“Maybe I’ll just use a wet washcloth ’til I go home,” she muttered to herself as she dried off. The thought made her giggle. What on earth had she signed up for? Maybe this was part of the traditional English Christmas.

Dinner was a plate piled high with sausages, mashed potatoes, and peas—all of which, Mrs Browning mentioned, came from a local farm. Chloe cleaned her plate and enjoyed every mouthful—the fresh bursts of the peas, the creamy, buttery potatoes that were an indulgence she would never allow herself back home, and the spiciness of the pork sausages.

Regardless of whether it was Mrs Browning’s cooking or the farm-fresh produce that made everything so delicious, Chloe was going to have to watch herself. If she ate like this the entire time, she’d go up a dress size.

Seated in the front room, as the Brownings called it, Chloe sipped a tiny glass of after-dinner sherry while admiring the traditional charm of their Christmas decorations. They’d strung a piece of red wool from one end of the longest wall to the other, with Christmas cards of all sizes and colours hanging from their spines. Placed along the mantle above the fireplace was a faux fir-tree garland and six small brass candlesticks, each holding a red candle. None were lit. Perhaps that only happened on Christmas.

There were four stockings hanging from the mantle, three of them much-loved and one new one with her name embroidered across it in gold thread. Chloe was surprised to feel the sting of tears in her eyes. Would her parents have done the same for Lucy? They would have, she decided—not stockings, because her family didn’t do those—but had they not been cruising around the South Pacific, she was sure they’d be spoiling Lucy, or Jules, or whomever she’d swapped Christmases with.

Actually, if her parents weren’t on a cruise, she wouldn’t be here.

The Christmas tree was only as tall as she was, but it was real, and the heady scent of pine filled the room. Chloe stood to admire it, taking her sherry with her. She was not particularly into sherry—it was far too sweet for her—but apparently it was Mrs Browning’s after-dinner ritual. When in a tiny village in Oxfordshire, right?

“Oh, Mr and Mrs Browning, your collection of ornaments is beautiful.” Amongst the dense assortment of nutcrackers and angels, all very traditional in design and colour, were the handmade ornaments of a child. Chloe carefully held the bottom of an angel made from cardboard and painted gold.

She sensed Mrs Browning next to her. “Oh, thank you, love. You see that we’ve kept all our Lucy’s ornaments from school days. And many of the others are from her travels with you girls. She’s always finding the loveliest things. I think this one is my favourite.” She pointed to a Murano glass angel that Chloe recognised immediately, as she’d been there when Lucy had bought it.

“Beautiful,” said Chloe softly. She hoped they would like the ornaments she’d brought them from Australia. Nestled back in her chair, she went to take a sip of her sherry only to find the glass empty. “Oh.” She looked at it in shock, a little embarrassed that she’d drunk it all already.