Free The Winter Queen by Amanda Mccabe

plays, gifting. And we have St Lucy’s Day.’
    â€˜St Lucy’s Day?’
    â€˜Aye, ’tis a very old tradition in Sweden, as St Lucy is one of our protectors. Every December we honour her with a procession led by a lady who portrays Lucy herself, who led Roman refugees into the catacombs with candles and then supplied them with food, until she was martyred for her efforts. The lady elected wears a white gown with red ribbons and a crown of candles on her head, and she distributes sweets and delicacies as everyone sings songs to St Lucy.’
    Rosamund laughed, fascinated. ‘It sounds delightful. We have no saints here now, though.’
    â€˜None in Sweden, either, except Lucy. And you would certainly be one of the ladies chosen to be St Lucy, Lady Rosamund.’
    â€˜Would I? I am sure my parents would say I am the least saint-like of females!’
    Anton chuckled. ‘You do seem rather stubborn, Lady Rosamund.’
    â€˜Oh, thank you very much!’ Rosamund teased. ‘Is another Swedish custom insulting ladies at Christmas time?’
    â€˜Not at all. Stubbornness is a trait that serves all of us well at a royal court.’
    â€˜True enough. I may not have been here long, but I do see that.’
    â€˜But you would surely be St Lucy because of your beauty. Lucy is always a lady with fair hair, blue eyes and the ability to convey sweetness and generosity. Those two attributes are surely not negated even by copious doses of stubbornness.’
    Rosamund could feel that cursed blush creeping up again, making her face and throat hot in a way no one else’s compliments could. He thought her beautiful? ‘Perhaps, then, that is one tradition we could borrow from Sweden.’
    â€˜And so you should.’ Anton stepped off the stool, examining their handiwork. ‘Does it please you?’
    â€˜Does what please me?’ she asked, still dazed. Pleased by him? She very much feared she might be. He was so different from Richard.
    â€˜The decorations.’
    â€˜Oh—aye. It looks most festive.’
    â€˜ Ganska nyttig . Shall we find a place for that, then?’
    He reached for the kissing bough Rosamund still held, half-forgotten. ‘It is a silly thing,’ she protested, stepping back. ‘The Queen would surely not want it in her hall.’
    â€˜Why is that?’ Anton persisted, moving closer until he could take the sphere of greenery from her hand. Ashe examined the mistletoe, the fluttering ribbons, a slow smile spread over his face. ‘A kissing bough!’
    Rosamund snatched it back. ‘I told you it was silly.’
    â€˜My mother said when she was a girl she made kissing boughs at Christmas to divine who her future husband might be.’
    â€˜Well, that is not why I made it. I merely thought it looked pretty.’
    Anton stepped even closer, leaning down to whisper in her ear. His cool breath stirred the curls at her temple, making her shiver. ‘She also said if you kiss someone beneath it at midnight on Christmas Eve they will be your true love for the rest of the year.’
    Rosamund closed her eyes, trying to ignore the way his voice whispered over her skin. ‘I had best not hang it up, then. True love seems to wreak enough havoc here at Court.’
    Anton laughed, taking the bough from her hand. ‘Nay, it is much too pretty to hide. We will hang it over there, behind that tapestry. Only those who truly need it can find it there.’
    Before she could protest, he carried it off. A tapestry depicting a bright scene of wine-making was looped up, revealing the gap between it and the panelled wall. Anton leaped up to attach the ribbon loop to a ripple in the carving.
    The bough swayed there, all verdant-green and enticing. Anton unhooked the tapestry, letting it fall back into place before the little hidey-hole.
    â€˜There now, Lady Rosamund,’ he said with a smile. ‘Only we two know it is