The horse just fits through the kitchen door. Auntie stations him by the fire as if he were a human friend come to call and not an animal that ought to be in the barn. Next we carry Maren in. She is squirming with delight, enthralled by our odd Christmas visitor.
Once Maren is comfortably arranged in the rocker, I shed my coat and scarf and set to rubbing the horse dry. He nickers and nods with gratitude.
“Now, my fine fellow,” Auntie says, “might we see what you carry in your pack? Perhaps a clue as to where you ought to be this grand day.”
The horse nickers again and shakes his mane of silver bells. After Auntie takes the pack from his back, she sets it on the kitchen table. I work to undo one of the buckles and Auntie works at the other. With sleepy eyes, Maren watches us from the fireside. The horse lies down and places his head next to her steaming footbath.
“You do the honors,” Auntie says to me, stepping aside.
I open the flap. On top of several brown-papered boxes, I find an envelope. “Mrs. Verity Amsell and Nieces,” it reads. I gasp, recognizing the loopy penmanship. No one but O’Neill has such a hand. “It’s from O’Neill. But how?” I say excitedly.
“Open it and see, for goodness’ sake,” Auntie urges.
Inside, I find two letters. One is addressed to “Mrs. V. Amsell, and also the Young Misses Maren and Clara.” The other is addressed solely to me. I slip my letter into my skirt pocket before tearing open the letter to us all. I read it aloud.
Dear ones,
I beg your forgiveness for our lack of correspondence, and most especially for not returning in October as is our habit. Scarff and I have been beset by ill luck since leaving you last summer. We have been burglarized, we suffered two broken wheels in the space of a week, and we capsized in a river—a harrowing adventure I will expound upon when I see you again. We also lost our way in a most peculiar forest for nine days, and recently, both came down with a terrible fever, which even Auntie Verity’s best elixirs could not eradicate. As I write this, Job and January are fighting off some sort of equine cough.
We are currently camping with a band of jovial gypsies on the banks of an alligator-infested lake. They are good with the horses (the gypsies, not the alligators). Madame Vadoma burns the foulest of incense, swearing that it will keep the toothy reptiles at bay. Yet I do not trust the beasts (the alligators, not the gypsies). There is hunger in their eyes and ill will in their toothy grins.
Through all of this, our hearts have been constantly aching to return to you, our dearest friends. How we have fretted over Maren’s health! To that effect, we have enclosed a few items she may find helpful. You will find them in the small square box.
Scarff begs me to inform you, Auntie, that when we return in spring, he will bring you the one thing your heart and his have most greatly desired for all your years of acquaintance. He says this with an impish smile and will tell me no more of it.
Since you are reading this, you have met our friend Zedekiah. I am confident that he will enjoy life with you on Llanfair Mountain, as he has a great affinity for clovers drenched in dew.
Scarff and I send our love to you all. If wishing got a body something, we would wish to spend this Christmas in your snug cottage. And now I am imagining Auntie’s delectable pies and hot spiced cider and drooling on my best waistcoat. Scarff bids me to stop immediately.
Your faithful servants,
O’Neill the Magnificent and Ezra Scarff
“Gypsies and alligators,” Maren whispers. “Can it be true?”
“Of course it is,” I say. “Why would O’Neill make up such a tale?”
“To impress us with his brave exploits,” she says.
Her words awaken a defensiveness of O’Neill I had not realized was lurking in my heart. I open my mouth to rebuke my sister, but Auntie interrupts.
“Shall we see what gifts they sent? Poor Zedekiah carried the burden of them for hundreds of miles, and yet it seems that you girls would rather bicker than open them.” Auntie has her hands on her hips in her best “maternal authority” pose.
Without another word, I peel the brown paper from the first box and remove its lid. Inside are smaller boxes, each adorned with a gilt-edged tag naming the recipient.
I deliver Maren’s into her hands. She smiles, the sparkles around her eyes glistening. We silently forgive one another for our squabbling.
Within my sister’s little box is a necklace: a gold locket engraved with an apple tree. She sighs and presses it to her breast before slipping the delicate chain over her head.
Auntie coos over her gift: an illuminated book of herbal recipes collected in a volume small enough to fit in her apron pocket. “So pretty and practical at the same time,” she declares.
Holding my breath, I open the box meant for me. I am ready to be amazed. And ready to be disappointed.
Wrapped in crinkly paper is a miniature painting in a wooden frame. It could easily fit inside a soup spoon. I hold the scene close and examine its subjects: a white stork perched in a fruit-laden tree, a rippled pond. At the edge of the pond, almost too small to see, is a pink conch shell.
Auntie leans in over my shoulder. “O’Neill painted that himself,” she says. “He was working on it in August when he was here. My, how lovely! Such a talented boy!”
I cannot decide whether I am pleased with my gift or jealous of Maren’s. I despise myself for such selfishness. Does not my sister deserve all of the best gifts? Her time with us seems to be dwindling so quickly. She may not spend another Christmas with Auntie and me. She may never celebrate the holidays again, for who knows what customs mermaids keep?
From each of Maren’s ocean-colored eyes falls a pearl the size of the head of a pin. They roll down her pale, twinkling cheeks, over the smooth silk of her robe, and tumble to the floor. She does not try to catch them. “I will miss Christmas most, of all the days in the year,” she says, as if she has read my mind.
“Come now,” Auntie says. “We must not dwell on what will or will not be. Today we have Christmas. Today is all we have, my dears. Today is all we ever have.” Despite her brave words, Auntie has tears in her eyes as well.
Outside, Osbert scratches at the door and howls. In all the excitement over Zedekiah, we left our faithful wyvern in the snow. Auntie lifts the latch and he bolts across the kitchen, dragging a snowdrift in with his tail. Little icicles hang from his chin like a beard. His wings stick out stiffly at his sides. Maren laughs as he turns three circles in front of the fire and flops onto his belly with a pitiful moan.
Auntie places a basin of warm peppermint tea under Osbert’s snout. “Merry Christmas to you, beast,” she says. “There’s your favorite.”