“Just think of it—Christmas in England! Plum pudding and snapdragon, mistletoe and wassail—” “Chilblains and damp beds, fogs so thick you cannot set foot out of doors,” Plum put in, his expression sour. “Someone sobbing in the linen cupboard, Father locking himself in the study after threatening to drown the lot of us in the moat.” “I know,” I said, my excitement rising. “Won’t it be wonderful?”
