When she was young, she always loved the build up to Christmas. The very first day of December would have the tree arriving, something grand to go in the hallway, huge and resembling half a forest. The servants would decorate it, having to use stepladders to reach the very top until there was hardly any green to be seen.

She and Alex weren’t supposed to watch. They were meant to wait in their rooms until it was done, when they’d be called down to witness the final placement of the star on top, and the lights being switched on.

Except she always managed to hide herself at the top of the stairs, looking through the banisters and biting her lip at every shiny, gaudy bauble removed from the box and hung on the bright green branches.

Not that the tree was really put up for them. Not for the family. This was actually for any visitors to the house, to show the ‘verse that the Rostovs knew how to celebrate, and the smell of gingerbread and cinnamon buns would waft up from downstairs in the kitchens, and eggnog and mulled wine were always ready to be served.

And, of course, that was when her grandmother came. The day after, for a month, to look at the tree and raise one eyebrow, declaring it to be vulgar and without taste, then adding that they needed a family one in the living room. So the servants were dispatched, and a small tree procured, which she and her brother were allowed to decorate with grandmotherly assistance.

Afterwards they would sit together in the light from the candles on the tree, and grandmother would talk, tell stories, and brush her hair, telling her how pretty she was, while Alex ate sugar-topped cookies and secretly wished his hair was long enough to brush.

The trees never lasted, of course. Her mother would complain every day about the needles being walked into the carpets, despite the servants almost constantly brushing them up, and the moment Twelfth Night was over, they were down, consigned to the corner of the estate where Morris, the head gardener, had his shed and d