“Does this mean I’m forgiven?” he asked as she fervently kissed his head, cheeks, nose, any piece of his face she could get her lips on.
“This means I love you,” she said, looking into his eyes. “And I don’t care who knows it.”
“Ahem!” came Kat’s voice. “This is very unprofessional kitchen behavior, North sisters.”
Maggie slid her legs down from Joe’s waist and turned sheepishly to face Kat.
“Sorry, Kat,” she mumbled, her cheeks burning.
Kat shook her head in mock disapproval. “I’m happy you two have finally made things official. Your relationship is the worst-kept secret in Rowan Thorp. Now, the feast begins at four thirty p.m., and we have a lot to get done, so it’s all-hands-on-deck, aside from Verity, who came to tell me that she had two broken arms and needed to rest. Are we ready, team Winter Solstice?”
“Ready!” erupted the cheer from the kitchen.
50
The roasting of the hog began at midday. Troy and Kev had rented a portable hog roasting oven, which they set up in Augustus’s garden and took shifts to monitor throughout the day. Within a couple of hours, the smell was already permeating the village.
Fable Folk—the folk band Star had invited to play at the festival—had a vibe reminiscent of the Mamas and the Papas. Three men and one woman, Helena. They came with only the instruments they could carry, no amps or electrical equipment. True to Star’s predictions, they really did play for food and drink. Having filled themselves up at Betty’s for breakfast, they played impromptu sets outside the café and then each of the pubs. They sang “Scarborough Fair,” and “A Case of You,” and a good smattering of Christmas carols. All day long they were inundated with hot drinks, wedges of Christmas cake, and mince pies from villagers with requests for certain songs or simply as thanks for filling the village with their music.
“So, um, which of the band were you ‘friends’ with?” asked Duncan as they set off up the high street to collect tablecloths.
Star laughed. “You’re not jealous, are you?”
“No,” he said, unbuttoning the top button on his shirt. “I’m only wondering who my competition is.”
She reached up and kissed him. “You have no competition. Trust me.”
“I can’t sing or build a campfire. I’ve never worn a flatcap. I’m not . . .” He stumbled over his words. “I’m not cool or hip.” He motioned toward the band, who were playing outside Maggie’s shop now. “I’m a history nerd.”
Star stopped walking and reached her arms up around his neck. He smelled of her patchouli shampoo from when they’d showered together after Verity had been picked up this morning.
“Firstly, history is hot. Every time I see you reading from a tatty old book, I have to fan myself. I’m not even joking. Secondly, you knit,” she said, looking into his dark brown eyes. “Knitting is very sexy. And you designed the tarpaulin that saved our banquet—that was a truly maverick move.” She gently turned his face away from the band and back to her. “Stop worrying. I only want you. Now kiss me like an antiques expert.”
* * *
With the patchwork ceiling hanging above and the branches on the trees laden with bird feeders and fairy lights, the clearing in the rowan tree woods felt intimate and at the same time otherworldly, as though existing inside a fairy tale. The woodland surrounding the clearing was still a Narnian dream. Branches creaked beneath the weight of their snowy blanket and scurrying creatures left tiny footprints in the crisp white drifts.
Any garlands and bunting that could be salvaged from the marquee had been used to decorate the space. Duncan, Joe, and Patrick had arranged the tables and chairs not in a line as they would have been in the marquee but higgledy-piggledy to fit the unusual banqueting hall.
“It’s wonderful!” Star gushed when she came bearing a tray of hot wassail for them. “The woods were always special in the summer, but in winter they have a magic all their own, can you feel it?”
“Almost as magical as this wassail,” said Patrick appreciatively, sipping the warming brew. “It’s like drinking Christmas.”
“That’ll be all the cinnamon and spices infused slowly into it,” she said proudly.
“How have I never had this before?” Duncan asked, taking a sip and then leaning toward her for a kiss. “You even smell like wassail,” he added, sniffing her hair.
“So would you if you’d just made fifty gallons of the stuff. The fumes in the Stag and Hound kitchen are enough to make Godzilla drunk.”
“And how much wassail have you North sisters consumed during the brewing process?” Joe asked, one eyebrow quirked knowingly.
“Any chef worth her salt always taste-tests her creations before she serves them. That’s just good practice.” Star flicked her hair, stumbled slightly, and sashayed out of the clearing, zigzagging her way back to the kitchen to continue preparing the feast.
* * *
At three o’clock the Cussing Crocheters and the church flower association joined forces to dress the tables, which only added to the charm. Crochet foxes, squirrels, and other woodland creatures peeped out from garlands of dark green ivy which lay along the middle of each table.
The cutlery was mismatched, as were the mugs and plates, thanks to the emptying of many a kitchen cupboard for the occasion. If the March Hare and the Cheshire Cat were discovered taking tea in the clearing it would have surprised absolutely no one.
Overlooking it all was the tree house, which was where Verity had insisted that she, Sameera, and a couple of other friends from the village should dine this evening.
At four o’clock, the revelers, muffled in hats and coats, gathered in Augustus North’s garden to watch the bonfire being lit. Fable Folk sang “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen” and “It May Be Winter Outside” by the glow of the fire as dancing flames of gold and magenta warmed the spectators. Spirits were high and the anticipation was palpable.
The hog roast was well and truly cooked, and even Star’s stomach growled at the fragrant smoke that mixed with the bonfire. It was the epitome of wintry smells carried on the crisp cold air, at once both warm and sharp in the nostrils.
Betty led the walk down to the bottom of the garden and into the woods. Star and her sisters gathered near the entrance to the clearing.
“Listen!” she whispered, unable to stifle her delight. With breath held and hands clasped in childlike excitement they waited for people’s reactions. Appreciative murmurs drifted back to them through the trees as friends and neighbors entered the enchanted dining hall. The whisper of many breaths sucked in in delighted surprise and exhaled in awe floated on the wintry air. The clearing looked even more stunning in the dark, lit only by the twinkle lights in the trees and the LED candles dotted along the tables. And when the guests took their seats, the woods themselves seemed to sigh contentedly, as though a long wait was finally over.
* * *
It felt to the sisters like a never-ending trail of back-and-forth between the cookery school and the clearing, as they delivered the fruits of their labors to their hungry guests. But the revelers were kept well-oiled by two large cauldrons of steaming wassail, which was ladled into mugs by Betty and Harini, and spirits were too high to complain about the wait. Joe had fashioned a basic dumbwaiter out of some rope and a picnic basket and lidded mugs of warm spiced apple juice were sent up to Verity and her friends in the tree house.