Afterword
On the upper levels of this beautiful steam-powered metropolis, Christmas still did not begin with the first snow, or even with the first wreath hung upon a door.
It still began with the Turning of the Green.
The Council of Wardens gathered in the Grand Atrium as they always had, collars starched and cuffs immaculate, (although some of their hands showed signs of hard work with oil and hammer).
The Holly Maker still woke first, dutiful as ever, chugging and hissing as it spun out dark garlands of holly, and the waiting children watched for the next heartbeat—the one in which the Mistletoe machine answered, pale strands and white berries flowing once more into the overhead tracks to tumble through Arcvale’s galleries in a waterfall of green.
Those who remembered the year the mistletoe machine almost fell silent would nudge their neighbours and smile, and say that things had changed for the better since then.
The Turning of the Green, they agreed, was no longer only about levers and speeches and polished brass.
Somewhere between the Grand Atrium and the Undercroft Forge, it had become something else as well.
These days, when the holly and mistletoe began their steady descent and the first snowflakes drifted down, more than a few people would chuckle and add, quietly, that Christmas in Arcvale truly began when a pair of very determined hearts decided to shift gears—and ended up turning in the same direction.
The End