‘Nancy! Nancy!’ Lotti shouted, saving her from thinking any further about it as she waved furiously with one hand and held on to an astrakhan, Russian-styled hat with the other.

Nancy’s grin nearly split her face in two. God, but she loved her family. Lotti was the sister she’d never had. She was totally irrepressible. Always outrageous. Always fun.

‘Merry Christmas, Lotti!’ she yelled as the train slid to a halt. ‘It’s snowing! Isn’t it marvellous?’

The train door opened and Lotti tumbled out onto the platform.

As she ran towards her, Nancy saw Ilse step out of the carriage followed by Berthold and then, last because he was in charge of their luggage, Claus.

Lotti hurtled towards her, hugging her and enveloping her in a cloud of musky scent. Nancy responded enthusiastically, eager for the hug to be over so that she could give her attention to Claus.

‘Mein Gott, but it’s good to be back in Yorkshire!’ Lotti’s beaming smile was radiant. ‘I can’t wait to tuck into Josephine’s Christmas cake and mince pies.’

‘And I can’t wait to tuck into some Stollen. You have brought one with you, haven’t you?’

‘Stollen, Schokoladen, Schnapps. We’ve brought everything but the kitchen cooker.’

‘Kitchen sink,’ Nancy said, wondering how Lotti could still get Yorkshire sayings muddled.

She disentangled herself and as Claus was still not looking towards her but was ensuring Little Ridding’s young porter had all the luggage safely out of the carriage and onto a trolley, she gave her attention to her father and to Ilse.

‘Goodness, you look wonderful, Father,’ she said, hugging him tightly so that he couldn’t look into her eyes and wouldn’t know she was exaggerating. Though Berthold looked well, he certainly didn’t look wonderful. His innate gentleness had long ago become indistinguishable from the kind of passivity usually apparent only in the elderly—and he wasn’t elderly. He was forty-seven. Adam was three years his senior, though she didn’t know of anyone who would believe it.

Her future stepfather had retained his good looks. There was no fat on him, only well-toned muscle. His hair was still spicily red, still thick and curly and he still possessed the kind of vigour that ensured it was obvious he was Emily Elise’s father, and not her grandfather.

‘Your hair is wet with snow,’ Berthold said, trying to brush the snowflakes from it.

‘It’s fine, Father.’ Not wanting him to fuss she turned to Ilse, registering with astonishment just what it was Ilse was wearing. ‘Gosh! What are you doing wearing fox furs, Ilse? Aren’t you a little young for furs?’

‘Evidently not.’ Ilse’s mouth curved into her habitual slow, sweet smile. ‘Papa bought them for my seventeenth birthday. They’re all the rage in Berlin. One of my favourite actresses wears as many as five at a time.’

‘And the actress in question also wears a monocle, so just be grateful Ilse hasn’t gone the whole hog,’ Lotti said as Claus, satisfied they’d left nothing on the train, slammed the carriage door closed. ‘I’m just disappointed Ilse didn’t have the sense to have asked for a serious fur. Mink or sable. Then I could have borrowed it. I can’t borrow the fox. The colour clashes with the streak in my hair.’