Official White Christmas 2023

 

by Katherine Eileen Dowling

The White Christmas: The Ledger of the Purged

The Kitchen Cathedral

The kitchen was a cathedral of shadows, lit only by the hum of the refrigerator and the pale, rhythmic bounce of the snow against the windowpane. Gus sat at the heavy oak table, the animal husbandry book pushed aside to reveal the leather-bound journal he had discovered underneath: Ambrose’s personal account of the Bay.

He was no novice to the arcane, but this was a raw, primary source of a much darker history. He turned the page and his breath hitched. There was a diagram of a human skeletal structure merging, but the notes beside it were focused on a practice called The Purge.

“To quell the power, one must plunge the vessel into absolute terror,” the ink bled through the page, a frantic, spidery crawl. “Water to drown the flame. Fire to char the intent. If the mind believes it is dying, the magic retreats into the marrow. It is the only way to make them controllable. Some die in the quelling; those who survive are hollowed, silenced.”

Gus felt a prickling heat behind his eyes. He recognized the "medical" descriptions—a systematic breaking of the spirit. He saw a cryptic note at the bottom of the page: “The blood-blend is the final anchor. A deep cut, a binding of the lineage. Without it, the purge is only psychological.”

The floorboard groaned in the hallway. Gus slammed the ledger shut, his pulse thrumming in his wrists.

Dre stood in the archway. She looked ravaged, her skin a translucent, sickly ivory. "The Met Office just confirmed it," she said, her voice small and trembling. "A White Christmas. Officially. It’s a secret present from Mum, isn't it?"

Gus watched her, his mind screaming with the images of the ledger. He didn't know the scar beneath her sleeve was a map of the very "blood-blend" he’d just read about.

"It doesn't feel like a gift," Dre whispered, looking at the window where the white flakes were plastered against the glass like tiny, pale hands. "It feels like we're being buried alive. Did you hear that sound earlier, Gus? In the trees?"

"Just the wind, Dre." He lied.

She felt the "purge" stirring in her marrow—not a memory, but a fresh, restless heat trying to break through the cage. She didn't know that Gus was currently holding the book that explained why her magic felt like a trapped, wounded animal.

The Visitor from the Deep

As soon as Dre’s footsteps faded, Gus opened the ledger again. But a heavy, rhythmic thud echoed from the mudroom. Gus stiffened as the door creaked open.

Shep stepped in. He wasn't wearing his heavy coat. Instead, he was draped in a dark, shimmering wrap that looked like oil on water—thick, heavy, and smelling of deep-sea salt. Water droplets clung to his beard, and his skin had a translucent, bluish tint that faded as the heat of the kitchen hit him.

Gus watched the material. It didn't look like wool. It looked like hide—sleek, iridescent, and somehow alive.

"You went for a swim," Gus said. He knew the lore of the Silkies—those who kept their pelts hidden so they wouldn't be tethered to the land. "In this weather?"

"The sea doesn't freeze, Gus," Shep replied. He looked at the ledger. "Ambrose was a hard man. He didn't understand that you can't 'quell' the sea, and you can't 'quell' the blood. You can only learn to swim with it."

He nodded toward the stairs. "She’s restless. The snow is keeping the Wolves quiet for now, but the Cat... the Cat is always curious."

"You know about the Purge," Gus said, his voice a low growl.

"I know that terror is a poor teacher," Shep said, putting the kettle on. "And I know that your friend's arm wasn't cut by a farm accident. But that's a story for another night."

"Don't tell her," Gus said. "About the book. Or the swim."

"I have my secrets, you have yours," Shep agreed. "But remember, Gus—the snow always melts. And when it does, the ground remembers everything it was forced to hide."

The Skin on the Hook

The blizzard had forced them all into the main farmhouse—a sprawling, stone-built beast of a house. Upstairs, Dremeda lay beneath layers of quilts. The heat in her blood felt like a physical weight. Every time the wind shrieked, her fingers twitched, claws seeking a purchase that her human mind still denied.

Downstairs, Shep moved toward the mudroom. There, hanging on a simple brass peg next to a waxed hunting jacket, was the pelt. To a casual observer, it was a heavy leather coat. But as the heat from the woodstove rose, the "coat" began to exhale a faint, briny mist of kelp forests and the abyss.

"It’s a tight fit, isn't it?" Gus asked. "The skin. Whether you're born with it or you have to find it in the waves."

Shep was barefoot, his feet unnaturally pale and webbing slightly at the base of the toes. "The tightest fit is the one you’re forced to wear, Gus. Your sister... she’s trying to wear a skin that was tailored for someone else. Someone 'normal.' That’s why it’s tearing."

Shep reached out and ran a calloused hand down the sleeve of the pelt. Under his touch, the dark fur seemed to ripple, a ghost of a shiver passing through the dead hide.

"I keep mine on the hook because I know who I am," Shep murmured. "But Dremeda? She’s trying to forget. And the farmhouse... it has a long memory."

He nodded toward the ceiling. "She’s awake. You should go to her. Hide that book, Gus. The things Ambrose wrote in there... they aren't instructions. They’re confessions."

Gus stood, the chair scraping harshly against the stone floor. He realized then that the farm wasn't just a refuge; it was a cage for things that the rest of the world had forgotten how to name.

Ashbury: The 4:00 AM Performance

The Chocolate Herald

The silence of the Ashbury house was brittle—the kind of quiet that only exists in the hours before dawn, when the frost was still hardening on the eaves. At exactly four minutes past four, that silence was shattered by a familiar, high-pitched herald.

"He’s been! He’s been!"

Grace was a blur of movement, her pillowcase dragging behind her like a captured cloud. She didn't knock; she burst into Ava and Alex’s room with a desperate, frantic energy. It was a delight to both their ears to hear it one more time, even if they both suspected Grace was clinging to the magic with white-knuckled intensity this year, fighting the "tragic belief" that the world was becoming ordinary.

She leapt onto the bed, her treasures spilling out. "Merry Christmas Mummy, Daddy!" she called, her cheer perhaps a note too high—a shield against a maturity she wasn't quite ready to claim.

Alex, who felt as though he had only closed his eyes seconds ago after the grueling shift in the snow, let out a sound that was half-groan, half-suffocation. Before he could protest, a square of slightly melted chocolate was shoved firmly into his mouth.

"Wha... what time is it?" he grumbled, the sugar hitting his tongue before his brain could fully engage. "Merry Chwmas," he garbled.

The "tornado" didn't linger. Leaving a trail of foil and the scent of milk chocolate, Grace raced into the guest wing to repeat the ritual. "He’s been! Grandma, Grandad!"

The Tactical Defense

In the other room, Ewan was attempting a tactical sleep-defense. He lay perfectly still, a veteran of many such mornings. "No chocolate," he muttered as he felt the mattress heave under a sudden weight. But his mouth, open in a sleepy protest, was immediately filled with the same sweet, milky currency.

"Merry Christmas Grandad, Grandma!"

Back in the primary bedroom, Alex rubbed his face, trying to clear the fog of exhaustion. "What time is it? Please tell me it’s not four a.m. Ava, tell that child to get back to bed."

"It’s just after four a.m.," Ava chuckled, leaning over to kiss his chocolate-smeared lips. "Hmm, I could get used to this." She climbed out of bed, smoothing down her traditional Christmas pyjamas. "The tornado has gone next door to Mum and Dad. I'd better go rescue them."

"Well, lock the door before she comes back," Alex joked, though he was already propping himself up on the pillows.

Ava stepped onto the landing to turn up the heating, the floorboards cold beneath her feet. Through the walls, she could hear the soft, pleading voice of Ewan. "Later," he begged as Grace bounced on his back. He was pretending to be asleep, but Grace wasn't letting him off the hook.

The Weight of the Miracle

Ava stepped into her parents' doorway. "Darling, come on. It’s very early. We know you’re excited, but let’s all get back to bed. Your Dad and Grandad aren't long home."

Grace paused, her eyes wide, her head shaking with a sudden, grave seriousness. "Well, I know Daddy and Grandad were out delivering special presents all night."

"That’s right," Ava replied softly, taking her daughter's hand. "And now they need to rest. Come on now—are you snuggling with us, or with your Grandparents?"

"You and Daddy," Grace decided. She climbed into the big bed, burrowing between them. As she settled, she asked the question that lingered over the whole house: "How many more babies are going to come today?"

In the next room, Ewan stared at the dark ceiling. The warmth of the house was a stark contrast to the frozen, red-stained night he had just survived. He thought of the flying squad delivery they had barely reached in time—the literal bloody mess that had been the price of a Christmas miracle.

He prayed the roads stayed clear. He wanted every mother in St. Katherine’s safe and sound under the care of the standby team. The survival of that mother and child felt like a heavy, somber weight compared to the light, chocolate-fueled joy in the hallway. He let out a long breath as his wife climbed back into bed, closing his eyes against the memory of the snow and the steel, trying to find the peace Grace so easily commanded.

The Watchers: Christmas 4:30 AM

The Dormant Landmine

Gus finally closed the leather-bound volume. The word Purge seemed to be burned into his retinas, glowing behind his eyelids like an afterimage. His joints felt stiff, rusted by the cold and the horrific accounts of what the "old ways" had done to cleanse the lines of perceived impurities. He didn't turn out the light; the darkness felt too predatory for that. He simply stood, leaving the book on the desk like a dormant landmine, and climbed the stairs toward a heavy, dreamless sleep that felt more like a temporary death.

Downstairs, the back door creaked—a low, rhythmic moan of wood on iron.

The Stable Lanterns

Shep didn't bother with a heavy coat, just a thick wool sweater pulled over his shirt. The air outside didn't just feel cold; it felt occupied, as if the oxygen had been replaced by something heavier and less hospitable. The snow had stopped, leaving a world of jagged whites and obsidian shadows. He trekked across the yard, his boots crunching with a sound like breaking bone, toward the low, amber glow of the stable lanterns.

Inside, the atmosphere changed. The sharp bite of the winter air was replaced by a thick, animal humidity—the smell of sweet hay, steaming manure, and the rhythmic, heavy breathing of livestock.

Miller was there. He was sitting on an overturned bucket just outside Shimmer’s stall, a thermos between his feet and a shotgun leaning casually against the wooden slats. He hadn't gone home to his own bed. He looked as though he had grown out of the floorboards himself—immovable, ancient, and grey.

"Still here then, Miller?" Shep asked softly, his voice barely rising above the rustle of straw.

Miller didn't look up immediately. He was watching the foal, a spindly, dark shadow tucked against Shimmer’s flank. "She’s restless, Shep. Not the mare—the little one. Keeps looking at the corners of the rafters. Like she’s seeing something that hasn't quite arrived yet."

The Fetch Look

Shep stepped up to the gate. Shimmer turned her head, her large, dark eye catching the lantern light. There was an intelligence there that was uncomfortable to look at—a recognition that bypassed instinct and bordered on the human.

"The foal is healthy?" Shep asked, reaching out a hand, though he felt a strange reluctance to touch the animal.

"Physically? Aye," Miller grunted, finally looking up. His eyes were bloodshot, the whites webbed with broken vessels. "But she’s got that look about her. The one the old folks used to talk about. The 'fetch' look. Like she was born with one hoof in the grave and the other in the cradle."

He paused, his hand drifting toward the shotgun, his fingers ghosting over the cold steel. "I thought I heard something earlier. Out by the treeline. Not a fox, not a wolf. Something that walked on two legs but didn't have the sense to wear boots. I’m staying through 'til dawn. Can't have the line broken on my watch."

Shep nodded, a cold stone settling in his gut. He looked at Shimmer, who was now staring directly at the stable door, her ears pinned back flat against her skull. She wasn't looking at Shep or Miller. She was looking at the path Shep had just walked—the empty, moonlit yard where his footprints were the only sign of life.

The Knowles Legacy: Shadows and Speculation

The Breath of the Usciu

The darkness in the stable was absolute, but the silence was worse. Miller didn't relight the lantern. He stood there, a silhouette against the grey-black of the doorframe, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial rasp that barely carried over the shifting straw.

"You see how the light died, Shep? That wasn't just a spent wick," Miller whispered. "It was an invitation."

Shep moved closer to the foal, his hand hovering near its neck. "Gus said the books call them Suffocators. But you called them something else. The Usciu."

"Old names for old sins," Miller replied. He looked back toward the farmhouse, where a single light burned in the upstairs window—the room where Dremeda was supposedly resting. "The town's talking, Shep. They don't know about no 'purge,' but they know a Knowles when they see one. They see that woman with Gus and they start wondering. Is she like him? Or is she something else entirely?"

Shep frowned, trying to cling to the rational. "She’s grieving. She lost her mother."

"Grief is a doorway," Miller countered sharply. "They say the 'awakening' happens in the blood when the heart breaks. They remember Jacob. They remember how he didn't just fight the dark—he wielded it. He moved the Usciu like pieces on a board. They’re asking if the daughter is made of the same iron. If she can control the things that breathe the light out of a room."

He paused, the heavy silence of the stable pressing in on them. The foal shivered under Shep's hand, its skin twitching as if something were crawling just beneath the coat.

"You can't extinguish what a Knowles was," Miller murmured, his eyes fixed on the house. "That kind of power... it don't just vanish because the man died. It finds a new well to sit in. She ought to be like him. By all rights, she should be his twin in spirit."

"And if she isn't?" Shep asked, his voice trembling.

Miller let the question hang in the air for a long moment, the darkness seeming to thicken around them. "You can't extinguish what Knowles was," he repeated, his voice trailing into a grim, hollow tone, "unless..."

He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't have to. The unless felt like a physical weight in the room—a suggestion that the only way to stop that bloodline was to end it before the "awakening" truly took hold.

Old Wolf Country

Miller spat into the straw, the sound sharp in the quiet stable. "Knowles came from the dark ones," he said, his voice low and jagged. "The melancholic ones from the North. Old wolf country. You ever seen the light up there, Shep? It doesn't shine; it just leans on things. It makes people thin in the spirit. That’s where Jacob got his start."

Shep shifted his weight, looking uncomfortable. "He was a man, Miller. Just a man who knew too much."

"He was a vessel," Miller corrected. "And his daughter... it doesn't matter who her mother was. It doesn't matter if she was a saint or a barmaid. It’s him that controls her. It’s that Northern marrow in her bones. You can't outrun the blood."

Shep looked toward the farmhouse again. "They know she is here. Gus and Dre attended mass in the village last Sunday. The locals... they don't say much, but they have eyes like owls. They know they’re here."

"And what were they looking for?" Miller asked. "Signs? A twitch in her hand? A shadow that doesn't follow her right?"

"They were just watching," Shep replied, trying to sound dismissive. "Fortunately, when the snow clears, they'll be gone. Back to Ashbury. They don't belong here, Miller."

Miller let out a short, mirthless bark of a laugh. "Ashbury? You think that’s where they’re heading?" He stepped closer, the smell of old tobacco and cold iron clinging to him. "That’s Ternbury country, Shep. You don't just 'go back' to Ternbury. You get summoned. If the girl is truly her father’s daughter, Ashbury is just a stop on the way to the clearing where the wolves meet."

He looked up at the rafters, where the strange, liquid shifting had finally gone still.

"They attended mass," Miller mused, a cold smile touching his lips. "I wonder if she burned when she stepped over the threshold. Or if the saints just turned their heads so they wouldn't have to see what was walking among 'em."

The Shadow in the Nave

The Watcher in the Pew

The room was never truly dark, but tonight the shadows seemed to have a weight to them, pressing against the corners of the ceiling like damp wool. Old Molly couldn't settle. Every time her eyes drifted shut, she saw the heavy oak doors of the Chapel at Angel Bay swinging wide, admitting a draft that smelled not of the sea, but of ancient, frozen earth.

She reached for the nightstand, her fingers trembling as they found the familiar smooth wood of her rosary beads. She drew them under the covers, clutching them to her chest like a talisman on a taxi driver’s mirror—a desperate bit of luck against a coming collision.

Only she knew the specific cadence of the prayers she uttered now. They weren't the standard petitions for health or harvest; they were the old, jagged rhythms intended to bar a door.

"Something happened tonight," she whispered into the hollow of her pillow. "Something walked in."

She closed her eyes and saw them again: the girl and the man. They had entered the village so quietly, wrapped in their thick Aran sweaters to guard against the coastal chill. To anyone else, they looked like weary travelers seeking a moment of peace. But Molly had seen the girl’s skin—pale as the moon, reflecting the candlelight in a way that felt stolen. And those eyes, limpid pools of green that didn't seem to see the altar so much as look through it. Beside her, the man was a different kind of danger, sharp and brilliant as a blue sapphire, his presence vibrating with a hidden, electric heat.

"A complex couple," Molly muttered, her thumb white-knuckled against a bead. "Too complex for this soil."

She thought of the "wolf" Miller had whispered about. She had seen the way the girl moved—the subtle, predatory grace hidden beneath the heavy knit of her sweater. There was a shadow that walked a half-pace behind her, a silhouette that didn't quite match the girl's form.

The Stain on the Fabric

The air inside the Chapel of St. Martin de Porres was thick with the scent of beeswax and old incense, a smell Rhona usually found comforting. Today, however, it felt stifling. She moved with a rhythmic, aggressive efficiency, her rag snapping against the dark wood of the pews. It had to be perfect. Even if the "Dawn Mass" had been pushed back to 8:00 AM to accommodate Father Lally’s aging bones, the sanctity of the first Mass of Christmas demanded a spotless house.

The heavy oak door groaned on its hinges, a sound that usually heralded a quiet parishioner. Instead, it brought in the frantic chill of Old Molly.

"You’ll never remove the stain, Rhona," Molly’s voice cracked through the silence, sounding like dry leaves skittering on stone. "The very fabric has started to tear."

Rhona didn't stop her scrubbing. "Now, now, Molly, none of that. Not today of all days. Father has Mass at eight, and I’ve enough to do without you unraveling the carpet with your tongue."

Molly stepped closer, her rosary beads clicking a frantic rhythm against her hip. "The dark one is here, Rhona. That old farmer Shep on the hill? His mare had a foal last night. They say Miller attended. Against all the odds, Rhona—mare and foal are doing well. Think on that."

"Well, Molly, these things happen," Rhona replied. "It’s a miracle, and a fitting name for a fine boy. That foal will save Shep and his farm."

"It needs knocking down!" Molly hissed, leaning over the back of a pew. "They were here in the summer, Rhona. Green eyes and blue eyes, mixing together like oil and poison. Darkness is coming to Angel Bay."

Rhona stopped and sighed, turning to face the older woman. "I told you time and time again, Molly—Stephen King and James Herbert are not for the likes of us. We don’t need to be fueling any fires in that head of yours. Now, either take a cloth and help me, or go sit and find your peace."

The Quietest Mass

The church was cold. No matter how high Rhona turned the heating, the ancient stone of St. Martin de Porres seemed to breathe ice. It was 7:45 AM. The "Dawn Mass" was fifteen minutes away, and the light outside was a bruised, watery grey.

Rhona stopped her polishing and looked at the front pew. There sat the "Everydays"—the half-dozen parishioners who lived by the chime of the bell. Wrapped in heavy wool, their breath ghosted in the air.

In the vestry, Father Lally Stevens was struggling with his vestments. His hands, spotted with age and tremors, fumbled with the heavy silk. He knew what Molly was whispering about. He had felt the shift in the air when the foal was born on the hill. A vet would have prioritized the mother and likely lost the spirit of the foal in the process. But Miller had been there—and Miller knew the old ways of "holding" a life until it was ready to be anchored.

Fr.Lally stepped out into the sanctuary. "Blessed be God," he croaked, his voice deep and frail.

Among the elders sat one child. A boy, no older than seven, with eyes that didn't match the festive morning. He wasn't looking at the crib or the flickering candles. He was staring at the heavy oak door, waiting for it to creak open again. He had green eyes, vibrant and unsettling, and he was tilting his head as if listening to a conversation happening miles away on a hill where a "Miracle" had just been born.

Rhona saw him. She gripped her cleaning rag until her knuckles turned white. Stephen King guff, she told herself. Just a boy with a cold.

But as Fr.Lally began the liturgy, the boy turned and looked directly at her. He didn't smile. He just watched her, his gaze as heavy and ancient as the priest’s.

The Sting of Salt and Green Lard

The Heavy Awakening

The transition from sleep to waking was like pulling herself through freezing mud. For a moment, Dre sat bolt upright, the image of a small boy with green eyes and an ancient priest still burned into the back of her retinas. The room was stone-cold, the walls of the farmhouse sweating with the damp of a coastal winter, but the light was wrong—it was the thin, watery grey of a dawn that didn't want to break.

She looked down at her hands. They were a terrifying map of indigo and sickly green, the skin stretched tight over the knuckles where the ropes and reins had bitten in. She flexed them experimentally. The tendons held, but a whimper escaped her throat as the blood moved through the bruised tissue.

The smell reached her then—the salty, heavy scent of bacon fat. It was the smell of life, of survival.

The Green Lard

She moved downstairs, her feet cold on the flags. Shep was there, silhouetted against the range. He didn't turn immediately, but he knew her step. When he did look at her, his eyes went straight to her hands.

"Come here, lass," he said, his voice a low rumble that felt safer than anything she’d felt in years. "We should have done it last night, but you were dead to the world."

He reached for a heavy stoneware jar on the mantle, the lid scraping with a sound like grinding teeth. He left the bacon to spit and hiss in the pan, coming over to take her hands in his. His palms were like sandpaper—calloused, weathered, and strangely warm.

"The green lard," he murmured, scooping out a dollop of thick, pungent salve. "Helps with the healing. I’m guessing they ache and sting?"

"They throb and burn," Dre whispered. The goo was cold at first, then began to tingle with a fierce, herbal heat.

Shep nodded, his eyes noting the red wheals on her arms where the rope had lashed her. "Well, it was the way you grabbed the rein, lass. Wrapping it round your hands like that... you're lucky you were guarded by the sleeves of the Aran. Thick and protective. That’s why fishermen wear them—they're more than just wool when the sea wants to pull you under."

He began to rub the salve in, his movements surprisingly tender for a man who looked like he could wrestle a bull.

The Wrong Heads

"Come on, eat your breakfast while it’s good and hot," he nudged her toward the table. "Thought the smell would have awakened Gus by now." He grinned, but the smile didn't quite reach the corners of his eyes, which remained watchful.

Dre looked out the window toward the silhouette of the chapel in the distance. "It was a dream," she said, her voice sounding far away even to herself. "The chapel... it was filled with this grey light. There was a boy."

Shep’s hand paused on the handle of the frying pan. He didn't look back at her. "The Dawn Mass," he said quietly. "Lally’s lot. Sometimes when the air is this heavy, dreams find their way into the wrong heads. Best you keep your mind here, on the bacon and the tea."

The Echoes of Christmas Day

The Ghost in the Glass

Gus awakened to the sound of his own heavy breathing, the air in the room tasting of woodsmoke and old, stagnant grief. He felt in his pocket, his fingers searching for the familiar cold weight of the watch. He pulled it out, the silver casing catching a stray glint of winter light. He traced the engraving with a thumb that still carried the tremor of his dream: 2007. “Remember Me Forever, Seek your First Love,” Jess.

In the dream, the hospital room had been a void of fluorescent white. Jess had looked translucent, her vitality drained away by the very science they both worshipped.

“Jess, what are you talking about?” he had demanded in the dream, his heart hammering against his ribs as he looked at her with a surgeon’s desperate concern.

She had reached out, her touch like the brush of a moth’s wing. “We don’t get second chances, darling. Don’t grieve too long. Move on... seek her again. Then, she was too young,” she had whispered, her voice a dry rasp.

“Jess, stop this. The treatment will work,” he had insisted, clinging to his logic like a shield.

Jess had shaken her head, a flash of her old fire sparking in her sunken eyes. “I am a scientist, damn it! I did it for her—what was the damn point? Look at her!” She had snapped, her finger trembling as she pointed to the corner of the room.

There, Bliss—their daughter—was lost beneath a canopy of wires and tubes, a tiny bird caught in a mechanical web, fighting for a life that was already being measured in hours. “I might get a few months down the track, but you have to be realistic! Mum! Hope, me and Hestia... even Bliss,” she had hissed, naming the line of women who had been taken.

“Hestia died in childbirth, she didn’t have cancer,” he had reminded her firmly, but Jess only offered a bitter, twisted smile that didn't reach her eyes.

“Well, that makes her lucky, I guess. Look, face facts. Raise our daughter Bliss with love.”

Gus wiped the cold sweat from his brow. It was Christmas Day, six years to the day since she had spoken those harsh, prophetic words. He had refused to listen then, and then he had lost Bliss anyway. The memory was a dull ache in his marrow. He swallowed the stale, metallic-tasting water by the bedside and descended the stairs, the watch strapped tight to his wrist like a manacle.

The Kitchen of Bruised Colors

Dremeda was at the table, the morning light revealing the damage he had ignored the night before. She was eating bacon and eggs, but her hands—the hands of a woman who had fought a beast—were a grotesque palette of black, blue, and a sickly, jaundiced green. The reins, he thought with a pang of guilt. I should have treated them instead of hiding in the ledgers.

“Don’t worry so, Gus,” Dre said, her voice small. “Shep applied this lovely balm. It’s not as painful now.” She moved her fingers, a frantic, bird-like motion to reassure him. “See? No tendon damage.”

Gus moved to her, his professional instincts overriding his grief. He took her hands in his, feeling the heat of the inflammation. Shep set a plate before him—heavy with bacon, thick-cut bread, and blood-red tomatoes—alongside a steaming mug of tea.

“Eat. Stop worrying,” Shep growled, his presence filling the small kitchen. “Lay off being a surgeon for five minutes and just eat.”

“The balm?” Gus demanded, taking a sip of the tea. He loathed tea; his body craved the dark, sharp kick of the coffee waiting in his cottage.

“Just herbs and lanolin, a bit o' lard, some dripping too,” Shep replied, leaning against the counter. “Clean enough to eat, if it weren’t for the herbs. Purgatives, mostly.”

The Return of the Fog

At the word purgatives, the color drained from Dre’s face, leaving her as pale as the ghost of Jess. A violent wave of nausea surged through her, and the smell of the fried fat suddenly turned to the stench of something ancient and rotting. She whimpered, a sound of pure animal distress, and bolted for the back door.

Gus watched in horror as she retched into the pristine white snow.

A memory—cold, jagged, and suppressed—tore through her mind like a blade. The world tilted. The white of the snow became a blinding fog, and she would have collapsed if not for the heavy, powerful arms that caught her.

She screamed. The scent was wrong. It wasn't the sterile smell of Gus or the sheep-smell of Shep—it was something dark, wet, and predatory.

“It’s alright now, lass. Calm yourself,” Shep commanded, his voice a low vibration. He looked at Gus, his eyes narrowing. “She’s like a worried sheep. Needs a calming brew. As your Dad would say, chamomile and fennel—calm the mind, calm the stomach.”

“Dre, look at me. You’re safe,” Gus demanded, stepping into the biting air.

She reached out, her bruised, multicolored fingers stroking his face as if checking to see if he was real.

“That’s right. You’re safe. We need to get you warm.”

Shep draped a rough, heavy blanket over her shoulders, but the moment the weight touched her, Dremeda recoiled as if she had been burned. She knocked it away, her eyes wide and glassy, fixed on a horror only she could see.

The Briar and the Fire

“Alright now, lass. You’re in the briar,” Shep said, his voice softening. He replaced the blanket with a supple sheepskin. “You’re safe here. No one’s going to hurt you. A sheep needs to be calm.”

“She’s not a sheep, Shep!” Gus snapped, his voice sharp with a mix of fear and clinical frustration. He helped her to her feet and guided her back toward the hearth, but the sight of the roaring fire sent a fresh jolt of terror through her. To Dremeda, the orange flames weren't warmth—they were a cage.

She screamed again, a raw, throat-tearing sound, and fled for the shadows of the hallway. She pressed her palms against the freezing stone wall, seeking the comfort of the cold.

Shep didn't argue. He moved a chair into the hallway and sat her down with a firm, practiced grip. He propped her battered feet up on a stool and placed a steaming mug of herbal tea beside her.

“Blankets around her, Gus. Keep the feet warm and the head cool. I’ll put your breakfast on the warmer.”

“I can't eat,” Gus said, his mind already calculating dosages. “I need to go to the cottage and get a sedative. Something to stop the tremors.”

“Tea will do just as well,” Shep countered. “Those drugs of yours just bury the rot. They suppress what needs to come out. She’s been through more than any ordinary lass should suffer. You know it. I can feel the weight of it on her.”

“She should be in a proper bed,” Gus insisted.

“Leave her be,” Shep said. “When she’s sipping that brew, you eat. I’ll do the lass some toast and jam in a bit. You need your strength.”

“Her hands... I need to examine them,” Gus said, his voice losing its authority.

Shep shook his head. “What you need to do is stop being a surgeon. Stop trying to fix things that can’t be mended with a knife. Let the herbs work their magic.”

“No... no magic,” Dre whispered, her voice a ghostly thread.

“Lass, you’re safe. Small sips now,” Shep said, guiding the mug to her lips.

“I’m okay,” she whispered, though her eyes remained haunted.

“You’re in fine fettle. Just coming out of the briar and the fog,” Shep murmured.

Gus looked at the old man, a flicker of resentment in his chest. “Stop treating her like a sheep. It might work for them, but she's human.”

Shep gave a slow, cryptic smile. “Worked for the pink-haired lass, didn't it? When I pulled her out of the brine after she ran into that rank, dunderheaded hammerhead. She was fine. This lass will be fine, too. Sheep don’t make it when they’re worried—that’s the difference.” He clapped a heavy hand on Gus’s shoulder. “Now eat. She’s going to be fine.”

The Cat and the Cold Dawn

The Melting Sentinels

The world outside the window was turning into a muddy, weeping grey. The snowmen, which only yesterday had stood as proud, coal-eyed sentinels of the garden, were now slumped, headless mounds of slush. Grace watched them dissolve with a look of profound, quiet mourning.

"Never mind, darling," Ava said, her hand moving in a rhythmic, soothing stroke through Grace’s hair. "There’s always the next snowfall. February usually brings the heavy drifts."

Grace didn't look away from the glass. "Not until the cat arrives," she said. Her voice was flat, devoid of the usual childhood whimsy.

Ava shared a quick, tired look at her Mum over the rim of her coffee mug. "Grace, sweetie, if this is about the kitten... we’ve talked about this. Do you see any boxes with air holes, we would have told you. We just can't have a cat in the house right now."

"It’s not that type of cat," Grace retorted. She finally turned, reaching out to take her mother’s hand. Her fingers were surprisingly cool, despite the roaring radiator behind them.

Breakfast and Shadows

"Grace, please come and finish your breakfast," Jamie interjected from the head of the table, her tone a gentle command. "You specifically asked for pancakes and blueberry jam. They’re getting cold."

Grace slid into her chair, the heavy oak creaking under her slight weight. "Sorry, Grandma. Thank you. And thank you so much for the present you sent to Father Christmas. I know it was you."

Jamie chuckled, a warm, resonant sound that filled the kitchen. "Well, he did mention you were at the very top of his list this year. He needs all the help he can get with the logistics."

Across the table, Alex and Ewan were focused on their eggs and bacon, the clatter of forks against porcelain the only sound for a moment. The atmosphere was thick with the leftover exhaustion of a night interrupted.

"What time are you due at the nursing home, Alex?" Ava asked, breaking the brief silence.

"After lunch, despite the chaos last night," Alex replied, checking his watch.

Ewan grinned, a flash of his usual irreverence. "Which chaos? Do you mean Gracie waking us all up at four in the morning to feed us chocolate, or the flying squad at two?"

The Flying Squad

"What’s the flying squad?" Grace asked, her fork hovering over a blueberry.

"Special medical emergency services, Gracie," Ewan explained, his voice softening. "They travel fast to help very sick babies. Loosely speaking. Incidentally, mother and baby are doing well. They’ve named her after you, Jamie." He gave his wife a playful wink.

Jamie laughed, the sound bright and clear. "Another one? Good heavens, do they even know my real name?"

"Jemima Puddleduck!" Grace laughed softly. The tension in the room snapped like a dry twig as she leaned over, hugging her grandmother and resting her head on Jamie’s shoulder.

The table erupted in shared laughter, a brief, golden moment of family normalcy. But as Grace rested against Jamie, her eyes drifted back to the window, watching the last of the snowmen melt into the dirt, waiting for the cat that wasn't a cat.

The Headmistress’s Audit

The Connection

Ava placed her hand on Alex's shoulder; he looked tired, the lines around his eyes deepened by the early morning chaos. "Did you find another first aider to cover the Methodist church today?" she enquired.

Alex smiled, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "I did. Mrs. Deerfield," he replied.

Grace’s breath hitched. "My headteacher," she whispered. The pancakes on her plate suddenly looked like cold clay. Christmas joy, which had been precarious at best, seemed to be swallowed whole, dragged away from Grace by the mere mention of that name.

Restraint and Grey Light

The 10:30 AM Methodist service at Ashbury was a study in restraint. There were no elaborate floral arrangements, no flickering banks of votive candles, and certainly no Father Christmas. The light that filtered through the plain, leaded glass was a cold, honest grey, illuminating the faces of the congregation with an unforgiving clarity.

Tia Deerfield sat in the third pew, her spine a perfectly straight line that seemed to rebuke the cushioned comfort of the benches. As the Headmistress of Birch Hall, Tia did not merely attend a service; she presided over the atmosphere. Her presence was a reminder that even in the house of God, one was still subject to the standards of the educational authority.

The Audit of Souls

When the final hymn concluded, the Minister stepped aside with a deferential nod. This was the moment the children had been waiting for, though they remained seated in a silence born of habit and a healthy fear of the woman in the charcoal-grey wool coat.

Tia stood and walked to the front. She didn't click her heels like a common schoolteacher; her movement was silent, predatory, and efficient. Beside her sat a stack of Selection Boxes, their bright, commercial colors looking almost vulgar against the chapel's muted tones.

"The children will come forward," Tia announced. Her voice was thin and sharp, like a blade passed over a whetstone. "One at a time. Manners are not a suggestion; they are a requirement."

The line formed with a precision that would have suggested a military drill. Tia handed out the boxes with a measured grace, but her eyes were never still. She wasn't just giving out chocolate; she was conducting an audit. She looked at the state of their collars, the clarity of their eyes, and the way they held her gaze.

"Toby, your posture has regressed since the winter solstice," she said, her voice a low vibration that only the boy could hear. "And Sarah, I noticed you were missing from the morning's early recitation. Do not let it become a habit. Birch Hall does not reward the lethargic."

The Watchful Eye

She knew their family histories, their academic failings, and the subtle shifts in their household dynamics. For Tia Deerfield, these Selection Boxes were a means of ensuring the Methodist children felt the weight of her oversight. It was about marking the territory of her influence. In Ashbury, being noticed by Tia was rarely a comfort; it was a warning that you were being measured.

"Peace be with you all," the Minister intoned, but Tia was already pulling on her leather gloves, smoothing the skin over her knuckles with a slow, deliberate tension.

She caught the eye of a local council member in the crowd and gave a single, imperious nod. The order of the village was maintained. The children were categorized, the expectations were set, and the "irregularities" of the season were, for the moment, under her watchful eye.

As she stepped out into the biting morning air, she glanced toward the distant treeline where the snow was beginning to slough off the branches. Tia Deerfield didn't care for miracles. She cared for results, and as the new term approached, she intended to ensure that every soul under her jurisdiction was exactly where they were supposed to be.

The Healing Balm and the Herbalist’s Hearth

The Quiet Bridge of Melissa

Gus ate his breakfast with a heavy, cautious silence, his eyes never straying far from the hallway where Dremeda sat. She looked small, swaddled in the thick, creamy folds of a sheepskin rug, a stark contrast to the violent, bruised colors of her hands. He felt a gnawing helplessness; Shep had practically ordered him to eat, treating the surgeon like a petulant child while the old man tended to the animals.

Shep had long since disappeared into the biting air to check on Shimmer and Miracle, leaving the kitchen smelling of toasted bread and woodsmoke. Dremeda sipped her tea, her mind finally beginning to clear of the morning’s fog. The jam on her toast was tart and sweet—the first thing she’d eaten since before the foal’s birth.

The past is the past, she told herself, the words a silent mantra. You kept it in while Mum was alive. Now you just push it back down. No good comes of digging. She glanced toward the roaring fire, her heart fluttering briefly before she forced her gaze to steady. Nothing to fear. Just a bonfire. Like the Ashbury Bonfire in the park.

She closed her eyes and saw it: the red brick walls of the houses glowing orange, the silver birch branches shimmering like frosted lace against the dark sky. She remembered the taste of the "bonfire soup" and the jacket potatoes Lexorana would bring—black and charred as the cobs of hell, but tasting of pure comfort.

“I’m okay now,” she whispered, hearing the scrape of Gus’s chair as he approached. “I was being foolish.”

“No, love,” Gus assured her, his voice softening. “You weren’t foolish.” His phone buzzed in his pocket—a jarring, modern sound in the ancient kitchen. He pulled it out and chuckled, a genuine, tired sound. “It seems Father Christmas was delivering more than just coal and toys last night. Look at this.”

He showed her a picture in the Camberlain Gazette. Dremeda let out a soft, melodic chuckle. “Oh no... poor Alex. Has he seen it yet?”

“I doubt it,” Gus replied, his thumb hovering over the screen. “I’m just going to share it with him now. It’s actually a very good photo of him.”

The Alchemy of the Hearth

Dremeda leaned back into the sheepskin, feeling a delicious, dreamy lethargy. The secrets of the wallet, the terror of the fog—it all felt distant, muffled by the warmth of the rug and the strange, lemony sweetness of the tea.

“You look cozy,” Gus remarked, sipping his own tea with a grimace. “Like a squaw in a teepee.”

“I feel better,” she agreed. “And so hungry. I haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

“Well, you’re looking much better, lass,” Shep’s voice rumbled as he re-entered the kitchen, smelling of cold wind and hay. “Miracle and Shimmer are happy, too. We got them through the night thanks to you.”

“Nice tea,” Gus said, pointing to the mug with a look of clinical suspicion.

“Aye, one of your Dad’s better brews,” Shep smiled. “Still hungry, lass? A bowl of porridge should do the trick.”

“I don’t want to be a trouble,” Dremeda insisted, though her stomach gave a traitorous growl. “We should get back to the cottage.”

“It’s a raw wind out there, and the sludge is treacherous,” Shep countered. “You’ll slip in those shoes and be on your back in no time. You’re both staying put. It’s Boxing Day, and I’ve a goose roasting. The porridge is on—cream and honey. Gus?”

“I’ve had enough,” Gus replied, his eyes narrowing as he watched Shep move to the stove.

“I’m okay to sit by the fire now,” Dremeda said, moving back into the lounge. “That was silly of me.”

“Aye, like a seal pup catching a fright,” Shep murmured gently. “Let’s toast you by the fire, then a short nap. I’ll serve the goose around four or five. We might even have a visitor later.”

“She’s off duty, then?” Gus asked, referring to the local nurse.

“Aye, in the brine, no doubt. Foolish lass, but she says she needs the ice to feel alive,” Shep remarked. He delivered a bowl of oatmeal to Dremeda, the cream swirling into the golden honey she drizzled over the top.

The Element of Folly

Gus followed Shep back into the kitchen, his surgeon’s curiosity finally boiling over. “What’s in the brew, Shep? The ‘Dad’s brew’?”

Shep pointed to a row of glass jars on the counter. “Nothing sinister, Gus. You used to make these yourself. Melissa... lemon balm.”

Gus picked up a jar, smelling the bright, herbaceous scent. “Melissa,” he whispered. That’s why she’s so upbeat. It was a mild euphoria, a bridge for a grieving mind that he had never thought to offer. “You’re right... I’ve put my herbal knowledge on the back burner since losing Jess. Since it did nothing for her!”

He growled the last words, the bitterness of his failure resurfacing.

“Like most doctors, you’re looking for something that isn't there,” Shep said quietly, stirring the porridge. “You focus on the disease instead of the nature of the person. You forget the elements.”

“Are you telling me I failed her because I was looking in the wrong direction?” Gus hissed, glaring at the jars.

“No, Gus. The cure wasn't there to find. Man created his own folly—the poisons in the air, the sea, the fire. We’ve tainted the very elements that are supposed to heal us. Hiroshima, DDT, the pesticides... it all adds up.”

“So you’re blaming nuclear disasters and chemicals for the cancer,” Gus snapped. “That’s your diagnosis?”

“Stress is the worst of it, they say,” Shep replied evenly. “But searching for a cure by cutting and poisoning... it’s just grasping at straws in a world we’ve already broken.”

“Enough,” Gus sighed, his heart heavy with the weight of the holiday and the echoes of his colleagues' voices—Jamie, Ewan, even Alex—all telling him there was nothing more to be done. “Let’s change the subject. It’s morbid, and Dre is grieving.”

The Snail and the Samphire

Gus returned to the lounge with a fresh cup of tea. He still despised the taste, but Shep wouldn't allow the 'odour' of coffee in his house. Dremeda looked up, her face glowing.

“Why does porridge never taste like this at home?” she asked.

“I have no idea,” Gus replied, sitting beside her. “How are the hands?”

“Look,” she said, reaching for his hands. The inflammation had subsided, the skin supple and cool. “No pain. It’s a miracle balm, Shep. You should sell it.”

“What for, lass?” Shep asked, taking her empty bowl.

“What’s in it, anyway?” she enquired.

“Snails,” Shep chuckled. “Crushed.”

Dremeda recoiled with a look of alarm, making Shep laugh properly. “Joking, lass. It’s seaweed and herbs. Your hands were just dry with grief. Sip your tea.”

“It’s delicious,” she said, her voice growing sleepy. “Lemony, like my garden... rosemary?”

“Almost,” Shep replied. “Lemon balm, chamomile, a bit of lemon verbena. Can you taste the salt?”

“Samphire,” she realized.

“Aye. Until your senses are mended, it’s the best thing for you,” Shep said, moving toward the kitchen. “I’ll put some soup on if you’re peckish before the goose. And I’ve a Victorian sponge to pop in the oven once the bird is done.”

The Afternoon, not published yet x 

The Bustle of Cedar Falls

The double doors of Cedar Falls hissed open, exhaling a gust of warmth that smelled of roasted beans, cinnamon, and expensive perfume. The home was a hive of activity. Though the gift shop shutters were down, the coffee shop was thronged; families sat huddled over steaming lattes, surrounded by piles of gaily wrapped parcels and the crinkle of silver foil.

In the distance, the sharp thwack of a dart hitting the board was followed by a roar of laughter from the small public bar.

"Missed the barman by an inch, Ewan!" Jamie shouted, leaning against the doorframe of the pub. "I’ll bar you next time, I swear it!" the barman roared back jovially, waving a dishcloth at the group of residents and visitors taking turns at the line.

The centerpiece of the foyer was a radiant spruce, its lights shimmering against the polished floor. The manager was already ushering people into a semi-circle.

"Come on now, don't be shy!" he called out. "The more voices, the better the harmony!"

Alex, Ava, and Grace joined the staff around the tree, with Jamie and Ewan sliding in beside them, still grinning from the dartboard near-misses. They launched into a spirited carol, the sound filling the atrium and rising toward the glass ceiling.

Mid-verse, the Matron—a woman who moved with the quiet authority of a ship’s captain—edged her way toward Alex. She leaned in, her voice low enough to stay beneath the music, but her eyes were sharp.

"You did bring your medical hat, I hope, Dr. Alex?" she interjected, her hand briefly patting his arm. "We think Mrs. Fullow might be going home soon."

Alex didn't miss a beat, his voice blending into the chorus of Good King Wenceslas. "Yes, I brought it with me. Received your text this morning," he assured her with a short, professional nod.

The Matron leaned closer as a staff member passed by with a heavy tray of mince pies and glasses of non-alcoholic mulled wine. "Out the back way when she goes might be best," she murmured, her expression unreadable. "Avoid the crowds. The 'transition' should be discreet."

Alex’s smile stayed fixed for the sake of the family, but his grip on his songsheet tightened. Mrs. Fullow wasn't just any resident, and "going home" in this context felt like a code he wasn't entirely ready to execute in front of a room full of holiday cheer.

"Mince pie, Grace?" Ava asked, oblivious to the exchange, handing her daughter a warm pastry.

Grace took it, but her eyes were fixed on the Matron and her father. She had seen the way the Matron’s hand had lingered—not in affection, but in a sort of shared, heavy secret. Around them, the singing reached a crescendo, masking the quiet, clinical reality of what was happening "out the back way."

The Transition: A Minute's Silence

In the foyer, the festive lights seemed to flicker for a fraction of a second as the manager held up a hand. The Christmas music was stifled, replaced by a sudden, ringing silence that traveled from the corridors into the coffee shop.

Alex felt the shift in the air. He squeezed Ava’s hand, a warm, grounding pressure, and gave Grace a quick, reassuring wink. "I’ll be back before the mince pies are gone," he whispered, though the lie felt heavy in his throat.

He followed the Matron down the plush, carpeted hallway of the 'Evergreen Wing,' where the smell of pine was replaced by the sharp, metallic tang of disinfectant. Outside Room 14, a huddle of relatives stood trembling.

"I think she’s gone, Dr. Blaine," the granddaughter sobbed, her face blotchy. "She... she put up a fight till the end. You won't hurt Gran, will you?"

Alex stopped. He looked into the girl’s bright green eyes, holding her gaze with a steady, hypnotic intensity. He didn't just look at her; he projected a sense of profound, artificial calm. Slowly, her trembling slowed. The frantic beat of her pulse, visible in her neck, began to steady.

"Of course I won't hurt her," Alex said, his voice like velvet. "But I do have to examine her to confirm. Wait outside, please. You too, Elsie. Patrick, take them down to the lounge."

"It’s so kind of you, Doctor," Elsie whispered, clutching a damp handkerchief as her husband ushered her away. "To be here right now, amongst all the festivities and your family..."

The Matron closed the door behind them with a definitive click. She stood by the bed, hands folded, a witness to the "legal ramifications"—or perhaps just a sentinel for the transition.

Outside in the lobby, Grace gripped Ava’s hand. The silence was beginning to lift, but the cheer felt fragile now, like thin glass.

"Is Daddy okay?" Grace asked softly.

"Daddy is fine," Ava replied, her eyes fixed on the hallway where Alex had vanished. "He has to do some jobs that appear sad, but they're important. He’s being very kind to help."

Grace turned her head. Near the main entrance, the heavy oak doors were being held open. A woman named Ada—who only yesterday had been confined to a wheelchair—was walking toward the exit. She looked vibrant, her skin glowing with a health that seemed impossible for her age. She was being led by a tall, striking woman dressed in shimmering gold, whose skin was so pale it looked like polished marble.

"Bye-bye, Ada!" Grace whispered, waving her small hand.

Ada turned. She looked as fit as a flea, her eyes sparkling with a strange, newborn light. She saw the little girl and smiled—a wide, joyous expression that reached her ears.

"Bye-bye, Gracie!" Ada called back, her voice clear and melodic.

Grace jumped with glee, delighted by the woman’s recovery. She didn't notice that as Ada stepped out into the winter air with the golden guide, she left no footprints in the light dusting of snow on the welcome mat. Inside the room, Alex reached for his "medical hat," knowing that while Ada was walking out the front, Mrs. Fullow would soon be leaving through the back.

The Veil at the Door

The foyer of Cedar Falls felt suddenly too small for Grace. While the adults were hushed and heavy with the weight of the doctor’s "important jobs," Grace saw only the light. To her, Ada didn't look like a patient being discharged; she looked like a girl going to a party.

As the woman in shimmering gold guided Ada through the heavy oak doors, Grace felt a magnetic pull. Before Ava could tighten her grip, Grace slipped her hand free.

"Ada! Wait!" Grace squealed, her little boots thudding against the polished floor.

"Grace! No, stay here!" Ava shouted, her voice laced with a sudden, sharp anxiety. She and Elsie scrambled after the child, their coats flapping open as they hit the freezing air of the portico.

Outside, the world was a study in grey and white, save for the two figures. Grace didn't stop at the edge of the stone steps. She ran onto the gravel of the car park, her breath coming in little puffs of steam.

In front of her, the air began to ripple, like heat rising off a summer road. The woman in shimmering gold stopped and turned, her face a soft, blurred reflection that seemed to dissolve into the winter light. She stepped aside, and from a point that shouldn't have existed—a golden fracture in the air—a young man stepped out.

He was radiant, dressed in clothes that seemed woven from the same morning sun as the guide. He didn't look like the residents of Cedar Falls; he looked like a memory made flesh.

"Gran!" he called out, his voice a chime in the cold.

Ada let out a sound of pure, unadulterated joy. She didn't look back at the home, or the nurses, or the grief-stricken family inside. She ran to him with the legs of a twenty-year-old. He caught her in a hug that seemed to vibrate with light, lifting her off the ground. Together, they turned toward a path that was slowly diminishing, a track of gold leading into a place where the snow didn't fall.

As they walked, the "veil" began to stitch itself shut behind them. The woman in gold simply vanished, like a reflection when the light changes.

"Grace! Get back here this instant!" Ava cried, finally catching up and scooping the girl into her arms.

Elsie was breathless, her face pale from the sudden chill. "What on earth was she chasing? There’s no one out here, Grace. Ada’s family hasn't even arrived yet."

Grace watched the last shimmer of the path disappear. The gravel was empty. The snow was undisturbed. To her mother and grandmother, it was just a cold, empty car park.

"She went with the boy," Grace whispered, her eyes wide and peaceful. "The shiny boy. They went through the hole in the air."

Ava exchanged a look with Elsie—a look of deep, unsettling confusion. She tucked Grace’s head into her shoulder, shielding her from the empty space where the "hole" had been. Inside, the muffled sound of a carol began again, but the cold outside felt like it had seeped into Ava’s very bones.

Cedar Falls and the Bitter Frost

The Veil at Cedar Falls

Alex completed his examination with the clinical detachment that had become his armor. "I will need to sign the death certificate," he said, his voice level as he stepped out of the quiet room. "Fortunately, I have the papers with me."

As he exited, he nearly collided with the granddaughter. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but her voice was a steady whisper. “Can we sit with Grandma? I need to pray.”

“Of course you can,” Alex replied softly. “Have you called the priest? Do you want our family to pray with you as well?”

“That’s very kind... perhaps Jamie or Ewan? I don’t suppose the priest will get through the snow,” she admitted, glancing toward the frosted windows.

“We called him the moment we knew your grandmother was fading, dear,” the Matron assured her, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. “They’ll send someone. Dr. Blaine, if you’ll follow me to the office?”

The Arrival of Edgar

Edgar stepped into the Cedar Falls nursing village, greeted by the distant, tinny roar of the television. The racing had started; he knew Father Gordon had a bet on Jaffa. Poor man, Edgar thought, he’d be lucky if that horse finished the race, let alone won it.

He paused by the towering Christmas tree, drawing himself up. Across the lounge, he spotted his parents and his sister. He’d missed the midnight Mass—the hospital duty at St. Katherine’s had bled into a double shift as the snow buried the roads.

“Hello Mum, Dad,” he said, his face breaking into a warm smile. He hugged his mother tight, feeling the frail strength in her arms.

“Edgar, dear! How are you?” she demanded, stepping back to inspect him. She searched his deep blue eyes, looking for signs of fatigue.

“I’m fine, Mum. Dad, it’s good to see you. I was stuck at the hospital last night, but I see Alex has become quite the celebrity this morning,” he chuckled.

“What?” they asked in unison.

“The Camberlain Gazette. It seems Father Christmas delivered more than toys in Ashbury last night. You should find a copy, Mum; it’s a remarkably good photo of him.” His gaze shifted as he spotted Elsie Fallow. “Hello, Elsie. How are you today?”

“Father, thank God you’re here,” Elsie said, her voice trembling. “Mum went so fast... we couldn’t get word to you quickly enough.”

Nearby, Ava held Grace gently. The girl was still vibrating with the energy of what she had seen. “Are you alright, love?” Ava whispered, stroking her daughter’s hair.

“I’m fine, Mum. The lady in shimmering gold... she smiled at me. She knows things. And then Ada just walked away with the boy. I’ll never forget it,” Grace replied, her eyes unnervingly bright.

When Alex emerged from the office, Grace ran to him. He listened to her tale, hiding the cold streak of indignation rising in his chest. His daughter was awakening to a 'gift' he had spent his life trying to suppress or ignore.

“Sounds fascinating,” he said, though his hand gripped his bag a little tighter.

“I want to go to the car park, Daddy. I want to see the hole... see if Ada is still there.”

“Darling, you said yourself the fabric closed. She’s in heaven now,” Alex said firmly. He looked at Ava. “Have you seen the paper?”

“I’m afraid Ivy and Mark were so overjoyed by the new arrival they couldn’t help themselves,” Ava replied. “The photo is everywhere. Father Christmas delivers more than presents in Ashbury.”

“The Health Department is going to have a field day with that,” Alex muttered dryly. He felt a sudden, crushing weight of exhaustion. The front page. His brother would see it. The thought filled him with a leaden sense of dread.

The Hearth of Hatred

In his own grand lounge, Zachary Blaine did not share the sentiment. He glowered at the newspaper before flinging it into the roaring fireplace.

“Bloody typical of him to get his face in the paper,” he growled, draining his wine glass. His knuckles were white against the crystal. “Seven years we’ve waited for this day. Seven years. And I suppose now we’ll have to postpone.”

He reached down and violently ripped a white silk bow off Thor’s collar. The massive hound whined in annoyance. “Stop dressing the dogs up, Dahlia! They look ridiculous!”

“Sorry, Daddy,” Dahlia whispered. “He just looked so sweet. Apollo, too.”

“There is nothing sweet about these hounds, you foolish child,” Zachary sneered. “They would rip you to pieces if I told them to.”

“Zachary, it’s Christmas,” Augusta interjected smoothly. “Run along, Dahlia. Take Thor with you. Don’t worry, he won’t hurt you. Fortunately, I changed the attack word.” She offered a sharp, knowing chuckle.

Dahlia grinned, her eyes flashing with a spark of her mother's steel. “So Daddy will be the only target?” she joked, hurrying out with the dog at her heels.

Zachary turned his sneer on his wife. “You shouldn’t appease her, Augusta. My fool of a brother and his entire brood should be on the menu. Did Daniel say why they aren’t coming?”

“The weather, dear.”

“I know the weather! But they have snow ploughs! I suppose in that forgotten little village of theirs, they still rely on horse and cart,” he snarked.

“He said the car wouldn’t make it. That was the end of the conversation,” Augusta replied. “Deus doesn’t seem particularly bothered either way.”

The Divine and the Dinner Table

Upstairs, Deus was sprawled on his bed, his thumbs flying over his phone.

Hope you had a good Christmas. Look forward to seeing you New Year’s Day. What are you wearing? So I can take it off. x Deus.

In another house, Asteria blushed furiously. She sat at the dinner table with her guardians. Cass was radiant in a dress of shimmering gold, having only just returned from her "other work." Aster wore her usual blue, though today it was an evening gown encrusted with crystals that caught the candlelight like stars. Asteria had chosen a defiant pink over the traditional green.

Her phone buzzed. Doesn’t matter where you are, it’s what I intend to do to you, the message read.

“Tell your boyfriend you’re having dinner and put that thing away,” Aster commanded, her voice cutting through the festive air. “He’s too old for you anyway.”

“He’s the same age! And what do you care?” Asteria snapped.

“Can we please not fight at Christmas?” Cass asked, her voice weary.

“For goodness' sake, Cass, you don’t even believe in it,” Asteria retorted. “Why do we pretend today is special?”

“We don’t have to believe in a specific god to enjoy a meal,” Aster snapped back.

“She believes in God!” Asteria pointed a finger at Cass, her eyes wide with disbelief.

Cass sighed heavily, the gold of her dress seeming to pulse. “I believe in the Divine, dearie. A presence that tends to the spirit. Whether I subscribe to the Christian system is irrelevant. Today, we celebrate a nice meal and peace. Now, please, eat. Or I will confiscate that phone, and I promise you, this time you won’t find it.”

Her voice was a cool pool of calm, but it carried a weight that Asteria dared not challenge. For a moment, they looked like a normal family, but the shimmer of the crystals and the depth in Cass's eyes suggested something much older and far more dangerous was sitting at the table.