Anastasia would never be used to holidays in England. Sure, she had visited England during her childhood. Just to see her mother’s family. But Christmas had always been spent in Russia. They’d always spent hours ice skating and sledding and making snowmen in the endless amount of snow, and there was no new husband to tell them to get inside or they’d freeze to death.
First off, Anya wanted to tell him, Russian winters are at least twenty degrees colder than this. And a lot snowier. But she didn’t. She held her tongue and walked back inside with her head held high. After changing out of her snow covered clothes and making hot apple cider, she found herself in the attic. She was sitting on the windowsill, looking out at the street down below. There were a few flurries going, but nothing too serious.
She knew it was Alex’s footsteps before he even spoke.  “It’s nice having Marya and Ivanna home,” she said faintly as she leaned her head against the cool glass.
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