Lynten sprawling in the ashes with her cap askew and her tray spilled, and the laces of her bodices cut through, all her linen showing and a thin line of blood where a man's knife-point had scored through her shift and torn her poor flesh beneath, trying to cover her plump bare breasts with inadequate hands —
“Hey,” Hollie said mildly, “that's not nice. Don't do it.”
And the man with the knife turned, thinking to give the gawky Englishman a second smile, and all his mates jeered and clapped, standing clear so that the hearth was as bare as an arena.
Amsterdam, Christmas 1626
It has been a year of wonders for Puritan's brat Holofernes Babbitt. Run away to the Low Countries at eighteen to take up a career as a mercenary in the Imperial Army, so far Hollie's luck has held. At least, he's still alive.
Homeless, friendless, and broke till the spring campaigning starts again, it looks as if it may be a bleak Christmas for Hollie.
But miracles happen, at midwinter…
