#dinalandgraabfh

Presents. Piles of them.

“There are so many!” His excitement quickly becomes too much to contain. He grabs both of Dina's hands and begins dancing around the room in a wildly enthusiastic circle while she humors him, allowing herself to be spun about the parlor.

Behind the tree, Malcolm IV watches the spectacle, the corners of his mouth twitch upward; for all his business sense and outwardly severe appearance, there are few things he enjoys more than seeing his son happy.

Once Little Malcolm can be persuaded to slow down long enough, the family turns to the stocking, and he eagerly reaches into his and discovers a treasure trove of treats: chestnuts, peppermint candies, sugared nuts, and enough sweets to keep him occupied well into the new year. He is delighted – but his attention is still drawn to the presents waiting beneath the tree.

Any remaining patience immediately vanishes, and within moments wrapping paper is flying.

A kite emerges first. Then a horse on wheels; a jack-in-the-box that nearly sends him jumping out of his skin when it springs open; a spinning top that he immediately insists on testing in the middle of the entryway. And finally – 

The train.

Carefully, he lifts it from its box, and the very sight of it seems to steal his breath.

“Since last week you informed us you intended to own a real one,” Malcolm IV explains. 

“To start,” young Malcolm corrects, and Malcolm the elder nearly chokes. 

The rest of the morning passes in a blur of toys, excitement, and repeated demonstrations of how fast the train can travel across the entryway floor.

At some point, while Malcolm is entirely occupied constructing an elaborate railway empire beneath the Christmas tree, his parents find themselves standing beneath a small bundle of mistletoe tied to one of the ceiling beams. Malcolm wraps an arm around Dina’s waist and pulls her gently into an embrace.

When they part, Malcolm reaches into his pocket.

“I nearly forgot.” Dina immediately knows he is lying; he had almost certainly spent weeks waiting to present it. From a small velvet box, Malcolm reveals a delicate cameo ring, beautifully crafted and elegant, and for a rare moment, Dina is speechless.

Across the room, young Malcolm looks up briefly from his toy train, then, deciding the train is far more important than parental affection, returns immediately to his railway empire. 

Christmas dinner is a proper affair. A beautifully roasted leg of lamb occupies the center of the table, accompanied by potatoes, winter vegetables, fresh bread, and a fruitcake made from preserves saved specifically for the holiday. The dining room glows with candlelight while the Christmas tree sparkles from the hallway, its dried orange slices catching the light each time someone passes.

Young Malcolm, though still buzzing with excitement from the day's festivities, manages to sit through most of the meal with surprising maturity, though his toy train makes several appearances beside his plate despite repeated reminders that locomotives do not belong at the dinner table.

"They do if it's my railroad," he argues.

His father appears sympathetic to this reasoning. 

Wealth cannot entirely keep out the winter chill, but it can certainly make it more pleasant to endure. Morning finds Dina finishing her breakfast as little Malcolm Landgraab occupies his highchair nearby, most of his attention devoted to dropping bits of breakfast over the side and watching where they land.

Dina and Natasha discuss Christmas preparations, household repairs, and whether the roads will remain passable through the rest of winter while Malcolm continues his important scientific research into gravity.

The copper bathtub upstairs has developed a persistent leak, one that no amount of placing buckets beside it has managed to solve. Darren arrives toolbox in hand, and spends most of the afternoon tightening fittings, replacing worn pieces, and muttering thoughtfully. By the time he finishes, the tub is once again watertight.

Downstairs, the Christmas tree stands proudly in the parlor, a fine fir that Natasha had arranged to have delivered from outside town. She spent an entire afternoon decorating it herself with ribbons, candles, and carefully dried orange slices that catch the firelight with a warm amber glow.

It is in front of this very tree that little Malcolm ages from toddler to child, small enough to be carried one moment and the next standing a little taller, his curly hair as unruly and his expression already carrying hints of the confidence that seems to run in the Landgraab bloodline.

Dina immediately fusses over him.

That evening, young Malcolm enjoys yet another privilege of becoming a child; for the first time, he joins his parents at the supper table rather than eating in his high chair. Dina Caliente makes certain his napkin is properly folded in his lap, while his father, Malcolm Landgraab IV, watches the proceedings with obvious amusement.

Young Malcolm sits as straight-backed as he can manage, determined to prove he is grown enough to dine with adults, and for nearly five whole minutes, he succeeds.

Then he begins talking.

And talking.

And talking.

At one point, the boy announces that he intends to own six horses, a locomotive, and "possibly a mountain" when he grows up. His father furrows his already prominent brows.

"A mountain?"

"Yes sir."

"What for?"

"So nobody else can have it." At this, Malcolm Sr. nods thoughtfully.

"A reasonable position." Dina groans.

"Please do not encourage him."

"I'm not encouraging him," Malcolm replies with a perfectly straight face. "I'm recognizing sound business instincts." Young Malcolm beams with pride.

Later, once the crisis has passed, Loki and Circe sit close beside the campfire. Firelight flickers across Circe’s sharp features, and for once, neither speaks in strategy nor calculation. Circe reaches for Loki’s cheek in a rare moment of warmth shared not out of necessity but familiarity. They make use of the rough wooden bench near the fire in a manner that is neither hurried nor particularly ceremonial as the fire snaps and pops beside them, casting shadows that dance in rhythm with their movement.

When the cold bites at their backs, they retreat together into their tent, canvas falling closed behind them, where privacy brings a different energy.

Alone in the larger tent, Bella stares at the low ceiling, sleep refusing to come. The fever, the brush with death, and the strange mercy that followed, have shaken her and her thoughts spiral without anchor. In the corner of the tent stands a broom propped upright. Earlier that week, in a restless bout of boredom, she had tied one of the Beakers’ spare masks around the bristles – a small act of rebellion, or perhaps entertainment. Now, in the dim lantern light, it looks almost like a figure keeping watch. Bella pushes herself upright on the mat. 

“You startled me, sir,” she says with a faint, conspiratorial smile, dragging the broom closer, adjusting the mask carefully. “I owe you my life, and I am so very grateful.” Her fingers brush the wooden handle as if it were a sleeve, “You've come to keep watch over me? How gallant of you. But we must be discreet; the madame must never find out.” Bella’s laughter flutters, light and slightly unsteady; the sound of a mind balancing delicately at the edge. She smiles at the broom and lies back down, giggling to herself. The broom remains silent, leaning in the corner of the tent where she’s propped it.

The following morning, Loki and Circe ride into town together on Loki’s horse, the animal’s hooves striking a steady rhythm along the hardened autumn road. They dismount near the edge of the square with a glance of understanding. Loki melts easily into the bustle, offering a courteous nod here, a subtle sidestep there.

When he spots Dina Landgraab stepping carefully down the wooden stairs, he closes in with bold familiarity and steadies her from an imagined stumble, his hand lingering at her waist and laughing too close to her ear. By the time she recoils from his forwardness, scandalized, her coin purse is noticeably lighter. Loki nods with unapologetic audacity and disappears into the crowd before she can properly protest.

Little Malcolm wakes early on Trading Post day, cranky and flushed. Malcolm the elder rises to tend him at once, lifting his son out of the crib and carrying him through the quiet rooms while murmuring soft reassurances. “There now, you’ve the lungs of a Landgraab already,” he says quietly, earning a small, sleepy sigh as the child settles against his shoulder.

By midmorning, the Landgraabs make their appearance in town, more for ceremony than necessity, unlike most others. Dina pushes little Malcolm through the crowd in a fine imported pram, its polished brass and embroidered lining turning nearly as many heads as her smile. Malcolm pauses at John Burb’s stand, inspecting the produce with a practiced eye despite the fact that Natasha raises a surprisingly successful kitchen garden. “You’ve had a good season,” Malcolm says. John nods. “We’ve done our best, sir.” Dina drifts toward the fabric, fingers lingering over a bolt of richly colored cloth. “This is lovely,” she remarks, and Malcolm gives an approving nod, instructing the clerk to, "wrap it well."

Their presence ripples through the Trading Post; murmured greetings, tipped hats, and sidelong glances marking their passage. Natasha oversees the parcels, ensuring nothing is misplaced. By afternoon’s end, their baskets are full, their point made, and the family returns home satisfied. At supper, Natasha serves roast beef with a berry glaze in the warm glow of the dining room.

Malcolm Landgraab IV arrived in Freedom Hollow with more coin than conscience and more ambition than most men could dream of. The Landgraab name was already stamped across half the county back East, and Malcolm intended to see that same prestige firmly rooted in the West. He quickly set himself up as both banker and manager of the local land office, ensuring his name carved into every ledger and title deed before the ink dries. Always impeccably dressed and perfectly polite, many find his manner stiff, though few dare cross him. After all, in a town like Freedom Hollow, it never hurts to stay on the banker’s good side.

Before she became Mrs. Landgraab, Dina was a fixture of the saloon; a captivating beauty with a sharp wit and a smile that could melt through whiskey and worry alike. When Malcolm set eyes on her, he saw not only charm but opportunity: a partner who could soften his stern reputation. Their marriage was swift, and Dina took to her new life of comfort and refinement with ease. When she gave Malcolm an heir on their very first try, her place in society was secured, and she’s enjoyed the privileges ever since: fine clothes, imported teas, and afternoons spent “shopping” or “calling” in town. Still, those who watch closely whisper that the Lady Landgraab occasionally finds excuses to pay visits to Doc Lothario’s office for “routine checkups” that take a bit longer than they ought. Yet Dina insists she’s a changed woman, and perhaps she is, but every so often, the flicker of her old saloon sparkle shows through.

Morning breaks quietly in the Landgraab household, sunlight filtering through lace curtains and settling over polished floors. Dina is already awake, lifting little Malcolm from his crib with practiced ease. Malcolm the elder takes his leave shortly after, adjusting his coat and hat before stepping out to mount his horse. He pauses briefly to bid goodbye to little Malcolm, a look of satisfaction crossing his face before duty calls him away. 

After breakfast, Dina lifts little Malcolm from his high chair and clears a space in the front hall, setting him carefully on his feet. She encourages him with soft laughter and praise, guiding his hands as he wobbles forward step by step. For all her fondness for luxury and indulgence, Dina has proven to be a surprisingly attentive mother, taking genuine delight in every uncertain stride her son manages on his own.