Chapter 164: A Christmas in Göttingen

Snow fell softly over Göttingen, blanketing the narrow streets in a white silence that Francisco had never truly known before.

He walked slowly, his boots crunching against frozen slush, still dazed by the world around him. Earlier that afternoon, he had finished assisting his professor with a set of dense Latin texts—ecclesiastical commentaries whose margins were crowded with arguments older than empires. The professor, noticing Francisco’s wandering attention, had dismissed him early with a faint smile and a reminder not to miss curfew.

Francisco had barely heard him.

Until this winter, the only snow he had ever seen rested far away, crowning distant mountains in New Granada like unreachable marble statues. Snow was something admired from afar, something that belonged to painters and travelers’ tales.

Here, it lay everywhere.

It clung to rooftops, piled along windowsills, softened the sharp edges of stone walls, and swallowed the sounds of the city. The air itself felt different—sharp, clean, and biting enough to sting his lungs with every breath. At first, the cold had shocked him. Then it had humbled him.

He had been forced—quite literally—to buy new clothing. Fur-lined leather gloves, thick woolen stockings, a heavy coat lined with sheepskin, and something utterly unfamiliar called a muff. At first, he had laughed at the absurdity of it—a fabric cylinder meant only to hold one’s hands.

Now, he understood.

Sliding his fingers into the muff was like dipping them into a pocket of stored warmth, and despite wearing what felt like half his weight in clothing, Francisco still suspected the cold was winning.

“This cannot be enough,” he muttered to himself for the tenth time that week.

He made his way toward the inn where he and Catalina were staying, a modest but well-kept place favored by visiting scholars. Catalina had taken the night off—one of the rare evenings she allowed herself rest.

Winter in Germany, he had learned, was a brutal season.

People fell ill quickly. Children coughed themselves into exhaustion. Old men faded in weeks. Catalina, unable to ignore suffering, had spent nearly every day tending to strangers, offering her medical knowledge freely. It cost them money—medicine here was expensive—but Francisco had never once told her to stop.

He would have spent ten times more if it meant seeing her smile.

He entered their room quietly and found her already dressed, wrapped in layers nearly as thick as his own. She looked up as he closed the door, her dark hair tucked beneath a woolen cap, cheeks flushed from the cold.

“Happy Christmas,” he said softly, leaning down to kiss her.

Catalina smiled, returning the kiss with warmth that chased the cold from his bones.”Happy Christmas,” she replied. “What shall we do tonight? I confess I’m exhausted.”

Francisco chuckled. “So am I. And since it’s my first winter here too, I confess I have no idea what is customary. But I heard something curious today.”

“Oh?”

“I’m told that turkey is extremely rare here. A luxury food.”

Catalina blinked, genuinely startled. “You’re joking. Does that mean I’m wealthy simply for having eaten turkey every Christmas?”

Francisco grinned. “It appears so, my rich little wife.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “Then take me somewhere suitable for a lady of means.”

“I heard of an inn called The Black Bear,” he said, offering his arm. “They say their Christmas goose is excellent. And we might discover what Germans truly eat on this night.”

She took his arm, and together they stepped back into the cold.

The city was quieter now. Lanterns flickered along the streets, their warm light reflecting off the snow and painting the night in gold and amber. Bonfires burned at corners, tended by small groups of townsfolk warming their hands. Fir and spruce garlands hung over doorways, their scent sharp and resinous in the frozen air.

For the first time since leaving home, Francisco felt something close to peace.

They passed through the market square, still lively despite the hour. Merchants hurried to finish their business before curfew, voices low but cheerful. Catalina stopped suddenly before a stall, eyes drawn to a curious type of bread.

“What is this?” she asked.

The merchant smiled broadly. “Lebkuchen, miss. A Christmas specialty. My wife prepared these herself.”

Francisco leaned closer. “And what goes into it?”

“Ginger, honey, and spices from afar,” the merchant replied proudly. “And these—” he lifted one shaped like a heart—”are symbols of love.”

Francisco glanced sideways and caught Catalina staring intently at the heart-shaped bread.

“Two,” he said immediately.

He took one, pressed it dramatically to his chest, then extended it toward her.”My heart,” he declared solemnly, “is yours.”

Francisco stepped closer and asked with genuine curiosity,”What is it made of?”

The merchant’s eyes lit up at once.”Sir, it is Lebkuchen—our specialty. Gingerbread, made with honey and warm spices.” He lifted one carefully. “These are shaped like hearts, to represent love.”

Francisco glanced at Catalina. Her gaze was fixed on the heart-shaped bread, her expression soft and intent. He smiled.”Two of them, please.”

When the merchant handed them over, Francisco took one and pressed it dramatically against his chest.”Here,” he said. Then, with exaggerated care, he pretended to pull it out from his coat as if it had come from his very body. “My heart is yours.”

Catalina blushed, her cheeks already red from the cold, and laughed quietly. She took the bread and bit into it, her eyes widening at once.

Francisco clutched his chest with mock pain.”Ah—your bite wounded my heart,” he said theatrically, earning a few curious and amused glances from nearby shoppers.

Catalina rolled her eyes, smiling despite herself.”It’s really sweet,” she said. “Come on, you should try it too.”

Francisco took a bite. The flavor was rich and warming—honey, ginger, and spices unfamiliar to his New Granadan palate but deeply comforting in the winter cold. He nodded in approval, paid the merchant, and continued walking through the market with Catalina at his side.

Suddenly, singing rose from the far end of the square.

A group of children had gathered near the edge of the market, their small figures huddled close together against the biting wind. They wore dark woolen cloaks, their hats pulled low, their breath forming pale clouds in the air. They were the Kurrende—the parish choir boys.

Their voices, thin yet clear, carried over the crackle of bonfires and the murmur of the crowd. They sang an old Lutheran hymn in careful harmony, the melody solemn and pure. Each boy held a small wooden box, and as the notes floated through the frozen square, the sound seemed to linger, delicate and fragile, like frost on glass.

Catalina smiled and leaned gently against Francisco’s chest, listening. For a brief moment, the war, the distance, and the uncertainty of the future faded away. Francisco looked down at her, his expression softening in a way few people ever saw.

He reached into his purse and withdrew a silver Spanish peso. The heavy coin caught the lantern light, flashing bright against the snow. A few people nearby gasped quietly at the sight of such wealth.

Francisco stepped forward and addressed the boys in a firm, respectful voice.

“Tonight, you have given us—and everyone here—a gift with your voices,” he said. “Take this peso as a token of my gratitude. May this silver help you continue your studies and bring light to your future.”

For a moment, the boys stood frozen, staring at the coin. Then the eldest stepped forward, bowed so deeply that his hat nearly brushed the snow, and whispered with trembling sincerity,”Danke, mein Herr.”

The people around them exchanged approving smiles. Francisco and Catalina nodded their farewells and began walking toward the inn.

Halfway there, something felt wrong.

The streets were emptying quickly. Doors closed. Windows darkened. People hurried past them with lowered heads, moving toward their homes with urgency.

Francisco was about to ask what was happening when one of the choir boys recognized him and called out softly,”Sir—you should hurry home. The curfew has begun. No one is expected to remain outside at this hour.”

Francisco blinked, then slapped his forehead lightly.”I forgot,” he muttered. “Thank you, boy. Go with God.”

He turned to Catalina with an apologetic smile.”The director warned me about the curfew, but it slipped my mind. It seems we’ll have to eat at the inn after all.”

Catalina laughed softly and kissed him on the lips.”It doesn’t matter,” she said. “Being with you is more than enough.” Her smile faded just a little. “I only wish I could see my grandmother. I wonder how they’re celebrating Christmas without us.”

Francisco sighed quietly.”They must be together, happy. Little Isabella is probably following my father everywhere now that I’m not there. And Grandmother María is surely smiling behind Ogundele, pretending not to worry.”

Catalina chuckled.”And your father must be walking around with that serious face of his, thinking, ’That Francisco had better treat my daughter-in-law well—or I’ll teach him a lesson when he returns.’”

Francisco rolled his eyes and nudged her playfully. Catalina gasped and pushed him back, and soon they were laughing, their boots crunching softly in the snow. Francisco slipped and fell, laughing, then scooped up a handful of snow and shaped it quickly before pressing it gently onto Catalina’s head like a crown.

They walked on, teasing and laughing, the moon shining cold and bright above them, keeping silent company with two souls far from home—yet, for that night at least, not alone.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep