Austen Variations 2025 Advent Calendar

Welcome to the 2025 Austen Variations Advent Calendar, where our amazing authors will bring you a new gift every day from now until December 24th.

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Happy Holidays, Austen Fans! My gift to you today is the cover of my next book, coming in 2026. I’ve been working on this novel since January of this year. The plot bunny came to me last Christmas and you are the first people to see it! Complete the puzzle to reveal all!

Your A Debt to Be Paid by MJ Stratton Puzzle

Your A Debt to Be Paid by MJ Stratton Excerpt

For your enjoyment, the first two chapters of A Debt to be Paid!

Chapter One:

Damian Fiennes twirled the ring on his finger. Morgan Fields stood before his desk, his countenance a picture of desperation. Fiennes delighted in it. They were all the same, coming to him for money when no one else would lend it, then pleading for release when the debt grew beyond their means. He was well within his rights to take everything they owned, and he did so with regularity.

“I only need a few more months, Fiennes!” Fields’s plea burst forth, his voice frayed with panic. “Netherfield Park’s harvest will be in then, and I can pay you in full.”

“You said that last year.” Fiennes turned the ring slowly, his face a mask but for his subtle smirk. “I graciously gave you another year to pay—with interest, of course.”

Fields swallowed hard. “I know, and I am grateful for your forbearance. My daughters are well settled now, and I can focus more fully on—”

“What you do in the future is no concern of mine once our business is concluded. Perhaps your sons-in-law might offer a loan?”

“I have asked them,” Fields admitted. “They cannot. Their estates are entailed, and no funds can be drawn from them.”

Fiennes knew he had Fields precisely where he wanted him. “How do you propose to settle the debt? I am within my legal rights to see you thrown into the Marshalsea.”

Fields’s face drained of colour. “I beg you, no! My poor wife—she is ailing, as you well know. She needs me!”

Fiennes ceased his idle movement with the ring. He sat back slowly and folded his hands atop the desk. “I could consider clearing your debt if…” He let the words hang, savouring the flicker of hope that crossed his adversary’s face. This was his favourite moment—raising hope only to crush it, and with it, any future they imagined they might have.

When he did not continue, Fields shifted anxiously. Such was Fiennes’s intent. Waiting with bated breath never suited a desperate man; pressed too far, they would say things they ought not.

“Speak, man! I shall do anything in my power to relieve this debt!”

Ah, there it is. Fiennes straightened. “I have a solution. Netherfield Park in exchange for your debts being wiped clean.”

Fields gaped at him. “But—that is my livelihood! You know very well I have nothing in reserve. How shall I manage to live?”

“That is hardly my concern, sir.” Fiennes rose and came around the desk. “You have long complained that the management of the estate kept you from enjoying life. I shall relieve you of the burden.”

“But what shall I do for income?”

“Once again, not my concern.” Fiennes returned to his desk. The papers were already prepared—naturally. He conducted his affairs with precision, leaving nothing to chance. “I have the agreement here.” Gathering the pages, he laid them before Fields.

“You planned this.” Fields stared at him, aghast. “I thought you a friend!”

“I am, of course. Someone less friendly might have thrown you into debtor’s prison long ago.” He gestured towards the papers spread across his desk. “Shall we sign?”

“No! I shall find another way!” Fields backed away, shaking his head in dismay. “This will ruin me!”

“You are ruined whether you pay or not. Debtor’s prison or relief from your debts—which shall it be? I am certain your wife will find a home with your daughters if you choose the former.”

Damian Fiennes had made a living out of reading men’s faces, knowing them better than they knew themselves. Morgan Fields was no different from the others. He was an inherently selfish man; debtor’s prison would offer him none of his accustomed comforts. Despite the uncertainty of the future, he would sooner surrender his estate than rot behind the Marshalsea’s walls.

“You know my wife does not get on well with our daughters,” Fields muttered. “I am certain she would be miserable living with either of them.”

Whatever tale you must tell yourself, sir, Fiennes thought with a fine curl of his lip. “Then we have an accord?” Fields nodded slowly, the regret and desperation writ plain on his face.

Fiennes watched as Fields drew the quill towards him and skimmed the document. They always glossed over the details that mattered most. The agreement stipulated that everything was to remain with the estate, leaving Fields unable to conceal any valuables. Once signed, Fields would never again set foot on Netherfield’s grounds; his wife would share the same fate. Both were presently in town visiting relations.

Fiennes could scarcely contain his excitement as Fields signed away his life. “Thank you.” He took up the quill, charged it with ink, and affixed his signature to the agreement. Then he held out his hand, palm up. “The keys, if you please.”

“Keys?”

Why were they always so stupid? It hardly made the game enjoyable.

Fields looked bewildered. “Have we no time to vacate properly?”

“I think not. If you examine the third paragraph on the fourth page, you will see that, in signing this document, you have agreed to leave the premises immediately—and never to return. So, I shall have your keys. Now.”

Fields’s mouth fell open in shock. “You…you monster!” Fields lunged, hands outstretched and eyes wild. Anticipating the move, Fiennes stepped aside. The door to his office opened, and two burly guards entered.

“Mr Fields is leaving.” Fiennes retained his air of self-command. The men seized the weeping man by the arms and hauled him away. He went to the window and watched as the former master of Netherfield Park was relieved of his keys before being thrust from the house.

“’Tis almost not amusing any longer.” The words escaped him on a breath of ennui. Of late, he had found himself driven to greater extremes to receive the same exhilaration. Never had he taken an entire estate to settle a debt. The temptation had been too strong when the notion first struck him, and he had acted on it at once. Morgan Fields had been the perfect target—a man far too free with information after too brief an acquaintance.

He resumed his seat and opened a desk drawer, retrieving his investigator’s report on Netherfield Park. The estate was the largest in the district, a few miles from a small market town called Meryton. It yielded five thousand pounds a year—hardly a fortune compared to his present income.

Born into poverty, Fiennes had begun his career in the seedier quarters of London. He first apprenticed himself to a landlord named Bacchus, who discerned his intelligence and taught him all he knew of surviving in the city’s underbelly. Bacchus could read and write—a rare skill in those parts—his mother having been the daughter of a gentleman cast off for falling with child out of wedlock. By a stroke of fortune, Fiennes was later introduced to a usurer named Morton, who likewise perceived his worth and made the young man his protégé.

After ten years in Morton’s service, Fiennes grew restless. Morton’s dealings were limited to tradesmen, from whom he earned barely a thousand pounds per year. He lived in a shabby boarding house, hoarding every penny he could. Averse to risk, he preferred meagre profits to ventures of greater promise. In the end, Morton’s timidity confined him to the same narrow sphere he had long inhabited. Fiennes, however, desired far more.

He began to frequent Cheapside, where wealthy tradesmen kept their warehouses, and many proved easy prey. When he brought Morton nearly double his former income, the old man at last recognised the benefit of expanding his business. Unfortunately for him, Fiennes had learned that he could prosper alone. He took his due from Morton and left him with scarcely enough to survive.

Fiennes felt no guilt in departing with several thousand pounds. Morton owed his recent success to his apprentice, and Fiennes considered the money no more than his rightful share.

With his eyes on the future, he rented a small office near Cheapside from which to conduct his own affairs. He began modestly, unwilling to draw undue notice. Such business demanded finesse. He must earn the tradesmen’s trust and establish a reputation for fairness and probity. Fiennes would work within the bounds of the law, bending and twisting it so that none could lay a hand on him.

His first conquest was Arthur Reed, a young man who had just inherited his father’s concern; he longed for an easy life and came to Fiennes seeking fortune through investment. His father’s will forbade him from drawing on company funds, and so Fiennes gladly lent him a substantial sum. Reed’s chosen speculation was ill-advised, but who was Fiennes to dissuade him?

Fiennes allowed the young fool ample time to repay the loan. It was hardly surprising when Reed appeared before him in tears, begging for an extension. “It is all gone. The speculation failed spectacularly.”

“My three thousand pounds?” Fiennes feigned surprise. “How, then, will you repay your debt?”

“Give me six months!” The plea burst out of him, raw with fear. “I shall get it.”

“It will be a further two hundred pounds for the extension,” Fiennes warned. “If you cannot pay by then, I shall have no recourse but to take your company in settlement.”

Reed stared at him. “My company is worth far more than a few thousand pounds!”

“So, it is. Then I shall merely take what I am owed in shares.” It was a sound notion. By acquiring shares, Fiennes would secure an income for years to come. Three thousand pounds and interest would certainly pay for a significant number of shares. Perhaps even enough to grant him control, he mused.

“Agreed.” Reed looked hopeful. “I shall have your money in six months.”

Fiennes doubted it. Presenting his quarry with a new contract, he extended the pen.

To no one’s surprise, Reed failed to pay on time. Worse, he had attempted to embezzle funds from his company, prompting his business partner to sell his shares. Fiennes acquired them quietly, fully aware that once Reed surrendered his in payment, control would be his.

Reed was livid when he learnt the truth. Fiennes installed his own men to oversee the company and sat back as the profits poured in. Reed, holding too few shares to be heard, became little more than a clerk in his own factory—his father’s toil rendered worthless. In time, he sold his remaining shares to Fiennes for a fraction of their value, declaring that even the pittance was preferable to remaining beneath Fiennes’s thumb.

Fiennes returned to the present, a smug sense of satisfaction stirring in his chest at the recollection of his early days, as he termed them. He had moved from place to place, establishing connexions and ruining men before passing on to the next. By degrees, he developed a reputation as a fair and law-abiding man, though many whispered cautions in dealing with him.

There were some, however, whom he did not strip of all they possessed. The wealthier sort often escaped his schemes, for they had families with sufficient means and influence to rescue them. Fiennes did not begrudge it; such appearances preserved his true purposes. Clients continued to visit his offices in search of money; and, because there were some successful repayments, he escaped censure when another was ruined.

Yet, eventually, restlessness set in. He had amassed a fortune and held several prosperous businesses. He was known in every circle and welcomed into all but the loftiest ranks of society. Still, he was unsatisfied. He longed to elevate himself beyond his present situation.

“All in good time.” He set the latest agreement aside with deliberate care and rang the bell for his clerk. Richard Wilkens was his name—a thin, bespectacled fellow with a wiry frame and a keen head for business.

“Send men to Hertfordshire without delay. Fields will attempt to return.” He handed over the papers.  “Here is the signed agreement. If necessary, consult the local magistrate—he is not to set foot on my property.”

“Yes, sir.” Wilkens nodded. “Will you be travelling to Hertfordshire yourself?”

“Not yet.” Fiennes rose and stepped from behind his desk. “I must see my business affairs in order before retiring to the country.”

Wilkens bowed and withdrew, leaving his master to his thoughts.

I am five-and-thirty. Most would say I have done well for so young a man. What else is there? He did not know, but he intended to discover it.

It took some time to arrange his affairs. He trusted no one entirely with his interests; a master ignorant of the goings-on around him was an easy target. He ought to know—had he not sought out such men himself, many times over?

At length, after two months, he was ready to depart. His house in town, purchased the previous year and situated on a fashionable street a stone’s throw from Hyde Park, was closed for the season. He ordered the refurbishment of several rooms in his absence before stepping into his carriage to embark on a new venture.

He had avoided the country for many years. Raised in London, the stillness and restraint of country life held little charm for him. What could it offer that might rival London and all its diversions? Yet he must review Netherfield Park, catalogue its contents, and determine what was to be done with it. He could sell it, though letting the property might prove the wiser course. Only a thorough examination would supply the information he required, and he trusted no other hand to perform it.

The journey occupied several hours. Fiennes alternated between watching the landscape from the window, reading, and consulting his journal. Within its pages lay the names of several men ripe for harvest in the coming months. Foremost among them was Lord Carlisle, who had borrowed against his secondary estate, a pretty property in Kent. The nobleman’s eldest son, Viscount Norton, was a notorious gambler, and the earldom strained beneath the weight of the heir’s debts. The father hoped that his speculations would discharge them.

Heaven forfend they should sell the secondary estate. Such is ever the pride of the peerage; to part with land is to part with consequence.

It was nearly tea-time when the carriage turned from the main road and proceeded along a sweeping drive. Fiennes set aside his journal and peered through the window, eager for the first sight of his new estate. A true gentleman at last.

Chapter Two:

Fiennes examined each room with care, his assistant, Wilkens, following close behind and noting particulars in his memorandum book. Netherfield Park was in tolerable condition, though certain areas required attention. The ballroom, for instance, bore the marks of neglect; before it might be presentable for company, the oak floor would need to be planed smooth, then dry-scrubbed with fine white sand, and afterwards stained and polished.

When they retired to the study, Fiennes asked, “Have you an accurate accounting?”

“Yes, sir.” Wilkens nodded eagerly, his spectacles sliding down his nose as he did. “I shall write the letters and dispatch them to London without delay.”

“Very good.” Fiennes clasped his hands behind his back and crossed to the window, surveying the verdant gardens beyond. “You may go.” His eyes remained fixed on the pleasant view. Morgan Fields would miss it, for all his bluster that he disliked estate management. And now it belonged to him—his first estate, his official entry into the ranks of the gentry.

Few knew the truth of his origins. If he managed matters with discretion, no one ever would. He would be welcomed into the neighbourhood with open arms; the denizens eager to court the favour of the single gentleman of fortune newly settled amongst them. A perfect opportunity to prosper.

Within a se’nnight, several gentlemen called to introduce themselves. Most were dull, unremarkable men, save one. Mr Thomas Bennet of Longbourn, the neighbouring estate and the second largest in the area, appeared to possess more discernment than the rest.

“Welcome to Hertfordshire, sir,” said Mr Bennet, when calling at Netherfield. “I must own, we were all surprised when Fields sold the place. I know he prefers town to the country and was eager to spend more time there now that his daughters are married.” There was a glimmer of intelligence in Bennet’s eyes. Fiennes wondered, though only briefly, whether Fields had confided in him, but dismissed the thought at once. Fields was like all the others—so absorbed in himself that, when at last he fell, there would be none to uphold him. Pride would ensure his silence to all but those who absolutely needed to understand his situation.

“I could not pass on the opportunity to acquire Netherfield Park,” Fiennes accepted the man’s offered hand with deliberate civility. “I have been received with warmth.”

Bennet laughed. “Be warned; there are many mothers in our corner of the country eager to marry off their daughters. I dare say you have already been apprised.”

Fiennes gave a quiet laugh, amused that the man knew his neighbours so well. “Aye, let me see if I recollect. Sir William Lucas has a daughter—Charlotte, I believe—two-and-twenty years of age. Mr Goulding has one daughter of marriageable years—Miss Harriet Goulding, said to be ‘lovely and refined.’ And then there is Mr Long, who hosts his two nieces, Priscilla and Penelope.”

“You have it nearly complete, sir, save the tradesmen and their families. I myself have five daughters, though only one is out, and she is but seventeen.”

“Five?” Fiennes allowed himself a fleeting look of amusement. “My, that is a veritable profusion of femininity.”

“I confess I grow weary of lace, ribbons, and embroidery. Had Providence favoured us with a son, I should be more content in my own house. For now, the girls are largely occupied with their studies. We mean to engage a governess for the younger three. Jane and Elizabeth have no need of one—their aunt has attended to their improvement.”

Fiennes observed Bennet closely as the man continued speaking. With a few well-placed questions, he learned that Longbourn was entailed away from the female line and that no portion was set aside for the daughters’ dowries. Folly. Yet, advantageous for me.

“I mean to invest some capital in a venture, in hopes of providing a dowry for Jane and Elizabeth. The others are far from needing one.” Bennet looked well pleased with himself.

“I have dabbled in investments myself,” Fiennes’s manner betrayed nothing beyond polite interest.

“You have done exceedingly well if you managed to purchase this estate from Fields,” Bennet remarked. “You cannot be more than five-and-thirty.”

Fiennes lowered his eyes briefly, the very picture of modesty. “I do not wish to boast, but yes. My parents left me little enough, and I was forced to make my own way. I flatter myself that I have made a success of my life despite the circumstances in which they left me.” Enough truth to satisfy curiosity was all his guest needed.

Mr Bennet nodded sagely. “That speaks well of you, sir. I am pleased we are neighbours and look forward to knowing you better. For now, my wife extends an invitation for you to dine with us in two days’ time. We should be most happy if you would accept.”

“Thank you. I have no fixed engagements.” Fiennes rose and escorted his friendly neighbour to the door. When the man had gone, he reviewed in his mind the list of gentlemen who had called at Netherfield the past few days.

Sir William Lucas was a knight, though not of long standing, if Fiennes were to judge. He fancied himself the foremost gentleman in the vicinity, though his speech betrayed the lack of a genteel upbringing. He had three sons and two daughters, but spoke chiefly of the latter. The elder, Charlotte, was of marriageable age; the younger, Miss Maria, was only ten. Sir William seemed eager to advance his eldest, which led Fiennes to wonder what defect she concealed.

Sir William appeared intelligent enough, though not overly so. His dress was plain, suggesting a past marked by thrift or want. He would not serve as a prudent mark.

Arthur Goulding had one daughter and two sons. Both boys were still at school, and his daughter had been out two years. Goulding spoke at length of his flaxen-haired children, especially his daughter. He admitted that his estate was in good order, though it was his business interests that yielded the greater part of his income. He mentioned his late father, who had nearly ruined the property before his death. That gentleman, Fiennes decided, would prove too wary to invest with him.

Rupert Long, meanwhile, had the care of his two nieces—Miss Priscilla, one-and-twenty, and Miss Penelope, nineteen. He showed little eagerness to see them married, declaring that they possessed substantial dowries and that he drew only the interest of their capital for their maintenance. He insisted his nieces had no wish to marry. Long bore watching; he might serve, but not yet.

It was the master of Longbourn who appeared every inch the gentleman ripe for harvest: five daughters, a modest income, and nothing reserved for dowries or emergencies. His clothes were well cut and of costly cloth, and his manner suggested a man who would welcome additional funds. His eyes had brightened when he spoke of investment. And though his motives sounded charitable, Fiennes discerned a certain indolence, a complacency regarding his estate.

These gentlemen never valued what they possessed before Fiennes stripped it from them. It was his right to do so; if they were too foolish to manage their affairs, he would gladly do it in their stead. Though Longbourn was entailed, there were other means of obtaining what he wanted. Bennet would be ruined, and too proud to do aught but capitulate to his demands.

Two days later, attired in his finest waistcoat, Fiennes arrived at Longbourn. He knew he cut a fine figure. His light-brown hair was artfully arranged to appear carelessly dishevelled; he had attended to every detail. The gold-and-diamond sleeve buttons and matching cravat pin testified to his wealth—subtle, deliberate signs of showing his prosperity.

Longbourn appeared well-kept. The red-brick house was softened by climbing ivy and roses. From his discreet inquiries, Fiennes had gained a sense of the estate’s income, and two thousand a year proved a disappointment. Bennet likely lacked ready funds for indulgence, but that would not hinder Fiennes from cultivating his friendship until the proper moment to strike. People, after all, were tools—useful only to those clever enough to wield them.

The door opened to reveal an elderly butler, who admitted him and led the way to a large parlour on the east side of the house. It was perfectly suited to evening use, for the sun had long passed, leaving the room pleasantly cool.

“Mr Damian Fiennes,” the butler announced.

“Thank you, Hill.” Bennet rose. “Mr Fiennes, we are pleased you could join us. Allow me to present my wife, Mrs Frances Bennet, and our two eldest daughters, Miss Jane Bennet and Miss Elizabeth. My Lizzy is particularly delighted—this is her first formal dinner.”

Fiennes bowed and then straightened, intent on studying the family. Mrs Bennet’s hands fluttered, her eyes darting about. She spoke in quick, shrill bursts, confirming his suspicion that she was not of gentle birth. Even in the first moments of their acquaintance, she had managed two or three small breaches of decorum.

Miss Bennet was a young woman of great beauty. At seventeen, her charms were already considerable, and Fiennes had no doubt she would grow still lovelier in time. Yet her downcast eyes and timid replies failed to hold his interest. Others might censure his habit of judging swiftly, but he prided himself on the accuracy of his assessments; he was rarely mistaken.

His attention turned to Miss Elizabeth. Before him stood a spirited beauty of fifteen years. Chestnut-brown curls framed her face; her composure trembled on the edge of excitement, fighting to maintain a calm demeanour. Her eyes sparkled with amusement as she greeted him warmly. The dulcet tones of her voice washed over him, and to his surprise, he found himself inexplicably intrigued by the diminutive creature.

That interest endured throughout the meal, and while he attempted to converse equally with all those at table, his gaze kept returning, almost involuntarily, to Miss Elizabeth. She spoke with animation, intelligence, and modesty—rare in women of his acquaintance. Her sister, by contrast, uttered scarcely ten words all evening. Miss Elizabeth, however, could not seem to help herself, equally participating in the conversation, and even venturing into debate with her father.

Fiennes observed the exchange, fascinated. He had never before met a young lady able to match a man’s reasoning, and Bennet did not temper his arguments for her sake, either. The more Fiennes watched, the greater his curiosity became.

When the ladies rose, signalling the close of dinner, Bennet remained seated. Fiennes leaned back, awaiting the port.

“I hope you do not object to the lack of tobacco, Mr Fiennes.” Bennet poured two glasses. “Mrs Bennet cannot abide the smell and insists I refrain.”

“That is quite understandable.” Fiennes accepted the glass and sipped with evident satisfaction, inclining his head in approval. “Your daughters are charming,” he said, hoping to draw the gentleman into speaking further.

Bennet’s grin broadened. “Indeed, they are exceptional. Jane is her mother’s pride and joy—a rare beauty. Her uncle was obliged to dismiss a man from her company two years past for writing her execrable poetry and refusing to leave her be. My Jane is tender-hearted and the picture of elegance and propriety.”

“Your younger daughter is her equal?” Fiennes’s interest appeared casual.

His host looked pleased. “No. Elizabeth surpasses her sister entirely. Though Jane is educated, it is Lizzy who owns true intellect. She is every bit as clever as a man—cleverer, I dare say. And though she lacks classical beauty, she is a lovely girl and more than tolerably handsome. With her lively disposition and ability to make anyone feel at ease, Elizabeth will marry far better than any of her sisters.”

And she is your favourite. Excellent. That may serve me well.

They rejoined the ladies, and Fiennes seated himself near the young ladies. An attempt to engage Miss Bennet in conversation elicited little beyond polite monosyllables; the handkerchief in her lap twisted under nervous fingers. Her discomfort amused him, and smirking inwardly, he took quiet pleasure in having unsettled her.

“Miss Elizabeth, I understand from the conversation at dinner that you are fond of walking.” Attentive, he leaned nearer, the movement deliberate rather than impulsive.

She answered his motion with a graceful inclination. “I am, sir. I walk out every morning when the weather is fine.”

“Do you venture far from your father’s lands?”

She nodded eagerly. “I have walked three miles over the fields to Netherfield before. Oakham Mount is my favourite walk, though.”

“Oakham Mount?” Feigning curiosity, he asked, “What is that?”

“Oh, it is nothing more than a small hill, but that is what we call it. It lies between Longbourn and Netherfield. Meryton is to the east. From the summit one may look out across the fields for miles, and it is a particularly fine place to watch the sunrise.”

If more people only knew how much they revealed in idle parlour talk, the world would be filled with recluses. The girl is giving me all I require, and more.

“Do you walk alone?” He inclined his head, as though the notion troubled him.

Miss Elizabeth laughed merrily. “There is no danger to me here, sir! I know every soul in Meryton and the surrounding parts. They would never harm me. No, I am quite content to keep myself company on my adventures.”

He studied her laughter as another man might study a ledger—estimating its value, the weight it might carry with her father, the cost of owning it entirely.

“Much to her mama’s despair.” Bennet rose and joined them, taking a chair opposite the settee where his daughters sat. “Elizabeth comes home with muddy hems and filthy petticoats more often than not.”

“Headstrong girl!” Mrs Bennet interjected sharply. “She has no consideration for my poor nerves. But Jane is the picture of propriety, do you not think so?”

And dreadfully dull. There would be no amusement at all in… Fiennes checked the thought and inclined his head with practiced grace. “Miss Bennet is everything that is lovely.” His courteous nod encompassed both the matron and the young lady.

Later that evening, Fiennes sat before the cold hearth in his chambers. A single candle burned, its wavering flame throwing unsteady shadows across the room. His elbows rested on his knees, fingers steepled as he glowered into the darkness, deep in thought.

For the first time in his life, he desired something beyond money. After only the briefest acquaintance, he wanted Miss Elizabeth Bennet—wanted her with a desperation that eclipsed any craving for estate, business, or jewel. He longed to make her his—to own her, and capture that bright, defiant spirit—only to crush it, to mould her into his own design.

Had someone known what he was about, they might wonder why the younger sister and not the elder. The answer was simple: Jane Bennet presented no challenge. Compliant and soft-spoken, she would give way too readily; there would be no satisfaction in shaping her. Only in mastering the wilful and impertinent younger sister could his hunger be appeased.

Happy Holidays everyone!

Cheers,

MJ

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