A Christmas Tail for Christmas Eve 2025

by Katherine Eileen Dowling 

Author’s Blog: The Quiet Before the Snow

Christmas Eve dawned with a deceptive, porcelain beauty. In the high-altitude silence of the Welsh coast and the sheltered valleys of Ashbury, the light was the same—thin, pale, and brittle. It was a moment of absolute stillness before the storm, both literal and metaphorical.

Ashbury: The Clinical Reality

At the Ashbury estate, the day began with the cold precision of a field hospital. Ewan and Jamie sat at the breakfast table, the rest of the world sleeping on, unaware of the quiet war against decay the family waged daily. Jamie pored over her list of appointments, her brow furrowed with a grim focus.

“I have a full ulcer clinic today,” she remarked, the words sounding stark against the clink of silver.

“Wonderful. And would you be so kind as not to discuss the details while I finish my breakfast?” Ewan sighed, looking at his egg with sudden disdain.

“Sorry, dear. I forget how squeamish you are about those injuries.” Jamie rose, kissing the top of his head before smoothing down her navy scrubs. She preferred her dresses, but in this inclement weather, the heavy fabric was a necessary armor. As she opened the front door, the porcelain morning shattered—a northerly blast of ice hissed into the hall. She sniffed the air, her eyes narrowing at the horizon. “It’s going to snow later. Those clouds are ominous.”

“You always say that, and it’s never forecasted,” Ewan replied, draping her long winter coat over her shoulders. “It will turn to rain.”

Treameaden Bay: The Fragile Peace

Hundreds of miles away, on the edge of Treameaden Bay, Dre was leaning against the cold stone of a rented cottage, thinking the exact same thing. She watched the distant fields, the sky turning the color of a bruised plum. She pulled her oiled wool Aran sweater closer to her body, the heavy fibers smelling of sheep and salt.

“It’s going to snow later,” she whispered into the wind.

“Good. We will hire a snowmobile rather than a jet-ski,” Gus grinned, appearing behind her and wrapping his arms around her. He was a mirror to her in his own cream-colored cable-knit, his warmth a stark contrast to the Welsh air. “I could get used to this.”

“It’s good that Shep loaned the sweaters to us; they must cost a fortune,” she remarked, leaning back into him. “Are you okay?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” he soothed, leading her back into the living room where a roaring fire blasted out a heat that felt almost aggressive.

The table was set with hot buttered crumpets and a pot of fresh farm jam, the steam from the tea rising in lazy curls. Dre tucked her feet up on the sofa, leaning into his side. “I am okay, love. I’ve had time to get used to Christmas not being the same anymore. I’m grateful you brought me here. Perhaps in a few years, I can embrace it again.”

“Give yourself time, love. There’s plenty of time,” Gus reminded her.

As they sat in the flickering firelight, the domesticity felt fragile, like thin ice on a pond. Gus felt the melted butter slip down his chin and Dre laughed—a small, genuine sound that made his heart ache. She reached for a cloth to wipe it away, her mouth slightly parted.

“Dre?” Gus whispered. The air between them shifted, growing heavy. “Would it make you uncomfortable if I kissed you?”

Dre faltered. He had kissed her at the Fayre without a second thought. Why the hesitation now? “No, it wouldn't, Gus. You didn't ask last time, so why…?”

“This might be more… er…” He didn't finish. He caught hold of her gently.

This kiss was nothing like the platonic touch of the market. It was deep, explorative, and for Dre, it felt like drowning in a sea of ecstatic happiness. Tentatively, she kissed him back, her fingers finding the long curls at the nape of his neck that she so loved.

But then, as quickly as the magic had flared, the darkness surged. Dre tensed, her body becoming as rigid as a board. She pushed at him gently, the "unfurling" within her—that cold, light-drinking void—reacting to the intimacy as if it were a threat.

“Just hold me,” she whispered, trembling against him. “Just hold me.”

Gus nodded, his surgeon’s hands becoming a steady anchor as he pulled her tight. He watched the firelight dance on the walls, feeling her drift into a shallow, fitful sleep. He had heard her whimpering in the night, the secrets of the wallet and the grief of her mother twisting her dreams into something sharp.

In Ashbury, they were preparing for ulcers and snow. Here, in the salt air, Gus realized he was preparing for a much more dangerous operation: saving a soul that didn't yet know it was hollowed out.

Author’s Blog: Labours of Love and Duty

As the pale light of midday settled over the coast, the deceptive "quiet" of the morning began to fracture. In the shadows of the stone outbuildings and the sterile, linoleum-scented halls of the surgery, new life was stirring—and with it, the heavy, invisible pressure of responsibility.

The Barn at Angel Bay: A Primal Vigil

In the dim cathedral of the cottage barn, Shep stood beside the mare, his hand a steady weight on her flank. The air here was thick—a humid soup of sweet hay, old timber, and the rhythmic, labored breath of a horse in distress.

“Alright, old girl. You’re in labour, love. About time,” he soothed, his voice low to match the rustle of straw. He glanced at his watch; the cold steel of the casing felt like a bite against his wrist in the damp air. “But you would pick Christmas Eve, wouldn't you? It’s a devil of a job getting a vet out now.”

The mare whinnied, a sharp, rolling sound that echoed off the rafters. She began to scratch at the floor, her hoof carving a restless, desperate arc in the dirt.

“Okay, okay... just hang in there, little lady.” He offered a treat, but she tossed her head, her eyes rolling back to show the whites, wild and glazed in the half-light. “Alright, you really are in a bad way.”

He retreated to a low wooden stool, wrapping his hands around a mug of tea that had long since surrendered its heat. He settled in to watch the heavy rise and fall of her ribs. “Contractions are still a bit thin on the ground, I reckon. You’re going to have to grin and bear it for a while yet.”

It was going to be a long day. He decided to give her another hour of peace before heading back to the house to check on Dre and Gus. He couldn't shake the feeling that the stillness outside wasn't peace—it was a held breath.

Ashbury: The Surgery Briefing

Meanwhile, at the Ashbury practice, Ewan faced his team. The morning clinics were officially closed, but the atmosphere in the staff room was far from festive. It felt more like a pre-flight briefing for a storm.

“Right, the general clinics are done. We have this afternoon and evening surgery and then we’re finished. But,” he paused, his gaze sweeping over the tired faces, “there are fourteen women due to give birth tonight. We can take six off the board; they were admitted this morning.”

He tapped a capped pen against the whiteboard, the sound like a metronome. “That leaves eight. None of them are home births, but the hospital won’t take them until they’re truly ‘active.’ And as we know, those early contractions can be a long, cruel road. Sally, you’re up to speed on the obs procedures?”

“Yes, I was on Obstetrics with Carl for a year before I moved to OHO,” she replied, leaning against the counter with a weary but capable posture.

“Alex and I have seen a few,” Ewan noted. “Jamie has seen her fair share. Ava is with Grace today. Melissa?”

“Yes, Ewan. I’ve seen a few, done a few, taught a few,” Melissa replied firmly. Her tone was a steel door, leaving no room for doubt.

“James, what about you?”

James offered an affable, youthful smile—the kind that usually charmed the elderly patients—but there was a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. He was a brilliant anaesthetist, but his world was usually controlled and chemical. “Seen plenty of caesareans, Ewan, sir. But I haven’t actually delivered one myself,” he admitted.

Ewan nodded, his expression unreadable. “Right. We’ll need to get you on an Obstetrics rotation for a fortnight. You need to know the mechanics and, more importantly, the complications. My point is: everyone stays alert. Stay on call. Stay ready. Roslin has the birth kits prepped.”

James shifted, looking slightly defensive. “What about the District Midwives?”

“We have two, James. Most of these women should make it to the hospital, but we have to be the safety net. We prep and we go. Except you,” Ewan clarified.

James felt the sting of being sidelined. “Surely it’s just a matter of her pushing and me catching?”

“There is a lot more to it than that, James,” Ewan countered, his voice hardening. “We aren't letting you off the hook for long; you’re training to be a country GP. We don't have the luxury of the city specialists here. If the locum service can't get through the snow, we're it.”

“I’ve seen lambs and foals delivered,” James muttered, a trace of youthful arrogance peaking through his frustration.

“Well, when the local vet needs a hand, feel free. Until then, get yourself trained and you can have all the deliveries next Christmas,” Ewan replied dryly.

“Ewan, send him on Boxing Day,” Sally smirked. “That’ll have him ready for the New Year’s Eve rush.”

A ripple of mutual, knowing laughter finally broke the clinical tension.

“Alright, meeting over,” Ewan announced, gesturing toward the table. “Roslin has made mince pies. There’s non-alcoholic mulled wine, tea, and coffee. Back at your stations by 3:00 PM, please.”

As the team moved toward the food, Ewan looked out the window. The sky over the village was bruising, turning a heavy, leaden grey. He knew that for the mare in the barn and the women in the valleys, the real work—the painful, transformative work—was only just beginning.

Author’s Blog: The Domestics of Ashbury

As the clinical briefing dissolved, a temporary festive cheer masked the underlying tension of the night ahead. In Ashbury, the domestic and the professional don't just sit side-by-side; they are inextricably braided together.

The Secret Santa: A Tradition of Knowing

“You forgot something, Ewan,” Melissa interjected, her hand resting on a stack of brightly wrapped parcels. “Secret Santa. The gifts are in.”

The shift in energy was immediate. Ewan laughed softly, the lines around his eyes crinkling in a way that signaled a brief truce with his responsibilities. “Right, you heard her. Hand over whoever you got.”

He stepped toward Roslin, swapping a small, neatly tied box for hers. It was a ritual they had performed for years. “Every year, Roslin. We end up with each other’s names. The odds are statistically impossible, and yet...”

“Well, at least we now know what each other likes,” she chuckled, her voice like a warm hearth.

“We do, Roslin.” Ewan pulled her into a brief, sincere hug. “Thank you. For everything. And a very Happy Christmas.”

The room filled with the rustle of tearing paper. Nearby, James approached Jamie with a shy, youthful smile. “Sister?” he said, offering a package. Jamie exchanged her gift for his, her eyes bright with amusement.

“Enjoy, and please—call me Jamie,” she insisted.

James blushed, the tips of his ears turning a tell-tale pink. “Sister Jamie,” he laughed, the title feeling less like a clinical rank and more like an endearment in the shared warmth of the room.

Across the room, Melissa hugged Alex. “Alex, you and I again! Happy Christmas.”

“Thank you, Melissa. And Happy Christmas to you and your little arrival,” Alex replied, nodding toward her bump. He lingered for a second, his doctor’s instinct never quite turning off. “You’re not on the list for tonight, are you?”

Melissa laughed, her hand moving instinctively to the life stirring beneath the fabric. “No, another month or two. I don’t leave until January.”

Grace and the Emerald Scarf

The ease of the moment was bolstered by the arrival of Ava and Grace, who brought a burst of cold winter air and an extra tray of pies. Grace was, as always, the sun around which the staff orbited. In Ashbury, the "Christmas Santa" tradition meant she was often over-indulged, but no one seemed to mind.

Roslin produced a package wrapped in emerald tissue paper. “A special one for you, dearie.”

Grace tore into it, her eyes widening as the green wool spilled out. “A scarf! Thank you, I will wear it for Mass later,” she grinned, wrapping the soft, hand-knitted wool around her neck.

“I made the main colour green to match your eyes,” Roslin said, drawing the girl into a tight hug. Sally had provided bath bombs, and Grace was already mentally planning her pre-Mass soak.

For Grace, the Christmas Eve Mass was the pinnacle of the year. It wasn't just the carols; it was the "special guest" who always appeared. She loved the continuity of it—the way the world felt right because of these repeating patterns, save for that one year when Gus had stepped in to fill the boots.

The Blurred Lines: Medicine and Ministry

As the clock ticked toward three, the atmosphere pivoted back to the work. The transformation was subtle but total.

“Are you sure you have everything you need, Alex?” Roslin asked, her maternal instincts refocusing on him as he prepared to head out. “You’re not going to be making house calls on the way, are you?”

“I have two calls. Mr. Dodson and little Miles,” Alex replied, adjusting his collar. “And yes, I’ll be in full dress.”

“That sweet child will love seeing you all dressed up. You’re such an asset to Ashbury, Alex,” Roslin remarked.

“Well, after Ewan’s health crash, it seemed natural to take over,” Alex said quietly, his voice dropping an octave as he acknowledged the weight of the mantle he now wore.

Sally sidled up to him, a list in hand. “Alex, can you fit in two more? Maybe after the service? The care home.”

Alex frowned slightly. “I’m back there tomorrow afternoon anyway, Sally.”

“I know, but this is special. Please. Mrs. Trippley asked for Father Christmas to specifically call tonight with... well, a special request.”

The frown deepened. “The priest can take her Holy Communion, Sally. I am not dressing up as Father Christmas and then offering Holy Communion. It doesn't seem right.”

“I’ll do it,” James suggested, eager to bridge the gap and prove his utility to the team.

“No, you have to be back at Camberlain tonight,” Roslin retorted firmly. “Richard has rang twice to remind me to let you go at four.”

“I can drop in with Holy Communion on the way,” James countered. He reached into his medical bag—a bag designed for scalpels and vials—and pulled out his pyx. The small, circular silver container caught the dim light.

In Ashbury, the line between healing the body and tending the soul was always blurred. On Christmas Eve, they became one and the same.

Author’s Blog: Whispers in the Snow

The transition from the holy to the heavy happened in the space of a heartbeat. In Ashbury, the church was a cocoon of gold leaf and velvet, but outside, the "beautiful curse" of the snow was beginning to isolate the living from the help they so desperately needed.

The Beacon in the Suit

Inside St. Martin De Poore, Dr. Alex was a beacon. Still radiating the biting cold of the outdoors but padded by the heavy, crimson Father Christmas suit, he became a sanctuary for the children.

Grace clung to him, her face buried in the synthetic white beard. To her, it was magic; to him, it was a disguise that smelled faintly of his own woodsy aftershave. Ava watched them from the pews, feeling a complicated twist of emotion. She saw the uncomplicated safety Grace felt and realized, as Polly whispered beside her, that those days were drifting away like the snow outside.

“Two midwives, Polly—you’re not off duty yet,” Ava reminded her friend. The snow was a silent predator. It hushed the roads, but for the laboring women of the valley, it meant a terrifying isolation. Tonight, the 'ladies' of the parish were ready to drop in more ways than one.

Panic at Angel Bay

While the carols hummed in the village, the silence at Angel Bay was broken by the rhythmic, heavy thud of hooves against straw.

Shep was a man transformed by stress. Pacing the length of the stall with a phone pressed to his ear, he begged the vet to move faster. “I know it’s snowing hard, Miller, but she’s in trouble. Something isn’t right.”

Shimmer was sweating through her coat, her eyes rolled back to show the whites—a universal sign of distress that transcended species. When Gus and Dre returned from the service, the festive spell was instantly broken by Shep’s silhouette against the stable light.

“Gus! I need a second opinion,” Shep called out, stumbling through the drifts. “Do you happen to have a stethoscope?”

The transformation in Gus was immediate. The relaxed, post-church warmth vanished, replaced by the sharp, clinical focus of a man who spent his life balanced on the edge of the abyss. “In my emergency kit. Is it Shimmer?”

The Impossible Delivery

Inside the stable, the world narrowed down to the sound of a racing heart. Gus pressed the cold metal to the mare's flank and felt the frantic, uneven drumbeat.

“Shep,” Gus said quietly, his voice devoid of its usual comfort. “The foal is turned. We don’t have time for Miller to get through the drifts.”

Outside, Dre watched the snow fall into her hair, a blanket wrapped around her against the chill. She had seen Gus return looking like a snowman—his thick, creamy white jumper ruined by mud and ice.

“You’re going to deliver a foal?” she had asked, the weight of the night finally landing.

“They both die if we don’t, love,” Gus replied. It wasn't a boast; it was a cold, hard fact.

The Miracle at Angel Bay

“I think it’s breech,” Shep shouted over the howling wind. He looked at Gus, his face etched with a grim, hollow urgency. “I need to get a rope around the hind legs and create traction. The vet has equipment I don’t, so this is a two-man job. Gus, do you think Dre is strong enough to keep her head down? If she thrashes, we’ll lose the foal—and the mare.”

“I’ll do it,” Dre said, stepping forward without a second thought. She looked at Gus, who was already stripping off his watch and shoving it into his pocket.

“Always the surgeon,” Shep grunted, though the relief in his voice was unmistakable. “Well, get to it. Lather your arm well with the soap. You’ll need to go in deep. I’ll talk you through it.”

Gus didn't hesitate. He soaped his arm until it was slick, his movements turning clinical even in the flickering lantern light. He held his breath as he entered the birth canal.

“It’s a tight fit,” he gritted out, his face pale with concentration. “I can feel the hocks… they’re tucked under.”

“You have to push him back slightly,” Shep instructed, his hand steady on Shimmer’s neck. “Just enough to gain space to extend those hind legs. Careful of the hooves, Gus. If she contracts while you’re in there, she’ll crush your hand.”

Dre moved to Shimmer’s head, sinking her knees into the damp straw. “Easy now, Shimmer. Easy, girl,” she soothed, her voice a low, steady anchor in the storm. She wrapped the leather lead around her wrists, bracing herself against the floor. The mare let out a low, guttural groan of agony, her body tensing like a drawn bowstring. “Easy, easy love. A proper surgeon has you now.”

“I’ve got the rope around the first leg,” Gus gasped, his forehead beaded with sweat despite the biting cold. “I’m going back for the second.”

Seconds felt like hours. Finally, Gus withdrew his arm, red and slick. “Ropes are secure. Dre, move! I need your weight on this line.”

“Traction!” Shep yelled. “Only when she pushes! Now! Pull!”

Dre grabbed the coarse hemp rope, wrapping it around her thick wool jumper to protect her skin. She wasn't just a helper; she was the pulley, the counter-weight to Shimmer’s heaving strength. Beside her, a man from the neighboring farm—stuck in the snow like the rest of them—joined the line. “You three need a medal if this foal lives,” he muttered, throwing his full weight into the effort.

With a final, sickening squelch of fluid and straw, the foal slid out into the world.

For a heartbeat, there was total silence. The foal lay motionless, encased in a shimmering, translucent sac. Gus didn't wait. He dropped to his knees, tearing the membrane away from the foal's nose and mouth. He cleared the mucus with his fingers, his surgeon's instincts overriding his exhaustion.

A sharp, wet sneeze. The foal’s chest heaved.

“He’s breathing,” Gus whispered, his voice cracking.

Shimmer let out a long, exhausted whinny. Shep was already there, patting her flank, rubbing her hard to stimulate the final contractions.

A few minutes later, the vet finally trudged through the door, caked in snow. He took one look at the shivering foal already trying to find its feet and the bloody, exhausted trio in the straw.

“You did the hard part,” the vet said, his voice calm and professional as he knelt to examine the newcomer. He gave Shimmer an injection to help her deliver the placenta. “He’s a fighter. One hour to stand, two to nurse. If he hits those marks, he’ll be fine.”

Dre shivered, the adrenaline finally leaving her body. Gus, wet, muddy, and bloody, wrapped his arms around her and kissed her cold cheek.

“Well done, love,” he soothed. “Merry Christmas.”

The Red Velvet Emergency

Outside the main house, the atmosphere was a world away from the silent, bloody struggle in the barn. The air was bright with the sound of Grace’s shrieks. She had just landed a perfect, powdery blow against the side of Ewan’s neck.

“Got you Grandad!” she yelled, dancing back into a drift.

“You sure did,” Ewan grinned, his face flushed. He lunged forward, catching her around the waist and swinging her over his shoulder. “Look, it’s a snow angel in flight!”

“Dad,” Ava called out from the porch, a soft smile playing on her lips, “put her down before she loses her cocoa.” She looked around, the house glowing warmly behind her. “Where’s Alex? He’s missing all the fun.”

She stepped inside, the heavy oak door thudding shut against the wind. She found him in the study, but the sight made her stop in her tracks. Alex was slumped in a high-backed leather chair, staring at his reflection in the darkened window. He was draped in an old, heavy red velvet suit, the white faux-fur trim slightly yellowed with age.

“Last time ever,” he whispered, patting the roundness of the costume.

“Well, until Grace has children... or, you know, anyone else in the family way,” Ava said, her voice dropping to a sultry tease. She closed the door, turning the lock with a soft click. She crossed the room and kissed him deeply. “I love you, Father Christmas. Will you marry me?”

“You’ll have to ask my wife,” he chuckled, pulling her closer.

“Oh, I know her,” Ava giggled. “She’s alright on a good day.”

The moment was shattered by the shrill, demanding buzz of Alex’s phone. He groaned, reaching into the deep velvet pocket. As he listened, his expression shifted from amorous to professional in a heartbeat.

“Well, where is James? Yes, of course... and Sally? Stuck in the snow... and it’s definitely on the way?” He started to growl, his hand already reaching for the medical bag on the desk. “Ava, fetch your Dad and Jamie. We have a medical emergency. Right, Roslin, wish Rose a Merry Christmas for me.”

He slammed the phone down. “Why is it they always wait until Grace’s bedtime?”

“You can’t go like that!” Ava gestured to the red suit and the ridiculous hat. “Grace might see you!”

“I don’t have time to change, love. The drifts are five feet deep and that baby isn't waiting for a wardrobe change. Go and get your Dad—I am not doing this alone.”

The next five minutes were a whirlwind of controlled chaos. Ewan and Jamie were hauled in from the snow, barely having time to shake their coats before being pressed into service. The Doctor was leaving, and he was taking the North Pole with him.

The Departure

The sight was absurd: Alex in full Saint Nick regalia, Jamie carrying the heavy emergency kits, and Ewan—still dusting snow from his hair—piling into the heavy-duty 4x4. The engine roared to life, its headlights cutting through the thick falling flakes like twin sabers.

On the porch, Grace stood with her arm tucked under her mother’s, watching the red taillights disappear into the white void. She sighed heavily, a look of profound disappointment on her face.

“Well, that’s a first,” Grace whispered.

“What’s that, sweetie?” Ava asked, wrapping her arm tightly around her daughter.

Grace looked up, a mischievous grin breaking through the gloom. “He forgot his reindeer! How’s he going to get back up the chimney without them?”

Ava laughed, pulling her inside toward the warmth of the fire. “Well, there’s always next year, Grace. Always next year.”

A Saint Nick’s Delivery

The 4x4 lurched through the final snowdrift, its tires churning up white powder as it came to a halt outside the small, ivy-clad cottage at the edge of the village. The wind was howling, but the lights in the windows were a warm, desperate gold.

“Remember,” Alex grunted, tugging his heavy red velvet sleeves down over his surgical gloves, “we are doctors first, legendary figures second. Jamie, grab the secondary kit. Ewan, check the oxygen.”

Ewan jumped out, his boots sinking deep. “I don’t know, Alex. Looking at you, I think the ‘legendary figure’ part is going to be hard to ignore. You look like you’ve just come from a very posh, very drunk party.”

They didn't have time to knock. The door swung open and Roslin’s husband, Mark, stood there, his face white with panic. He started to speak, stopped, and stared. His mouth fell open as he looked at the massive, bearded figure in the red suit, followed by two other men laden with medical gear.

“I... I think I’ve gone into shock,” Mark stammered, swaying slightly.

“Not now, Mark,” Alex barked, his authoritative voice booming from under the red hat. “Where is she?”

“The living room—the stairs were too much!”

They burst into the room. Ivy was on the sofa, propped up by every cushion in the house, her face slick with sweat and her eyes wide with the raw intensity of a transition contraction. She looked up, gasped, and then, despite the agony, a delirious laugh bubbled out of her.

“Am I... am I dead?” she wheezed, gripping the armrest until her knuckles turned white. “Is this the end? Is the big man here to collect me?”

“Not the end, Ivy. Just the beginning,” Alex said, dropping to his knees beside her. The sight was surreal—the great Father Christmas leaning over a laboring woman, his velvet coat rustling against the floorboards. “Jamie, check her vitals. Ewan, I need you on the transition. She’s moving fast.”

“Alex?” Ivy reached out, clutching a handful of his white faux-fur trim. “You’re dressed as... you’re really him?”

“Tonight, I am,” Alex whispered, his voice softening into that deep, calming tone that had guided a thousand patients through their darkest hours. “And I’m going to make sure you get the best Christmas present you’ve ever had. Now, breathe with me. Short, shallow, like we practiced.”

For the next hour, the cottage became a sanctuary of focused energy. The surrealism of the red suit faded as the Ashbury men worked with the precision of a well-oiled machine. Ewan coached Ivy through the surges, his years of wisdom providing a steady anchor, while Jamie managed the equipment with the quiet, clinical efficiency of the new generation.

And Alex—Father Christmas himself—directed the symphony.

The final push came just as the village church clock began to chime the first notes of midnight. With one last, Herculean effort from Ivy, a sharp, piercing cry filled the small room, cutting through the sound of the wind rattling the windowpanes.

Alex caught the squalling, slippery bundle in his gloved hands. He worked quickly, cleared the airway, and then let out a breath he felt he’d been holding for a century.

“It’s a girl,” Alex beamed, his face radiant behind the fake beard.

He wrapped the newborn in a soft, warm towel and carefully handed her to her mother. The image was one for the ages: a sweat-streaked, exhausted woman cradling her daughter, while a man in a red velvet suit looked on with tears of genuine joy in his eyes.

“A Christmas Eve miracle,” Ewan whispered, placing a hand on Jamie’s shoulder.

Mark sank into a chair, burying his face in his hands, weeping with relief. “I can’t believe it. I just... wait until I tell her who delivered her. The school yard will never hear the end of it.”

Alex stood up, his knees cracking. He adjusted his soot-stained red hat and looked at his father and son. “Well, gentlemen, I think our work here is done. We should leave before the reindeer get restless. I believe I have some rooftops to attend to.”

As they packed up and headed back out into the freezing night, the snow had begun to thin, revealing a single, bright star hanging over the valley. Alex looked back at the cottage one last time, a weary but triumphant Saint Nick.

“You know,” Jamie said as they climbed back into the car, “you’re never going to live this down in the village. You’ll be delivering kids for the next twenty years in that suit.”

“I don’t care,” Alex chuckled, starting the engine. “It’s the first time I’ve delivered a baby where the father tried to leave out milk and cookies for the surgeon.”

The Three-Hour Vigil

The vet’s arrival brought a sterile, professional calm to the barn, but the air remained charged with the residue of the struggle. Shimmer was resting now, her breathing rhythmic and deep, while the foal—a spindly-legged colt with a white star on his forehead—remained a dark shadow in the straw.

Miller, a man who had been serving the valley for thirty years, didn't move toward his truck. Instead, he pulled a folding stool from his kit and sat by the stall door, checking his watch. The barn had settled into a heavy, humid quiet. The smell of birth—metallic, sweet, and earthy—was thick in the air, trapped by the snow-sealed doors.

"She’s comfortable for now," Miller said, his voice a low gravel. "The flunixin is taking the edge off the pain, but we’re not out of the woods until that placenta drops. If it stays in past three hours, we’re looking at laminitis or sepsis. I’m staying until I see it."

Dre felt the weight of those three hours stretching out ahead of them. She looked at her arms; the purple rings from the leather reins were pulsing now, a dull, rhythmic throb that matched her heartbeat.

Gus brought over a horse blanket—not for a horse, but for her. He wrapped it around her shoulders, the heavy wool smelling of cedar and old hay. He sat on the straw beside her upturned bucket, leaning his back against her knees.

"The snow is up to the windowsills," Gus whispered, nodding toward the small, high panes. "We couldn't leave even if we wanted to."

The foal, whom Shep was already murmuring to as Miracle, stood on knocking knees at the forty-minute mark, clumsily nuzzling for his first meal. Shimmer stood over him, her head hanging low, her ears flickering occasionally toward the vet. She looked smaller somehow, drained of the terrifying, almost supernatural power she’d displayed an hour ago.

"You gave her the serum, didn't you?" Shep asked suddenly. He was standing by the tack room door, his shadow stretched long by the lantern.

The vet didn't look up from his watch. "I gave her what she needed to survive, Shep. Let's leave it at that. This isn't a normal night, and this isn't a normal farm. We both know that."

Dre caught the look that passed between them—a silent acknowledgement of the "other" Ashbury. The sinister undercurrents of the estate didn't stop at the stable doors. If anything, the birth of something so pure had only highlighted the darkness waiting outside in the drifts.

As the second hour ticked over into the third, the silence became oppressive. Every creak of the barn’s timber sounded like a footstep. Dre found herself watching the rafters, half-expecting to see eyes peering down from the hayloft.

Then, with a wet, heavy sound, the tension broke.

Miller stood up, moving with practiced efficiency. "There it is. Intact. Clean." He examined the afterbirth with a grim focus before bagging it. He turned to Shimmer, giving her a final, lingering pat on the neck. "She’s a tough one, Dre. Most mares would have given up when the legs were tucked like that."

"She had help," Dre said, her voice cracking as she looked at her bruised arms, then at Gus.

"Aye," Miller said, snapping his kit shut. "She did. Now, get some sleep. The morning will be here soon, and the snow doesn't care if you're tired."

He moved to the barn door, struggling for a moment to heave it open against the mounting drift. A swirl of ice-white crystals danced into the warm barn before he disappeared into the dark, leaving the three of them alone.

The Quiet After

The adrenaline evaporated, leaving behind a cold, hollow ache. Dre sat on her bucket, her hands shaking so violently she had to tuck them under her armpits. Now that the heat of the struggle was gone, the cold felt personal.

“Let me see,” Gus said, kneeling in the straw before her. He looked like a man who had walked through a war zone—covered in the mess of the birth, his shirt ruined. He gently took her wrists and peeled back the damp sleeves of her jumper.

The marks were already darkening. The leather reins had bitten deep into the soft skin of her forearms, leaving twin bands of angry, mottled purple and red.

“I didn't realize I was holding on that tight,” Dre whispered, her teeth chattering.

“You had to,” Gus murmured, his surgeon’s eyes assessing the trauma. “She would have kicked Shep’s head in otherwise. It’s deep bruising, Dre. It’ll be black by morning.” He kissed the inside of her wrist, his lips warm against her cold, battered skin. “You were incredible.”

Shep approached them, carrying two steaming mugs of tea that smelled strongly of cheap brandy. He handed one to each of them, his own face looking older, the lines around his eyes etched with the night’s fatigue.

“The little lad... he’s got a heart like a lion,” Shep said, watching the foal finally latch. The rhythmic sound of nursing was the only noise besides the wind.

It was a peaceful scene, yet for Dre, the weight of Ashbury was returning. The supernatural stillness of the estate was pressing in. Outside, the snow had sealed them into this small, hallowed space.

“We should get back to the house,” Shep said softly, though none of them moved. The exhaustion was a physical weight, pinning them to the straw.

Gus leaned his head against Dre’s shoulder. “Ten more minutes,” he exhaled. “I just want to watch them breathe for ten more minutes.”

In the corner of the barn, near the shadows where the lantern light didn't quite reach, the straw rustled. Dre looked up, her heart skipping. For a moment, she thought she saw a flicker of something—a presence watching the new life—but when she blinked, it was just the wind whistling through a gap in the eaves.

The night was won, but the winter was far from over.

The Kitchen Sanctuary

The farm kitchen was a cavern of yellow light against the black, snow-choked windows. Gus stood by the sink, scrubbing the residue of the birth from his arms. The hot water stung his skin, turning it a raw, angry red. He looked at his reflection in the dark pane; he looked a decade older than he had when they had stood in the church rafters only hours before.

“You’re a natural, Gus,” Shep said, leaning against the doorframe with two mugs of steaming coffee. “Most men would have frozen when I told them they had to go in deep. You didn’t even blink.”

“Muscle memory,” Gus replied quietly, taking the mug. His hands were finally steady, but his mind was racing. “Life is life, Shep. Whether it has two legs or four, the panic in the eyes is exactly the same.”

By the fire, Dre was wrapped in three layers of blankets, her hair still damp. “I thought we came here for a quiet Christmas,” she teased, though her voice was brittle. “Next time, Gus, let’s just stay in London and watch the fireworks.”

Gus managed a smile, but his attention drifted to the farmhouse table. While searching for the animal husbandry book Shep had requested earlier, he had disturbed a stack of older, leather-bound journals. One had fallen open—not a manual of farming, but a handwritten ledger belonging to Shep’s grandfather, Ambrose.

As the farmhouse settled into a heavy, snow-muffled silence, Gus found himself drawn back to the table. He pulled the ledger toward him. The ink was faded, the handwriting a frantic, spidery crawl that seemed to vibrate with the writer's anxiety.

“December 24th, 1954,” the entry began. “The snow has trapped us again. The Mare dropped a stillborn tonight, but it was not a foal I recognized. It had the teeth of a predator and the eyes of something that has seen the underside of the world. I buried it beneath the old oak before the others could see. The Bay is changing. The blood is thinning, and the things that walk the woods are growing hungry.”

Gus felt a chill that had nothing to do with the drafty kitchen. He looked out the window toward the stable where the miracle foal was currently sleeping. The things that walk the woods.

He remembered the neighboring farmer’s gaze—not a look of gratitude for the saved mare, but a strange, watchful suspicion. He remembered the shadows leaning toward the stable doors, as if the darkness itself were a predator waiting for the outcome of the labor.

He turned the page, his fingers trembling. There, tucked between the yellowed pages, was a sketch. It wasn't a horse. It was a diagram of a transformation—a human skeletal structure merging, twisting, and elongating into something powerful and terrifying.

Beneath the anatomical nightmare, a single word was written in heavy, black ink: THE PURGE.

Outside, the wind screamed again, and for a moment, Gus could have sworn he heard a howl—a sound far too deep to be a dog, and far too intelligent to be a wolf. It wasn't a cry of hunger; it sounded like a signal.

The Christmas Tail: A Distance Between Worlds

Ashbury: The Light

The first light of Christmas Day broke over Ashbury with a clarity that felt almost holy. The snow, once a blinding curtain of chaos, now lay across the valley like a pristine shroud, silencing the world. In the barn, the scent of fresh hay and warm animals filled the space, a sanctuary of life against the winter.

Alex, his red trousers stained with salt and birth-fluids, watched with a tired, genuine smile as the leggy, dark-coated foal made its first unsteady attempts to stand. Its hooves clattered softly against the wooden floor, a rhythmic, vital sound.

The heavy barn door creaked open. Ewan and Jamie stepped in, breath fogging in the crisp air, carrying flasks of steaming coffee.

"Mark called," Ewan said, handing a cup to Alex. The warmth of the plastic mug seeped into Alex's numb fingers. "Mother and baby are doing well. They’ve named her Noelle. Two lives, Alex. Against the snow, and against whatever else this valley throws at us. That’s a good night’s work."

Alex stood up, stretching his aching back, feeling the pull of muscles he hadn't used in years. "It’s a start," he replied, looking toward the main house where the chimneys were beginning to puff thin ribbons of grey smoke into the blue dawn. "A brief moment of peace."

Angel Bay: The Shadow

Hundreds of miles away, the dawn was not nearly so kind.

In the rugged isolation of Angel Bay, the Erin Sea was a churning, slate-grey monster, battering the cliffs beneath the house where Dre and Gus were holed up. There were no carols here, no smell of pine—only the scent of old dust, sea salt, and the metallic, sharp tang of the coastal air.

Gus sat in the window seat of the library, his eyes red-rimmed and hollow. He hadn’t slept. While his family back in the "sleepy" valley had been playing midwives to the light, he had been sinking deeper into the dark. On the table before him lay the journals he’d been gutting all night, the pages filled with the grim mechanics of the old ways and the "purging" rituals—the skeletal diagrams and horrific transformations that had haunted their bloodline for centuries.

His phone buzzed on the wood—a photo from Jamie of the spindly foal standing in the Ashbury straw. Gus looked at it for a long moment, a ghost of a smile touching his lips—a memory of a simpler world—before his gaze drifted back to the horrific entry he’d just uncovered. The ink on the page seemed to pulse with a life of its own.

Dre appeared in the doorway, wrapped in a heavy wool coat, two mugs of black tea in his hands. He didn't ask if Gus had found anything; the slump of Gus's shoulders and the frantic state of the room spoke for themselves.

"They're celebrating back home," Gus said quietly, his voice raspy from the cold and the silence. "A foal and a baby. A real Christmas miracle."

Dre set the tea down and looked at the journals—at the sketches of things that should not be—then out at the bleak, beautiful Welsh horizon where the waves broke like jagged glass.

"Let them have their miracle, Gus," Dre said, his voice steady. "Someone has to hold the line out here in the wind so they can keep believing in them."

Gus nodded, closing the journal with a heavy, final thud. The contrast was sharp: Ashbury was the dream, a fragile bubble of warmth. But here in Wales, among the standing stones and the salt air, was the reality they had to face to keep that dream alive. The "Purge" was coming, and while the valley slept, the guardians of the bay began to prepare.