opened the box.
Inside were the earrings.
Six-pointed stars at the studs, from which three blue droplets fell in silver.
Beautiful.
Unmistakably chosen for her.
Her anger shifted all at once into something softer and more painful.
Guilt.
Regret.
She had been childish.
She had been proud.
She rose immediately and hurried downstairs, clutching both note and box, intending to say goodbye properly.
But when she reached the entrance hall, breathless and hopeful—
The carriage had long gone.
Laurence was already on the road back to university.
Sophia stopped in the middle of the hall.
Too late.
She stood there a long moment, looking at the empty space where he should have been, feeling suddenly miserable with herself.
She should have acted more maturely.
She should have gone to him first.
She should not have let pride hold her silent.
He was only concerned.
The earrings felt cool in her palm.
She closed her fingers around them and looked toward the door, as though by staring hard enough she might somehow reverse the hour.
But winter did not reverse.
And neither, for now, did regret.