Christmas Night 2023

by Katherine Eileen Dowling

Angel Bay: Christmas Night

The Sea-Farer and the Surgeon

The storm outside Angel Bay was a distant roar, muffled by the thick stone walls of Shep’s farmhouse. Inside, the hearth crackled, casting a golden glow over a scene of quiet recovery.

Amber sat huddled by the fire, her pink hair—a shade so natural and iridescent it seemed grown from coral rather than a bottle—clumped with melting ice crystals. Shep had moved with practiced, gruff affection, wrapping her in a heavy sheepskin rug and offering a thick Aran sweater that smelled of lanolin and cedar.

She sipped a steaming mug of tea, the blend heavy with turmeric, ginger, and warming herbs that sent a much-needed flush back into her cheeks.

“It was lovely in the Erin today,” she said, her teeth still chattering rhythmically against the ceramic rim.

“I wasn’t pulling you out today,” Shep retorted, his voice a low rumble. He stood over her, hands on his hips. “Hopefully that will put paid to your mad dives for a while. At least until the thaw.”

“We could go out together,” Amber suggested with a mischievous glint in her eye. “You were out this morning, they told me.”

“Aye, well, no more of your nonsense. We have an awakening sleeping upstairs,” Shep warned, his tone shifting to something more serious. “Gus is here as well, so you behave yourself.”

Amber paused, checking her feet quickly under the blanket, ensuring they weren't beginning to shimmer in the warmth of the hearth. “I thought they were staying at the cottage?”

“They were. But then Shimmer had her foal and the surgeon came in handy. The lass, however, injured her hands. That green gel with your formula was really useful.”

“Always is,” Amber chuckled, a sound like shifting shingle.

Gus stepped into the room, already wearing a matching Aran sweater, his expression softening as he saw their guest. “Thought I heard your dulcet tones. How are you? Hypothermic yet?” He reached out, touching her hands gently to check her circulation.

“No, not yet. It’s actually warmer than you think. I didn't have to break ice or anything,” she assured him, looking at Gus with a deep, ancient tenderness. Then, her voice dropped to a whisper. “How are you? I believe you have adopted an awakening.”

Gus stiffened slightly. “Word travels fast. I suppose the whole of my father’s old groupie—the Alliance—are aware of her by now?”

“Far and wide, I am afraid,” Amber replied quietly, her eyes turning thoughtful. “You saved two lives last night, Gus. You’re telling me there were no special words uttered?”

“Under my breath, I might have sworn a few times,” Gus replied coyly, though the shadows in his eyes suggested a deeper truth.

“Miller has made it known that thanks to your skills—and we are not talking medical...”

She was interrupted by the door creaking open. Dre stepped in, looking refreshed but pale from her nap.

“Hi there, love,” Shep said, gesturing toward the fire. “This is Amber. She’s a friend of mine.”

Dre nodded, her gaze lingering on Amber’s hair. It wasn't the neon pink of a rebel, but a soft, translucent rose that seemed to catch the light from within. Amber flashed her a warm, empathetic smile—a Sergeant's keen eye softened by a healer’s heart. As a Sergeant at the Camberlain Police Station, Amber was used to navigating the "evil that poisoned the city," but here, she was simply family.

“As you are the surgeon present,” Shep announced, breaking the silence as he brought the roasted bird to the table, “perhaps you should carve the good bird.”

He held out a long, gleaming carving knife. Dre felt her breath hitch, a flash of the night’s trauma flickering in her mind. Sensing the spike of anxiety, Amber reached out and took Dre’s hand—the one that had been bruised.

Dre looked down. Under Amber’s touch, the rainbow bruising had faded into a healthy pallor, matching the rest of her skin. The pain was simply... gone.

Gus carved the goose with surgical precision. Shep served the traditional spread: crisp roast potatoes, honeyed carrots, parsnips, and the divisive sprouts. As the wine was poured, Shep raised his glass.

“To all company present,” he began, his eyes lingering on Amber. “May our days be happy and full of adventure—but not too much.”

“Hear, hear,” Gus agreed.

“To the best substitute vet Shimmer and Miracle could have,” Shep continued, looking at Gus. “Without you, they wouldn’t be here.”

“Enough,” Gus muttered, a rare flush of color creeping into his face.

“To Dre,” Shep added with a laugh, “who knows how to rein in a fussy mare.”

“And to Shep,” Amber concluded, her voice steady and warm, “for the best farmer and the perfect Christmas dinner.”

The room felt safe, but outside, the snow continued to fall, burying the secrets of the day beneath a heavy, white shroud.

Ashbury: Christmas Night

Crackers, Carving, and Cat Litter

While the wind whistled through the eaves of Ashbury, the dining room was a sanctuary of heat and savory aromas. Jamie had outdone herself, opting for the family favorite: a towering Roast Beef. As she often said, there was no waste with beef—and certainly no dreaded turkey curry to face on Boxing Day.

“Alex will carve today,” Ewan insisted, his voice thick with a father-in-law’s pride as he handed over the heavy steel knife. “The surgeon who was offered milk and cookies deserves the honors.”

Alex laughed softly, the sound weary but happy. “Alright, alright, let’s just move past it. By tomorrow, I’ll be cat litter and vegetable peelings.”

“Cat litter?” Grace demanded, her fork poised mid-air. She looked horrified at the thought of her father being associated with such a thing.

“The newspapers, darling,” Ava explained gently, reaching over to squeeze Alex’s hand. “Your poor Dad’s face will be on the front page of every morning edition. By tomorrow night, those papers will be lining the bottom of every cat tray in the county.”

“Then we should collect every single one of them,” Grace remarked with a firm nod. “I think he looks handsome. Though, I suppose children all round the world are now going to question if Father Christmas really can deliver babies.”

“Well, it beats being asked for a scooter or a horse,” Alex chuckled, his hands moving with practiced ease as he sliced the beef into perfect, ruby-centered slivers.

“Which would you rather deliver, Daddy? A foal or a baby?” Grace asked, her eyes darting back to the photos on her Mum’s phone—images that had already begun to circle the globe.

“A baby,” Alex replied with a soft smile. “Now, let’s have our usual toasts. Raise your glasses. To Autumn—may she have a very Merry Christmas.”

“Autumn!” the table cheered in unison, the sound echoing against the oak paneling.

“I have one!” Grace demanded, standing up slightly. The table fell silent to give her the floor. “To Gus and Dre, and the wedding! Where I am to be a bridesmaid—well, one of many,” she added with a theatrical flourish.

“To Dre and Gus,” they cheered, neatly bypassing Grace’s insistent demands for a wedding date.

Ava stood up next, her glass sparkling under the chandelier. “To Grace, our beautiful daughter. To my husband, and to my parents. Oh, and to Martha and Edgar.”

“To family,” Jamie interjected, her eyes misting as she looked at her daughter and Alex.

“Right then—to Family, and to the Family Practice,” Ewan added, his tone turning a bit more contemplative. “May it grow, and may Alex and I actually manage to retire next year.”

“Hear, hear,” Jamie said, though a small frown creased her brow. “If you’re retiring, Ewan, then I suppose Ava and I will have to go part-time.”

“I suppose you will,” Ewan agreed, a twinkle of a secret plan in his eye.

“Let’s eat before it all goes cold,” Ava suggested. She couldn't bear to see her mother’s hard labor lose its heat.

The plates were a landscape of Christmas perfection: crisp roast potatoes, creamy mash, and the 'inaugural' sprout tucked onto Grace’s plate for tradition's sake. There were mounds of mashed carrot and turnip, slivers of parsnips glazed in balsamic vinegar, and ribbons of red and green cabbage. The gravy was rich and dark; you could practically smell the vintage red wine reduced into its depths.

“To Mum, the best cook in the north. Thanks, Mum.”

“Thanks, Jamie.”

“Thank you, Grandma!”

With the serious business of gratitude out of the way, the chaos of the crackers began. Grace offered hers to her Mum, and a chain reaction followed around the table. Loud bangs gave way to the appearance of tissue-paper crowns in garish colors and a sudden abundance of fake plastic jewelry.

Ewan adjusted his lopsided yellow hat and pulled a small slip of paper from his cracker. He groaned as he read it aloud. “What do polar bears eat?”

“Ice cream!” the table shouted back in a chorus of practiced, weary delight.

Angel Bay: Christmas Night

Moonlight Rings and Shifting Shadows

Back at Angel Bay, the Christmas crackers were a far cry from the factory-made tubes of Ashbury. Shep had spent weeks crafting them—small cardboard boxes that opened with a soft slide rather than a bang. Inside, they found homemade crowns of sturdy paper and rings twisted from treasures Shep had salvaged from the shoreline, shimmering with a luster that felt almost celestial in the low light.

Amber turned her ring over in her fingers. It was a glistening, translucent pink that seemed to catch the firelight and hold it. “Next year, I am filling the boxes,” she informed the table, her tone playful but firm. “And I’ll be providing better jokes.” She looked down at the slip of paper Shep had written on; the rhyme was non-existent, a garbled string of words about a fish and a dish that didn't quite land.

She took a long sip of the herbal wine Shep had poured. It was dark, viscous, and dangerously smooth. “What is this, exactly? It tastes like a forest at midnight.”

“Blackberry and blueberry, fortified in oak casks,” Shep remarked, watching her over the rim of his glass.

“So it is alcoholic then, Shep? Because I could drink this like cordial,” Amber warned gently. “You put something else in here, didn’t you? There's a hum to it.”

“Rosemary,” Dre offered, her voice small as she sipped the poignant, sharp brew.

“You have a nose for herbs, lass,” Shep replied with a nod of approval.

Dre smiled faintly, looking down at her own ring. It was made of simple fisherman’s twine, yet as she moved her hand, it shimmered like the stars caught in a net. “I love the ring, Shep. It’s beautiful… it’s like it has its own light,” she whispered.

“Made in moonlight, lass,” he replied simply.

Gus looked at the old man with narrowed, clinical eyes, his surgeon's mind trying to reconcile physics with the glowing twine. Shep merely shrugged, his expression unreadable. “Your hands are clearing up beautifully, Dre. Another application of the salve, Amber?”

“No, I don’t think so, Shep. It’s working through the system now,” Amber remarked, holding her hand up to admire the glistening pink cast of her own ring. “I’m guessing mine was cast in the light of dawn?”

“That’s beautiful,” Dre remarked. She caught sight of Gus’s green ring—it was sparkling back at her with a deep, emerald intensity. “What color is your ring, Shep? I’m curious.”

“Carnelian on one side, deep blue on the other. I was experimenting, lass.”

“You should sell these,” Dre said, though her voice drifted as she stared at the strange artifacts. “They remind me of hair jewelry... but that was made from the hair of the, ugh... the dead.” A sudden chill seemed to pass through her, and she swallowed a large, shaky gulp of the wine.

Gus reached out, his hand firm and warm as he gripped hers. Dre didn't pull away; she planted her hand over his, gripping it tight enough to turn her knuckles white.

“Will you get a good price for Miracle, Shep?” Amber interjected, sensing the shift in the room's energy.

“A fair price for a stallion from Shimmer. Aye. Enough to save this place,” Shep remarked. “I don’t have the room for a stallion. They need to run, those creatures. They aren't meant for fences.”

“You’ll break him in when he’s older?” Amber persisted.

Shep shook his head. “Shimmer was bred with a champion. It took her a while to trust him. Likely the owner will pay good money for Miracle—man by the name of Angus Callender.” He smiled.

“When will Miracle leave?” Dre asked.

“Can’t take him from his Mum too soon. I reckon the pair will travel to Scotland in the New Year. Can’t see Angus traveling here; he’s a surgeon, like you, Gus.”

Gus tilted his head. “Oh? What specialty?”

“Heart,” Shep replied. “That bloke at Camberlain knows him. His son works at Camberlain... you know the one, Hamilton? Colin Hamilton? He’s married to that little lass who fixed my heart so good—Jean Harley.”

The name Hamilton didn't cause Dre to blanch, but it caused a sudden, frozen stillness. She reached for her glass with a robotic motion and drank again, her throat working hard to swallow the thick wine. Shep, ever observant, saw the unmistakable tremor in her hand as she set the glass back down.

“Who’s for a spot of cake and some tea, eh?” Shep suggested, his voice suddenly loud as he began clearing the table.

Gus moved to stand, his instinct to help, but Amber’s hand shot out and caught his wrist. She gave him a sharp, meaningful look, inclining her head toward Dre. She could feel the younger woman shattering inwardly—the mention of the Hamiltons and the proximity of the "Alliance" connections at Camberlain tearing through her fragile holiday peace.

Amber rose instead, her movements brisk and practical. “I’ll help you with the dishes, Shep. Gus, stay with her.”

Angel Bay: The Quiet After

The Breaking of the Dam

The kitchen door swung shut with a heavy thud, leaving Gus and Dremeda alone in the flickering orange light of the hearth. The silence that followed was thick, flavored by the scent of woodsmoke and the lingering, sharp lemon of the tea.

“Dre? Are you alright?” Gus asked, his voice low, his hand still firmly anchoring hers.

“F…fine,” she whispered, though her voice sounded like dry leaves skittering over stone. She stared down at her hand, the twine ring catching the light. “The ring is beautiful. It’s… sparkling.”

“I know,” Gus agreed, watching her with a surgeon’s watchful eye for shock. “You had a good sleep, though? The nap helped?”

She didn't look at him. Her gaze was fixed on the fire, but her eyes weren't seeing the flames. “Oh, why did I mention those hair ornaments? I can’t bear to think of Mum… in the funeral parlor. I… she was here this time last year, Gus. Right here.” Her voice hitched, a jagged sound in the quiet room. “It’s too awful to think of. Everyone is trying to be happy, but I don’t feel merry. I just ache. I feel a hollow in my marrow.”

“It’s alright. Come here,” he said, drawing her toward him. He expected her to collapse into a sob, to let the weight of the day finally crush her, but she remained rigid. She was quietly, violently trembling against his chest, her heart drumming a frantic, uneven rhythm.

“I can’t cry, Gus. I try, but the tears won’t come,” she confessed into the wool of his sweater. Her voice was flat, devoid of the color it usually held. “I keep thinking… why? Why don’t I care about her anymore? Why have I just stopped feeling?”

Gus smoothed her hair, his touch steadying. “You’ve shut down, Dre. You’re exhausted—physically, mentally, and in ways I don’t think even Shep’s tea can reach. It’s completely normal. Of course you care, my love. I know you do. This is just a protective shield your mind has built to keep the world out.” He tilted her chin up so she had to meet his eyes. “The dam will break. The tears will come. It just takes time.”

She nodded slowly, a small, fragile movement. “I’m missing Ashbury,” she whispered, her eyes pleading. “Would it be okay to go home tomorrow? We don’t have to stay with Jamie and Ewan. I’ll be alright staying at Mum’s house. I just want to be among her things.”

“We were expected back tomorrow anyway,” Gus soothed, though he knew the silence of her mother’s empty house would be a poison, not a cure. “Yes, we’ll say goodbye to Shimmer and Miracle in the morning, take some photos for the records, and then we’ll make our way home. Alright?”

He felt her relax slightly, but he shook his head before she could insist on the empty house.

“But you’re not going to stay at your Mum’s, love. Not yet. You’re coming back to Ewan and Jamie’s. After the funeral,” he promised, his voice firming with a resolve that wouldn't be questioned. Her breath hitched, a small gasp of protest, but he continued. “You’re coming to stay at Albrighton House. You’ll have your own room—a suite, actually. There’s a library, two sitting rooms, and a piano if you still play. You’re not going to be alone, Dremeda. Not in the dark. Not now.”

He held her tighter, realizing that while he was promising her a sanctuary, he was also promising himself that the "awakening" Amber had whispered about wouldn't have to face the shadows of the future without him.

Angel Bay: The Quiet After

The Breaking of the Dam

The kitchen door swung shut with a heavy thud, leaving Gus and Dremeda alone in the flickering orange light of the hearth. The silence that followed was thick, flavored by the scent of woodsmoke and the lingering, sharp lemon of the tea.

“Dre? Are you alright?” Gus asked, his voice low, his hand still firmly anchoring hers.

“F…fine,” she whispered, though her voice sounded like dry leaves skittering over stone. She stared down at her hand, the twine ring catching the light. “The ring is beautiful. It’s… sparkling.”

“I know,” Gus agreed, watching her with a surgeon’s watchful eye for shock. “You had a good sleep, though? The nap helped?”

She didn't look at him. Her gaze was fixed on the fire, but her eyes weren't seeing the flames. “Oh, why did I mention those hair ornaments? I can’t bear to think of Mum… in the funeral parlor. I… she was here this time last year, Gus. Right here.” Her voice hitched, a jagged sound in the quiet room. “It’s too awful to think of. Everyone is trying to be happy, but I don’t feel merry. I just ache. I feel a hollow in my marrow.”

“It’s alright. Come here,” he said, drawing her toward him. He expected her to collapse into a sob, to let the weight of the day finally crush her, but she remained rigid. She was quietly, violently trembling against his chest, her heart drumming a frantic, uneven rhythm.

“I can’t cry, Gus. I try, but the tears won’t come,” she confessed into the wool of his sweater. Her voice was flat, devoid of the color it usually held. “I keep thinking… why? Why don’t I care about her anymore? Why have I just stopped feeling?”

Gus smoothed her hair, his touch steadying. “You’ve shut down, Dre. You’re exhausted—physically, mentally, and in ways I don’t think even Shep’s tea can reach. It’s completely normal. Of course you care, my love. I know you do. This is just a protective shield your mind has built to keep the world out.” He tilted her chin up so she had to meet his eyes. “The dam will break. The tears will come. It just takes time.”

She nodded slowly, a small, fragile movement. “I’m missing Ashbury,” she whispered, her eyes pleading. “Would it be okay to go home tomorrow? We don’t have to stay with Jamie and Ewan. I’ll be alright staying at Mum’s house. I just want to be among her things.”

“We were expected back tomorrow anyway,” Gus soothed, though he knew the silence of her mother’s empty house would be a poison, not a cure. “Yes, we’ll say goodbye to Shimmer and Miracle in the morning, take some photos for the records, and then we’ll make our way home. Alright?”

He felt her relax slightly, but he shook his head before she could insist on the empty house.

“But you’re not going to stay at your Mum’s, love. Not yet. You’re coming back to Ewan and Jamie’s. After the funeral,” he promised, his voice firming with a resolve that wouldn't be questioned. Her breath hitched, a small gasp of protest, but he continued. “You’re coming to stay at Albrighton House. You’ll have your own room—a suite, actually. There’s a library, two sitting rooms, and a piano if you still play. You’re not going to be alone, Dremeda. Not in the dark. Not now.”

He held her tighter, realizing that while he was promising her a sanctuary, he was also promising himself that the "awakening" Amber had whispered about wouldn't have to face the shadows of the future without him.

Angel Bay: The Long Night

The Closing of the Day

It had been a lovely night of wonder and excitement for Grace. As the evening wound down, she had stopped talking about the ghostly encounter, and no one asked her about it. No one wanted to encourage her to dwell or investigate this "gift." In the quiet glances exchanged between the adults over the dinner table, it was clear: they saw it as an affliction, something they dreaded.

After a long, indulgent bath with her new bubble baths and fizzing bath bombs, Grace was a picture of childhood innocence. Clad in fresh, crisp pajamas that smelled of vanilla and lavender, she scrambled into bed. She didn't reach for a new book; she reached for the familiar. Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone was a repetitive comfort for them all. They knew the rhythms of the prose off by heart and could practically read it word for word between them.

Ava leaned against the headboard, the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting long, gentle shadows, while Alex sat at the foot of the bed. They took turns with the paragraphs, their voices weaving a cocoon of safety around their daughter. For a moment, the world narrowed down to the Boy Who Lived and the magic of a hidden platform. The sinister undertones of the afternoon—the cold spots, the whispers, and the weight of the "Alliance"—were pushed outside the bedroom door.

Grace’s eyelids grew heavy, her breathing evening out into the rhythmic pull of deep sleep. TheAlex watched her, his heart tight. He thought of his recent visits to Edward, the dark studies into animal transformation, and the serum that had made Hope so ill. He looked at Grace’s small, pale hand resting on the duvet and felt a surge of protective terror.

As Ava closed the book with a soft thud, the silence of Ashbury seemed to rush back into the room. The house felt too large, the shadows in the corners too deep.

"She's out," Ava whispered, brushing a stray hair from Grace's forehead.

"Finally," Alex replied, though his smile didn't reach his eyes. "A normal Christmas night. Exactly what we wanted."

"Is it?" Ava asked softly, standing up. She looked toward the window, where the frost was beginning to pattern the glass in shapes that looked uncomfortably like reaching fingers. "Or is it just the calm before they expect us to start the controlling?"

Alex didn't answer. He took Ava’s hand and led her out, clicking the light off. Behind them, in the darkness of the bedroom, the air remained just a few degrees too cold, a silent reminder that while the book was finished for the night, the real story was only just beginning.