The First Day of Christmas
Kestrel slept like a jet-lagged toad in nineteenth-century mud. When she woke again, the room was filled with the peachy light of late morning, and Charming was coming out of the adjoining bathroom, rubbing her eyes.
Kestrel felt a jolt of excitement and followed the feeling to a thought: It’s Christmas morning!
She’d largely spent the first decade of adulthood chasing the wonders of childhood that she’d missed out on, but thus far, the sparkle of Christmas magic had eluded her.
Charming was frowning. “Why do you look like a squirrel chewing on a light socket?”
Kestrel squealed. If she pretended to herself that she felt the magic, maybe she really would. “Should we see if Santa came?”
Charming’s eyes popped open, wide-awake at once. “Lands, yes!”
She grabbed her robe off the floor and slipped on her bunny slippers, and whisper-giggling, they held hands and went running down stairs covered in a Christmas-red carpet that spilled them into the grand foyer.
Laughing, they hurried across marble tiles and through several ground-floor saloons—a drawing room, a morning room, a conservatory, a library, and a large empty space that had the appearance of a ballroom-in-waiting.
Each chamber seemed ideal for Santa visits, boasting fireplaces and stocking-ready mantels, but the pair found not a single wrapped gift.
“No Santa?” said Charming, sounding genuinely disappointed.
“Well . . .” Kestrel wasn’t sure if she was kidding. “I mean, Santa doesn’t”—was it possible Charming believed?—“usually leave gifts for adults?”
“I do know Santa isn’t a thing, but it’s just . . . When you asked, I thought maybe you knew something I didn’t, and I let myself get excited for a sec.”
“Well, we could play Santa for Jerome and Andrews . . .”
So it happened that when the two men entered the drawing room, Kestrel and Charming were standing by the fireplace stuffing Charming’s long, woolen socks with matchboxes, silverware, sleeves of cookies, and bags of sweets they’d scavenged from the kitchen.
“What are you up to?” Jerome asked.
Kestrel and Charming shoved the socks atop the mantel and turned around, arms out in presentation mode. A rogue fork dropped onto the marble hearth with a tink-clink.
“Look!” said Kestrel. “Santa Claus came! And left you stuff!” “Because you were such good boys!” said Charming.
Soon the four of them were doing their best to lounge on the fancy, extremely un-loungable sofas, drinking tea and eating sock treats.
Kestrel mused on how she was good at these parts of companionship—the early parts.
She’d always made a friend on the first day of class.
She could walk out of a bar with a reasonably nice guy who was reasonably attracted to her.
What she could never seem to do was make anything last.
Hank had lasted the longest. They hadn’t just crashed at each other’s places—they’d created a home together.
Shopped the online classifieds till they found just the right couch.
Painted the bedroom terra-cotta and the bathroom lime.
Had a Sunday morning tradition of eggs and fried Spam over games of Boggle.
Loved each other in that way that felt to Kestrel as kind and comfortable as loving her own bones.
After a loss like that, Kestrel couldn’t imagine a second chance.
“When is the first day of Christmas?” Kestrel asked.
“Today, of course!” said Andrews. “Why is it that Yankees never know? The twelve days of Christmas starts on Christmas Day, setting off a string of festivities that ends on January fifth, also known as Epiphany Eve or Twelfth Night.”
“Like Shakespeare’s play?”
“That’s the one,” said Jerome. “And in Austenland, on Twelfth Night—”
“We’ll have our ball!” said Charming. “The ball is always the best part. You’ll see. The music, the gowns, the dancing, the loooove. And this year will be the best one yet.”
“You say that every ball,” said Jerome.
“I do. I keep hoping.” Charming swayed, eyes closed, humming to herself as if held by an imagined dance partner.
Kestrel wondered what her duties would be at the ball. Perhaps she could carry a tray of drinks to the dancers and so get to spend time in the ballroom with the music.
Andrews was about to eat the last chocolate-covered pistachio when Jerome nabbed it out of his fingers and popped it into his own mouth.
Andrews gasped. “You shameless hussy!”
“Takes one to know one.”
Andrews looked even more mock-shocked. “How dare you, you pistachio-stealing chuffer.”
“You roadkill garden gnome,” Jerome said.
“You half-rate, webbed-toed, unemployed mall Santa!” returned Andrews.
Charming pointed at Jerome and yelled, “You’re a murderer!”
“Wait . . . What?” Andrews said, mildly alarmed.
“MURDERER!” Charming said even louder.
Andrews blinked rapidly. “Hm. Now, why are you saying that, my pet?”
“I thought we were insulting Jerome,” Charming explained in a small, uncertain voice, “and there’s nothing worse than being a murderer, so . . .”
“Ah-ha.” Andrews nodded, his eyes widening with understanding. Then he turned to Jerome and shouted, “Murderer!”
Kestrel laughed. She was still disappointed that her grand-prize vacation was glorified maid-temp service, but at least she had this to look forward to—hanging out with the crew after hours, hearing the guest gossip, and just feeling part of it all.
An older woman in full Regency attire, including a white cap over her salt-and-pepper bun, entered the room.
“Happy Christmas, Mrs. Wattlesbrook!” Jerome said amiably.
Mrs. Wattlesbrook looked around. Inhaled sharply. And screamed.
It was a scream of surprise mixed with disgust rather than a scream of horror, but it was still shocking in its pitch and volume and general un-lounge-y-ness.
“The fireplace!” said Mrs. Wattlesbrook, pointing at the hearth with a trembling finger.
Kestrel swirled around, a tiny part of her expecting a monster to come lumbering out of the fireplace. Or maybe Santa after all. Or a monster Santa.
“The fireplace is empty!” Mrs. Wattlesbrook said. “You were supposed to light the Yule log on Christmas Eve!”
Jerome and Andrews looked at each other and then fled the room.
“You haven’t even lit the Yule candle to bless and protect the guests from harm,” she yelled after them. “And where are the evergreen boughs? It doesn’t look Christmassy! IT MUST LOOK CHRISTMASSY!”
Charming, still sitting on the rug, held up an Oreo. “Biscuit?”
“We will have a true Regency Christmas, by god!” Mrs. Wattlesbrook was yelling. “This is still my house, and I will not permit bunny slippers on the Persian rug!”
“Oh, calm down, missus,” said Charming. “These bunnies don’t poop.”
“Are they up to date on their shots?” Kestrel asked.
“Shots? Of tequila?” Charming seemed confused. “I don’t think it’s good for bunnies to drink.”
Now it was Kestrel’s turn to be confused. Mrs. Wattlesbrook ignored them both as she bustled around replacing fallen sofa cushions.
“We agreed, Miss Charming, that if we were to host guests for Christmas, then you would take it seriously—”
“Yeah, I know, I will. But the best parts of Christmas are the slow parts,” Charming drawled, lying back down.
“Slow parts?” Mrs. Wattlesbrook said, as if the words tasted bitter.
“You know, sitting around, drinking and gabbing, opening a present or two, eating, and forgetting there are more presents, so when you discover them later it’s like—surprise! A whole second Christmas!”
“Christmas is about tradition.”
“Sure, right, tradition. And pie.”
“And games?” Kestrel added. Because she liked games.
Mrs. Wattlesbrook turned to Kestrel with a questioning look, but whatever she was about to ask was cut short as Jerome and Andrews staggered in, gripping an absolutely enormous chunk of a halved log between them. Groaning pitifully, they managed to roll it onto the hearth.
“It’s massive, Mrs. Wattlesbrook,” Andrews said breathlessly.
“It must be. The Yule log is supposed to burn for all twelve days of Christmas. Go ahead and light it.”
Kestrel watched, mouth agape, as Jerome held a lighter to the tip of the log as if expecting it to just take up the flame.
“It won’t . . . You have to . . . It’s too . . .” Kestrel offered before just taking over. She found sticks in a kindling bucket and used them to start a small fire around the log.
“Look at you!” said Andrews.
“Camp counselor,” said Kestrel. “Seven summers.”
Mrs. Wattlesbrook sniffed. “Yes, well done, er . . . Who are you?”
“I’m Kestrel.”
“Kestrel is the new maid,” Jerome offered. “She’s quality.”
“I must say, helluva day to make someone start work,” said Andrews. “She had to shack up with Charming last night. Hardly seems fair, pet.”
“I was unaware.” Mrs. Wattlesbrook cast a disapproving look toward Charming, who was sipping a Bloody Mary out of a teacup. “My new business partner is sometimes negligent in keeping me informed of her decisions.”
“Lend me a hand, Kes,” said Jerome, carrying a stack of boxes. “The halls have no intention of decking themselves.”
Thrilled to already have earned a pet name from Jerome, Kestrel opened a box of nativity pieces and started to set them up on a side table.
“I still don’t understand why we can’t have a Christmas tree,” Charming was saying.
“Because they didn’t become an English custom until Queen Victoria’s reign,” said Mrs. Wattlesbrook.
The manger was empty. Kestrel rechecked the box and said, “I can’t find Jesus!”
From across the room, Andrews called out, “Have you looked in your heart?”
There was laughter, but Mrs. Wattlesbrook shushed them.
Jerome stood beside her, arranging boughs around the nativity. Kestrel whispered, “Wattlesbrook takes Christmas very seriously.”