Agatha Christie Christmas Books 소설 & 이야기

The gala hadn't even started yet, and already she felt like a sparrow that had wandered into a flock of exotic birds. She smoothed the front of her black dress the one good dress she owned, the one she'd worn to every wedding and funeral for the past three years and told herself she was here to work. The florals were done. The evergreens draped the doorways with that sharp, pine-scented promise of Christmas. The poinsettias clustered in deep red and cream on every surface, their velvet petals catching the warm glow of the crystal chandeliers. She'd done her job. She could leave.

The grand library glowed with the soft amber light of floating lanterns and a roaring hearth fire that cast long, dancing shadows across towering shelves. Guests had retired for the evening after another lavish solstice supper, but the manor refused to sleep. Enchanted books rustled faintly on their own, pages turning as if reading scandalous secrets aloud. Elara slipped inside after midnight, telling herself she only wanted a quiet moment with a novel to calm her racing mind. In truth, her body burned.