Twelve Days Of Christmas Quotes

You should date a girl who reads. Date a girl who reads. Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes, who has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve. Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag. She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she has found the book she wants. You see that weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a secondhand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow and worn. She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the book. Buy her another cup of coffee. Let her know what you really think of Murakami. See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if she says she understood James Joyce’s Ulysses she’s just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice. It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas, for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry and in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by god, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does. She has to give it a shot somehow. Lie to her. If she understands syntax, she will understand your need to lie. Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world. Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that failure always leads up to the climax. Because girls who read understand that all things must come to end, but that you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two. Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilight series. If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are. You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time she’s sick. Over Skype. You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots. Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads. Or better yet, date a girl who writes.

Rose: Look at you, beaming away like you're Father Christmas! The Doctor: Who says I'm not, red-bicycle-when-you-were-twelve? Rose: [shocked] What? The Doctor: And everybody lives, Rose! Everybody lives! I need more days like this! Go on, ask me anything; I'm on fire!

One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now and out of all sound except the distant speaking of the voices I sometimes hear a moment before sleep, that I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six.

A Christmas frost had come at midsummer; a white December storm had whirled over June; ice glazed the ripe apples, drifts crushed the blowing roses; on hayfield and cornfield lay a frozen shroud: lanes which last night blushed full of flowers, to-day were pathless with untrodden snow; and the woods, which twelve hours since waved leafy and flagrant as groves between the tropics, now spread, waste, wild, and white as pine-forests in wintry Norway.

There is nothing like a bit of ink to bring reason to the most disordered mind.

You can't undo loss. You can't unmake a mistake.

Being kind is like looking at your own reflection in the calm waters of a lake. Then the act of kindness ripples those waters, like a stone tossed upon the surface.

Dash believed in magic. Dash loved Christmas. Dash loved me!

If you like someone, you should have to make an effort.

Things are not always how they seem.

Not always getting what you want, but sometimes getting what you need.

What a shame that he pushed people and relationships away. With a personality transplant he would have the potential to be more than eye candy.

Know what the best thing your true love can give you is?” I asked him. “What?” said Dash. “True love.

Isn’t that the way life goes? Just when everything seems perfect and nothing could possibly go wrong, then, boom, you’re tossed onto your butt, wondering what in the name of heaven happened.

the real ‘twelve days of Christmas’ is a period in Christian theology that marks the span between the birth of Christ and the coming of the three wise men. It begins on Christmas Day and runs to January 6th.

I'm mad at global warming for all the obvious reasons, but mostly I'm mad at it for ruining Christmas. This time of year is supposed to be about teeth-chattering, cold weather that necessitates coats, scarves, and mittens. Outside there should be see-your-breath air that offers the promise of sidewalks covered in snow, while inside, families drink hot chocolate by a roaring fire, huddled close together with their pets to keep warm.

As a kid I can remember my mother telling me that our lives are merely a reflection of what we see and do. If we are kind, others will treat us with kindness. If we love, we will be loved. If we care, we will be cared for.

But I don't like it, okay? I don't like how everything is changing. It's like when you're a kid, you think that things like the holidays are meant to show you how things always stay the same, how you have the same celebration year after year, and that's why it's so special. But the older you get, the more you realize that, yes, there are all these things that link you to the past, and you're using the same words and singing the same songs that have always been there for you, but each time, things have shifted, and you have to deal with that shift. Because maybe you don't notice it every single day. Maybe it's only on days like today that you notice it a lot. And I know I'm supposed to be able to deal with that, but I'm not sure I can deal with that.--David Levithan (p. 201 in galley)

One adjusts, although you never fully recover from the loss of a loved one.

Christmas could begin. Magic could happen.

Hold that for me.

What I was sure of was that the bagpipes had begun to play “Fairytale of New York”—which is basically the best Christmas song ever written.

If kindness can alter two people’s attitudes toward each other, just imagine what it could do to change our world, one relationship at a time.

The little fever of envy, once caught, is the ruin of all happiness.

The novelist’s perception of motive and character is equally suited to the penetration of human deceit. I am determined never to apologise for my talents in either.

A good job, money, more money, travel, happiness. Christmas-time swivelled the lens and brought these things into focus. If you had some, all, any of these things you could feel especially pleased with yourself over the twelve days of feasting and family. If you didn't have some, all, any of these things you felt the lack more keenly. You felt like an outsider.

Albert Ken-rich Fisher’s 1900 “Summary of the Contents of 255 Stomachs of the Screech Owl” made me feel tired and sad, though also vaguely festive, owing to the author’s “Twelve Days of Christmas”–style presentation: “91 stomachs contained mice … 100 stomachs contained insects … 9 stomachs contained crawfish … 2 stomachs contained scorpions …” Droppings provided a kinder, less taxing alternative.

Is it really ten ladies dancing?" Lillian asked him, and Swift grinned. "My lady, I've never been able to remember any part of that song." "You know," Annabelle said contemplatively, "I've always understood why the swans are swimming and the geese are a-laying. But why in heaven's name are the lords a-leaping?" "They're chasing after the ladies," Swift said reasonably. "Actually I believe the song was referring to Morris dancers, who used to entertain between courses at long medieval feasts," Daisy informed them. "And it was a leaping sort of dance?" Lillian asked, intrigued. "Yes, with longswords, after the manner of primitive fertility rites." "A well-read woman is a dangerous creature," Swift commented with a grin, leaning down to press his lips against Daisy's dark hair.

this woman was trouble the first moment he saw her and heard her exuberant “good morning.” Even her name was cheerful: Julia. Looking at her, it was easy to envision the opening scene from The Sound of Music, with Julie Andrews twirling around, arms extended, singing, joyful, excited.

I was treated once more to a novelist's valuable lesson, however—in apprehending that one's perception of plot and character are influenced entirely by one's own experience. To hear Mary tell the story of our Christmas at The Vyne, one would have thought that she was hounded by violence from first to last—perceived more than anybody of the nature of the probable murderer—and barely escaped with her life. It was a lesson in writerly humility. We are each the heroines of our own lives.

Our true friends gave us kindness, unsolicited, but desperately needed. Their gifts were a sign that even our shattered home could be put back together—with community, with family, and with love. They had given us back Christmas, and each other. Our true friends had broken the hold grief had on us and gave us an extraordinary experience during a holiday season that otherwise would have been bleak. They had given us our own Christmas legend, as Nick had called it, a modern-day miracle. That’s a lot to accomplish in twelve days. Was this precious lesson the twelfth gift?

Christmas Sonnet Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way, Oh, what fun it is to give our own life away! Saint Nicholas did his part, so did Chris himself, Now it's time for us to be the happiness gateway. Dashing through the alleys devoid of lights, Holding up high as beacon, our own heart, Breaking ourselves to pieces and burning to ashes, We'll ensure no one lacks the love a human deserves. We are Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen and Comet, We are Cupid, Donner, Blitzen and Rudolph. We are also modern day Nick, Chris and Eckhart, By our love and oneness let the world be engulfed! Twelve days ain't enough to celebrate Christmas. As humans we must live each day helping others.

After Constantine engineered the merger of Christ worshipers with sun worshipers in the fourth century, the creeds solidified and finalized the view of faith we hold today. Not only was this politically expedient, but it gave the church many elements of Mithraism that survive to this day. Christ is depicted in early paintings as the Sun (with rays bursting from his head), Sun-Day is the day of rest, and Christmas was moved from January 6 (still the date for Eastern Orthodox churches) to December 25, the birthday of Mithra. The ornaments of Christian orthodoxy today are nearly identical to those of the Mithraic version: miters, wafers, water baptism, altar, and doxology. Mithra was a traveling teacher with twelve companions who was called the “good shepherd,” “the way, the truth, and the life,” and “redeemer,” “savior,” and “messiah.” He was buried in a tomb, and after three days he rose again. His resurrection was celebrated every year.

New York City is finished," he said. "They can't keep order there, and you can't have business without order. It'll take a hundred years to sort things out and get it all going again." "What do you hear of the U.S. government? I said. "We don't have electricity an hour a month anymore and there's nothing on the air but the preachers anyway." "Well, I hear that this Harvey Albright pretends to be running things out of Minneapolis now. It was Chicago, but that may have gone by the boards. Congress hasn't met since twelve twenty-one." Ricketts said, using a common shorthand for the destruction of Washington a few days before Christmas some years back. "We're still fighting skirmishes with Mexico. The Everglades are drowning. Trade is becoming next to impossible, from everything I can tell, and business here is drying up. It all seems like a bad dream. The future sure isn't what it used to be, is it?" "We believe in the future, sir. Only it's not like the world we've left behind," Joseph said. "How's that?" "We're building our own New Jerusalem up the river. it's a world made by hand, now, one stone at a time, one board at a time, one hope at a time, one soul at a time. . .

Around Christmas 2003, we visited Chris’s parents in Texas. I found myself exceptionally hungry, though I couldn’t figure out why. When we came back to California, I just felt something was off. Could I be…pregnant? Nah. I bought a pregnancy test just in case. Chris and I had always planned to have children, but we weren’t in a rush about it. In fact, we had only recently decided to be “a little less careful.” It was a compromise between our spontaneous impulses and our careful planning instincts, which we both shared. We figured, if it happens somewhere in the next year… I was upstairs in the house working when I decided to take a break and check things out. Wow. WOW!!! Chris happened to be home fiddling with something in the garage. I ran downstairs, holding the stick in my hand. When I got there, I held it up, waving. “Hey, babe,” he said, looking at me as if I were waving a sword. “Come here,” I said. “I have to show you something.” He came over. I showed him the stick. “Okay?” “Look!” “What is it?” “Look at this!” Obviously, he wasn’t familiar with home pregnancy tests. Maybe that’s a guy thing-given that the tests reveal either your worst nightmare or one of the most exciting events of your life. I’d wager every woman in America knows what they are and how they work. Slowly it dawned on him. “Oh my God,” he said, stunned. “Are you…?” “Yes!” We confirmed it at the doctor’s soon after. I know you’re supposed to wait something like twelve weeks before telling anyone-there’s so much that can go wrong-but we couldn’t keep that kind of secret to ourselves for more than a few days. We ended up sending packages with an ultrasound and baby booties-one pink, one blue-to our parents, telling them we had a late Christmas surprise and to call us so we could be on the phone when they opened them.

If I could be God for a day, I would instantly replace July and August with two Septembers so the twelve months of the new calendar year would consist of January, February, March, April, May, June, September, September, September, October, November, December. On second thought, I'd also replace December with another September, thus deleting the Mas season and ending the year with a fourth September. The Mas season, once known as Christmas until we took Christ out of it, leaving only mas, the Spanish word for more, is my least favorable month of the year because of the greed-mandated financial, emotional and spiritual stresses that the economy-dependent celebration of Mas imposes.

And what was the registration of the other vehicle?”I asked. Why, oh why, do people try and use the phonetic alphabet when they haven’t got a clue? “Ooh, let’s see. It was N for … mmmm, oh, I can’t think. What starts with an N? N for… oh yes! N for….oh dear, it’s gone …N for …” “N. I’ve got the idea. It starts with an N,” I interrupted tersely. “N for pneumatic, dear, then it was an F for phlegm…” “NF, what else?” I said tapping my pen on the table. “Then four for …for …” “Four, four, four?” I queried. “No, dear. I’m just running through the twelve days of Christmas in my head. Four for four calling birds, that’s it! And then Five for Hawaii Five O.” She looked pleased with herself. As for me, I had just snapped my pen.

The Sovereign has also implied that the instability in their marriage is an over-riding consideration in any musings she may have about abdication. Naturally this does not please Prince Charles who refused to speak to his mother for several days following her 1991 Christmas broadcast when she spoke of her intention to serve the nation and the Commonwealth for “some years to come”. For a man who holds his mother in total awe that silence was a measure of his anger. Once again he blamed the Princess of Wales. As he stalked along the corridors at Sandringham the Prince complained to anyone who would listen about the state of his marriage. Diana pointed out to him that he had already abdicated his regal responsibilities by allowing his brothers, Princes Andrew and Edward, to take over as counsellors of state, the official “stand ins” for the Sovereign when she is abroad on official business. If the Prince showed such indifference to these nominal constitutional duties, she asked sweetly, why should his mother give him the job. Certainly the last twelve months have seen the Queen and daughter-in-law develop a more relaxed and cordial relationship. At a garden party last summer the Princess felt confident enough to essay a little joke about the Queen’s black hat. She complimented her on the choice, remarking how it would come in useful for funerals. In a more serious vein they have had confidential discussions about her eldest son’s state of mind. At times the Queen finds the direction of his life unfocused and his behaviour odd and erratic. It has no escaped her notice that he is as unhappy with his lot as his wife.

Three months is 12 weeks. That’s 12 whole weeks with no Andrea! I got a calculator for Christmas, and I figured it out. Twelve weeks times 7 days in a week is 84 days. That’s 84 days with no Andrea! And 84 days times 24 hours in a day is 2,016 hours. That’s 2,016 hours with no Andrea! And 2,016 hours times 60 minutes in an hour is 120,960 minutes. That’s 120,960 minutes with no Andrea! And 120,960 minutes times 60 seconds in a minute is 7,257,600 seconds.

She smiled to herself; the first coffee of the day was a joy unlike any other.

Freshen up? Is that some horrible transatlantic slang? If you mean for a rest, a wash, a change of clothes, then please say so. People always said what they meant in my day.

We kissed once.” She spoke quietly and lowered her gaze. “I esteem you greatly, Joseph Carrington, though I have wondered if my efforts in that kiss were sufficiently unmemorable as to make you regret the occasion.” He was so busy trying to muster the discipline to let go of her hand and take himself off that her words didn’t register immediately in his befuddled mind. She esteemed him greatly? “Louisa, your efforts were not… unmemorable.” He saw her drop frosty politesse over the hint of vulnerability in her eyes, felt her spine stiffen fractionally—and knew he’d said the wrong thing. He could not abide those withdrawals, however subtle. “Louisa, since we kissed, I have thought of little else, and I esteem you greatly, as well. Very greatly.” While Joseph watched, a blush, beautiful and rosy, stole up Louisa Windham’s graceful neck. “I have had occasion to consider that kiss a time or two myself,” she said. He thought her voice might have been just a trifle husky. Hope, an entire Christmas of hope, blossomed in the center of his chest. “Perhaps you would like a small reminder now?” He would adore giving her a reminder. A reminder that took the rest of the afternoon and saw their clothes strewn about the chamber. Twelve days of reminders would work nicely, with a particular part of Joseph’s body promptly appointing itself Lord of Misrule. He would not push her, but he would get a cane, the better to support himself should random insecurity threaten his knees in future. Louisa lifted her gaze to his and seemed to visually inventory his features. After suffering her perusal for an eternity, Joseph let out a breath when she twined her arms slowly around his neck. He would not harry her. It would be a chaste kiss, a kiss to reassure— Louisa Windham did not need any reminders about how to kiss a man. She gently took possession of Joseph’s mouth, plundered his wits, and stole off with his best intentions.

For a moment, Emma thought she might have stepped inside the pages of one of the Christmas books she read to Zach or that maybe she'd shrunk until

We were going to go see Lady Ophelia’s brand new piglets. There are twelve, and when we went to wish them Happy Christmas, our papa said there isn’t a damned runt in the batch, and our mama didn’t scold him at all because it’s Christmas. You can play with our puppies if you don’t want to go to the barn. This one has the same name as you.” “Lou will pay for that,” said the other fellow. He was as tall as Westhaven, but he had darker hair, and he was smiling a little. “Our felicitations to Lady Ophelia, whose acquaintance we’ll make some other day.

a smile would certainly increase his face value.

December 16 Meet the Man Who Turns Down Cookies What man in his right mind turns down warm-from-the-oven chocolate-chip cookies? Ebenezer does.

So tonight we are just seven. Seven people, and twelve pounds of pork. I pick a piece of the insanely delicious crispy skin and feel it crunch between my teeth. Suddenly the ratio seems perfectly normal. Gene rubbed it with his secret spice mix early this morning, and it's been roasting in a slow oven all day. Andrea's creamy grits are the perfect thing to soak up the thick gravy, Jasmin's parsnips and pears are caramelized and sweet, and everyone praises my chard and chickpeas.

For rich people, holiday festivities were only beginning on December 25. They would continue enjoying feasts and gifts through Epiphany on January 6—these were the twelve days of Christmas. Poor people went back to work on December 26.

last year and just as it will the next. As if it has meaning to this family of agnostics. Agnostics—the only thing worse than theists or atheists. As if you lack the gumption to form an opinion. I watch as you unpack your gifts and smile at each other, then stop your smiles when they cease looking. You’ve spent all that money for this momentary lie. And I plan, as I do every year, to do what should have been done many years ago. To kill you all.

Twelve days ain't enough to celebrate Christmas. as humans we must live each day helping others.

...what better time to look ahead than on the first day of a new year. A whole unblemished twelve months stretching out before us like a blank ream of writing paper waiting to be filled.

IN THE end it took them two days, four planes, a bus ride from Reno, and everything but a canoe to get the hell home. They walked into their own house on Christmas Eve, dropped their luggage, kicked a groggy (and naked) Ethan to the couch, hit the shower, and passed out for the next twelve hours.

The twelve days of Christmas participants had vanished, and the only people left were the elves. They were busy lobbing what looked to be little sugar-plum bombs at the demons. Total mayhem.

said

On the Twelfth Day of Christmas Your true friends give to you … Twelve Brass Bells Eleven Christmas Mice Ten Dancing Santas Nine Candles Eight Cookie Cutters Seven Golden Apples Six Holiday Cups Five Angel Note Cards Four Gift Boxes Three Rolls of Gift Wrap Two Bags of Bows And One Poinsettia For All Of You.

I wasn’t sure what any of this meant. What I was sure of was that the bagpipes had begun to play “Fairytale of New York” – which is basically the best Christmas song ever written.

You may not know this, but it’s an accepted fact that no room is completely done until furnished with a child’s giggle.

In fact, all ten aristocrats were cleaning like the revolution had happened and they were desperate to blend in with the masses.

The next day was Christmas Eve. In some countries, Christmas Eve is a bigger celebration than Christmas Day. In Canada, Sweden, and Denmark, families open their presents on Christmas Eve. In Italy, they have the Feast of Seven Fishes, during which they eat a lot of fish. Seven, I'd imagine. The French delight in making Buche de Noel, which is a sponge cake frosted and decorated to look exactly like a log. It's a mystery why a dessert masquerading as the limb of a tree would be delightful and appetizing, but they seem to like it. In Russia, on Christmas Eve, they make Kutya, a gloopy mixture of grains, nuts, seeds and honey that is eaten from a communal bowl as a display of unity and a blatant disregard for hygiene. In China, Christmas Eve is the biggest shopping day of the year and they hand each other apples wrapped in cellophane.

she, too, lived behind a brick wall, only hers was cleverly hidden behind a bright smile and effervescent personality.

The sabbats mark the Wheel of the Year, the turning of the seasons. For Wiccans and Pagans of some other traditions, these are the spine of the Craft, and some fall on dates that are closely aligned with those of major Christian holidays: Yule, the winter festival from which we get the Twelve Days of Christmas; Ostara, the spring equinox and the source of Easter’s fertility symbols (the rabbit, the egg); Samhain,3 the time of communion with the dead, dressed up in mainstream culture as Halloween.

you’re a bully. And you have no friends because of it. No real friends anyway because a real friend would have pulled you aside long ago and told you just how insufferable you are.

I had the sense that I was reading a culinary version of "The Twelve Days of Christmas" nearly every dish included numbers: 6 Clams Simmered in Wine & 5 Herb Garlic Butter 2 Slices of Pork Loin with 3 Potato Gallette Tower of 4 Shrimp with 7 Vegetables "Fiiiiive golden rings!" I sang in my head.

What a great opportunity to rediscover this ancient use of the "Twelve Days of Christmas"! We know about the "partridge in a pear tree;' but the deeper spiritual meaning of these days is lost to most people. To illustrate, the third day represents the three theological virtues of faith, hope, and love. Rather than "five golden rings;' the traditional reference is to the Torah, the first five books of the Bible. Seven symbolizes the gifts of the Holy Spirit in Romans 12; eight represents the Beatitudes of Matthew 5; ten-can you guess?-stands for the Ten Commandments.

We have pretzels and mustard. We have doughnuts. And if we really, really like you, we have chips and dip. This is fun food. It isn't stuffy. It isn't going to make anyone nervous. The days of the waiter as a snob, the days of the menu as an exam/ the guest has to pass are over. But at the same time, we're not talking about cellophane bags here, are we? These are hand-cut potato chips with crème fraîche and a dollop of beluga caviar. This is the gift we send out. It's better than Christmas." He offered the plate to Adrienne and she helped herself to a long, golden chip. She scooped up a tiny amount of the glistening black caviar. Just tasting it made her feel like a person of distinction. Adrienne hoped the menu meeting might continue in this vein- with the staff tasting each ambrosial dish. But there wasn't time; service started in thirty minutes. Thatcher wanted to get through the menu. "The corn chowder and the shrimp bisque are cream soups, but neither of these soups is heavy. The Caesar is served with pumpernickel croutons and white anchovies. The chèvre salad is your basic mixed baby greens with a round of breaded goat cheese, and the candy-striped beets are grown locally at Bartlett Farm. Ditto the rest of the vegetables, except for the portobello mushrooms that go into the ravioli- those are flown in from Kennett Square, Pennsylvania. So when you're talking about vegetables, you're talking about produce that's grown in Nantucket soil, okay? It's not sitting for thirty-six hours on the back of a truck. Fee selects them herself before any of you people are even awake in the morning. It's all very Alice Waters, what we do here with our vegetables." Thatcher clapped his hands. He was revving up, getting ready for the big game. In the article in Bon Appétit, Thatcher had mentioned that the only thing he loved more than his restaurant was college football. "Okay, okay!" he shouted. It wasn't a menu meeting; it was a pep rally! "The most popular item on the menu is the steak frites. It is twelve ounces of aged New York strip grilled to order- and please note you need a temperature on that- served with a mound of garlic fries. The duck, the sword, the lamb lollipops- see, we're having fun here- are all served at the chef's temperature. If you have a guest who wants the lamb killed- by which I mean well done- you're going to have to take it up with Fiona. The sushi plate is spelled out for you- it's bluefin tuna caught forty miles off the shore, and the sword is harpooned in case you get a guest who has just seen a Nova special about how the Canadian coast is being overfished.

The traditional English Christmas has its origins in the ninth century, when King Alfred the Great enshrined in law the importance of keeping the Church’s feasts, and commanded that there should be a holiday on Christmas Day and the twelve days that followed, for it was believed that the Magi had journeyed for twelve days to see the infant Jesus. During that period, no free man could be compelled to work. From that time, the common man has enjoyed this right to the best of his ability, while kings and nobles have indulged themselves in abundance on a lordly scale.

The feelings he’d denied were dancing inside of him like a version of the “Twelve Days of Christmas” gone wrong. Milking maids, geese, swans, pipers, they were all getting jiggy with it.

calm waters of a lake. Then the act of kindness ripples those waters, like a stone tossed upon the surface.

Sundays and major saints’ days were holidays, and much cherished, as were the twelve days of Christmas, when all work except the tending of animals was forbidden, and spinning wheels were threaded with flowers and greenery so that women could not use them.

Katarina shrugged, for want of something better to say. It just seemed so…so dull. They had done it all before, knew the routine, and that left her bored to tears. There was so much in the world they had never explored, so much that had been hidden from them. Katarina could not recall having a conversation with someone new in months. Years, perhaps.

Epiphany at Carville, a feast day twelve days after Christmas. The

We'll be fine even if we miss you every millisecond of every moment of every hour of every day. You will always be in our hearts.

Do you not ever wonder if there is more to life than meeting our neighbors, going to church, playing the pianoforte, and embroidery?” “I like embroidery.” “I know you do,” said Katarina with a sigh.

Katarina smiled wistfully. “Do not heed me, I speak nonsense, I am sure.” Maria blinked slowly, then shook her head. “No, I think if it matters to you, then it is probably not nonsense. Youare not one to speak nonsense. Perhaps you have just not found it yet.

There was something about being half Fitzroy, half Italian, she thought. She had inherited all the dramatic passion of the Italian side of her, and all the determination of the Fitzroys.

I am worth more than any earldom. And I can see that I am not, not worth the happiness of thousands. I fell in love with Dr. Walsingham, but…but he is gone. I suggest you call upon Miss Blakemoor. I imagine she will wish to marry the Earl of Cheshire.

Perhaps it would just be easier if I weren’t here!” “Perhaps it would be easier if we did not get married!

Then there were the general moral duties: not to commit adultery or fornication, not to stay out late at night after 8 p.m. frequenting inns and brothels, and not to play cards except during the Twelve Days of Christmas.

and silly frills that seemed to belong to another place and time. Rich people's houses, she thought, the knot in her stomach growing a bit tighter. What would anybody with a house like that want with her and Zach and the baby? Zach leaned closer to the window, his nose pressed flat against it, fogging a little circle of glass. "It's almos' Chris'mas. Ever'body has their tree and stuff up." "I know, Zach." There were wreaths on doors and on the old-fashioned black lampposts topped with fancy metal curls, the lights perched delicately on top. There were stars made of bright Christmas lights, even Christmas trees in people's yards. Emma had never seen people go to so much trouble for Christmas. They must have spent hours. And the money... It

Reaching for his water glass, Jack rubbed his thumb over the film of condensation on the outside. Then he shot me a level glance as if taking up a challenge. “My turn,” he said. I smiled, having fun. “You’re going to guess my perfect day? That’s too easy. All it would involve is earplugs, blackout shades, and twelve hours of sleep.” He ignored that. “It’s a nice fall day—” “There’s no fall in Texas.” I reached for a cube of bread with little shreds of basil embedded in it. “You’re on vacation. There’s fall.” “Am I by myself or with Dane?” I asked, dipping a corner of the bread into a tiny dish of olive oil. “You’re with a guy. But not Dane.” “Dane doesn’t get to be part of my perfect day?” Jack shook his head slowly, watching me. “New guy.” Taking a bite of the dense, delicious bread, I decided to humor him. “Where are New Guy and I vacationing?” “New England. New Hampshire, probably.” Intrigued, I considered the idea. “I’ve never been that far north.” “You’re staying in an old hotel with verandas and chandeliers and gardens.” “That sounds nice,” I admitted. “You and the guy go driving through the mountains to see the color of the leaves, and you find a little town where there’s a crafts festival. You stop and buy a couple of dusty used books, a pile of handmade Christmas ornaments, and a bottle of genuine maple syrup. You go back to the hotel and take a nap with the windows open.” “Does he like naps?” “Not usually. But he makes an exception for you.” “I like this guy. So what happens when we wake up?” “You get dressed for drinks and dinner, and you go down to the restaurant. At the table next to yours, there’s an old couple who looks like they’ve been married at least fifty years. You and the guy take turns guessing the secret of a long marriage. He says it’s lots of great sex. You say it’s being with someone who can make you laugh every day. He says he can do both.” I couldn’t help smiling. “Pretty sure of himself, isn’t he?” “Yeah, but you like that about him. After dinner, the two of you dance to live orchestra music.” “He knows how to dance?” Jack nodded. “His mother made him take lessons when he was in grade school.” I forced myself to take another bite of bread, chewing casually. But inside I felt stricken, filled with unexpected yearning. And I realized the problem: no one I knew would have come up with that day for me. This is a man, I thought, who could break my heart.

To his credit, Cain had resisted as best he could, but it was as if she were the sun, spreading her glow and warmth over him. Without him ever meaning for it to happen, he found himself caught up in the centrifugal force that was Julia. He'd been swept up by the happiness he felt when he was with her, the feeling of belonging, which was something he hadn't felt in a good long while. It was like an elixir he was fast coming to crave.

He made her name sound like a swear word.

This above all, to thine own self be true. And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man.

chamomile

Novelists, I reflected, are rather apt to pass in silence over the rigours of travel. Our heroines are generally accommodated in private carriages, complete with fur lap robes, enormous muffs, and hot bricks to their feet; they travel post, with private teams of horses at every stage; and invariably are pursued by a rogue so handsome and dangerous as to render them insensible for the better part of the journey.

As the parlour clock began to strike twelve, I opened the kitchen door to let the Old Year out. Then I hurried along the passage to the parsonage hall, and on the stroke of twelve, threw wide the front door to let the New Year in.

Topsy-turvy is the only order of the day—or night, as it happens—on the Eve of the Epiphany. My brother is not far wrong in seeing Twelfth Night as a threat to decency. For women are expected to dress as men, and men, as women. Children hold court at the Children’s Ball, with their parents as toad-eating subjects. Servants are permitted to sauce their masters. Grooms may kiss the Lady of the Manor—provided they present a sprig of mistletoe.

As it was, I constrained myself to say only what was both honest and inoffensive—and thus, said very little at all.