Helena had been spam-invited—yes, spammed. To that blasted Christmas party Cate B was throwing. Please please come, the Australian woman had begged, like some desperate elf with a clipboard. She’d asked, pleaded, practically wept for Helena to bring her homemade apple pie. The one with the flaky crust and the cinnamon that lingered like a memory.

Helena sighed. Cate was going to be the death of her, honestly. All this pleading. All this festive coercion. She said yes, eventually. Reluctantly. Because Helena Bonham Carter was not—not—a party person. Even if it was just a harmless little Christmas gathering. She’d never been the one. Not for mingling. Not for punch bowls and polite laughter.

She dressed in her usual ensemble—something vaguely Victorian, vaguely witchy, vaguely Helena. A velvet jacket that had seen better centuries, a skirt with a mind of its own, and boots that clomped like they had stories to tell. She grabbed her apple pie, still warm from the oven, proud of it in spite of herself.

Thirty minutes later, she arrived. Cars parked haphazardly. People loitering outside, watching the snow like it was performing just for them.

Another sigh. Here goes nothing.

She slipped inside, pie in hand, and placed it delicately among the other desserts. A bit of rearranging—she couldn’t help herself. The trifles were too close to the gingerbread. It was chaos. She was mid-shuffle when someone bumped into her.

She half expected it to be Cate, or perhaps Sarah Paulson with her apologetic eyes, or Sandra Bullock with her effortless charm.

But no.

It was a young woman. Unfamiliar. Their eyes met. The girl stammered an apology, but Helena just stood there. Not injured. Just… stunned. She was beautiful. Too beautiful, Helena thought, for someone like her. An old crow in velvet.

“Oh—” she whispered, adjusting her glasses, then her outfit, suddenly aware of every frayed thread and every eccentric choice. She felt disheveled. Underdressed. Hideous.

“No, no, don’t apologise, dear,” she said, her voice soft and British and slightly theatrical. “Accidents happen.”

Her hands smoothed down her skirt, a futile gesture. She couldn’t stop looking at the girl. Couldn’t help it.

“Seen… Cate around?” she murmured, eyes darting, desperate for an exit. A way out. A distraction from the way her heart had just hiccupped.