A warming fire crackled and burned in the fireplace. Maeve donned one of her beautiful new silk and lace negligees. The pale blue fabric was like the shifting shade of a late summer sky. Its silky softness caressed her flesh, making her feel like a femme fatale. But where was Charles? To put an end to her fidgeting, Maeve sat down at the rosewood dressing table and brushed her hair to a coal-black sheen. She hummed as she brushed, a Christmas carol she especially liked, one she found comforting in both melody and lyric, God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen. Sometimes she hummed it slowly and sometimes she gave the carol a more spirited rendition. Tonight humming did not help to soothe her nervousness. With each moment that passed, Maeve’s excitement and anticipation doubled. She sprinkled violet water behind her ears, at her pulse points and beneath her breasts. And waited. She checked her appearance in the mirror. And waited. Charles promised to come to Maeve’s rooms after everyone was asleep.
