Barely five years old, she stared at me with a blank look on her face.

“A true captain leads by example.” I tapped her head with my finger. “A true captain uses her head, okay? Someday you’re going to learn that your life can change in a moment. Caution is smart, and smart people find a better way.”

“But how do you learn the difference between fear and caution?” a voice asked.

I stood upright again and turned, seeing Damon lingering in the doorway. He was partially dressed for tonight—black pants and shined shoes, his hair in place. But he was still missing his jacket and tie, and his white shirt had the sleeves rolled up.

“By experience,” he answered when I didn’t.

He walked over, and my spine steeled, because our parenting styles had become just another area in which we strongly disagreed. With anyone outside our family I wouldn’t care, but when my kids were used to more discipline, it was getting harder and harder to explain why his were allowed to swing from the rafters.

“And by guidance from people who know more,” I countered as he scooped up his daughter into his arms.

He looked at Octavia, cocking an eyebrow. “People who’ve surrendered to the rules and lost their imagination, he means.”

I hooded my eyes. “Does Daddy let you cross streets by yourself?” I asked her.

She sucked on her juice, knowing even at this young age not to involve herself in our dumb spats.

“Because, like I said…” I smiled bitterly at Damon. “‘Guidance from people who know more.’”

“And how do you determine those who are worth listening to?” he asked Octavia, but he was really just trying to piss me off. “You don’t. You listen to yourself.”

“And while you’re doing that,” I told her, “don’t forget to remind yourself that choices have consequences you’ll have to live with for the rest of your life. You’ll make better choices with guidance.”

“Did you?” Damon finally looked at me, our stint in prison not needing a reminder for me to understand what he meant.

Prick.

He came from a bad home. I came from a good one. We both still went to prison.

God, I hated him.

I mean, I’d definitely jump off a bridge for him, but…

He took his daughter and his self-satisfied smirk and walked out, and I fought the urge to throw something at the back of his head.

I just saved his kid’s life. Or, at least a few broken bones.

But hey…it would’ve been experience for her. Put some hair on her chest. Rawr.

I stalked out of the kitchen, the sugary vanilla scent of cookies, macarons, and other sweets filling the house as servers carried trays to the dining room.

Madden had joined Ivar in lighting the candelabras, each making their rounds around the house, and I headed into the ballroom but stopped, seeing Damon again.

The lights had been extinguished, the candles glowing across the gold and red floor as holiday garlands of evergreens, mistletoe, and sugar plums draped across the mantel to the right, matching the ones wrapped around the railing of the staircase behind me.

The dance floor was still nearly empty, except for my wife dancing with her brother.

Hanging back, I folded my arms over my chest, softening at the sight of them together. Okay, okay. I didn’t hate him. I couldn’t hate anyone who loved her.

He dipped her back and twirled with her, and she smiled so wide before laughing and throwing her arms around him as he went faster and faster.

I smiled, watching them.

Nearby, Rika danced with Jett, both of them watching their feet as Rika counted, helping Jett with the steps. Her black gown stretched with the small baby bump, now about five months along.

Will’s daughters, Indie and Finn, twirled around the couples, pretending they were ballet dancers, the black feathers in Finn’s hair making my stomach sink a little at the memory. Seemed like yesterday Banks and I were in the ballroom of the Pope, watching Damon’s mother, dressed in her black feathers, move around the floor like a ghost. A chill ran up my spine.

“Kai?” someone said.

I looked behind me, seeing Winter descend the stairs, holding the railing with both hands.

I reached for her, guiding her to me. “Yep, here,” I said. “Did you smell me?”

How else would she have known it was me?

She laughed, joining me at my side. “Mm-hmm. You smell goooood.”

I smiled, turning my eyes back to the ballroom. My son had disappeared, and Ivarsen had joined his brothers, running past us toward the dining room and the sweets, no doubt.

Headlights approached outside, guests starting to arrive.

“Octavia doesn’t want to go to the lock-in tonight,” Winter told me.

“Then Mads won’t go, either.”

“Nope.”

Which was why she was telling me, so I was prepared. As the adults danced the night away or took part in the revelry of the festivities, the kids would go have their own adventure at the theater. Until midnight, anyway, when they could come home and open presents.

Winter had done a beautiful job, making this time of year special. She loved Christmas but always felt the day was bittersweet, because it meant the season was pretty much over. We started our festivities on the solstice now, happy to enjoy that we had days of joy still ahead of us.

“She’s a very lucky kid,” Winter said. “Lots of people who dote on her.”

I nodded, seeing a shadow on the second floor. Mads had retreated to his hideaway again.

“She’s an adventurer,” I replied. “Mads isn’t. He can live vicariously through her.”

“And she loves that she can drag him anywhere,” she added, “and he never gets upset with her. Her brothers are…not so flexible.”

Her brothers were trouble. At least Mads set a good example.

The speakers turned off as the orchestra finished tuning, silence filling the air throughout the house.

“I love that sound,” Winter whispered.

“What sound?”

“The draft of this old place hitting the flames,” she said. “Do you hear it?”

I trained my ears, the wind howling through the floors above us, their gusts making the flames flicker.

The hair on the back of my neck rose.

“Feels like ghosts,” she murmured. “Everything is more beautiful in the firelight, isn’t it?”

I looked down at her, her long lashes draping over eyes that could no longer see anything beautiful, but that didn’t mean anything was lost on her, either. She just saw it differently now.

Turning, I took her hand in mine and her waist in my other, and guided her onto the dance floor. “Hold on.”

Her lips spread into a big smile, and we glided, me leading her to no music as tendrils of hair fell into her face. Her black gown fanned out behind her, and the red ribbons in her hair fluttered.

“You’re pretty good,” she told me.

“Shocked?”

“Well…” She shrugged, not elaborating.

We spun and moved, faster and faster until she was giggling, but she never lost her footing, lighter than air in my arms.

I guess she thought I only excelled at combat, but my mother raised a gentleman, too.

“Never give a sword to a man who can’t dance,” I recited Confucius as we slowed down.