Next morning

“Melmenya…” He shook her gently. “Look.”

Eowyn peeked out from under her furs. The air was cold—pinching her cheeks—and her breath hung upon it like a cloud.

She gasped.

Overnight, their little garden—with its herbs, and pots of mallow, its spiky lavender and thorny rose bushes, its table, chairs and canopied bed—had been magically transformed by a delicate frosting of ice.

Across the city, candles twinkled in the mist, like gemstones.

From within his arms, Eowyn smiled up at Legolas. “It is beautiful, Lassui,” she said.

“Happy Yuletide, Eowyn nín,” he murmured, kissing her cold nose.