Chapter Eleven THE SOLSTICE PARTY Alison
Chapter Eleven
THE SOLSTICE PARTY
Alison
The night of the Solstice lighting had been chaotic but incredible.
Alison worried that the out-of-town visitors would panic at the sight of the spriggan, but she didn’t want him to be excluded when he’d been so critical to procuring the tree.
An hour before dusk, she had led him up the side of the church to the tower where he’d hung on, doing his best impression of a vine.
It was a little unnerving—Alison was still a bit touchy where vines were concerned—but it had worked. No one seemed any the wiser about the spriggan’s presence, but he had been able to see the spectacle firsthand.
Once the crowd had gone, she led him into the square to see the tree up close.
“Remarkable,” he said. “Like little bursts of sunlight at nighttime. And look how it shines on the jewelry. I would like to have one of those jewels one day.”
The ornaments on the Solstice tree were too big for the spriggan to wear in his ordinary form, but Alison had taken him to the forge to see if Strelka had any smaller ones to give away from her practice attempts.
They were in luck: there was a box of gold and silver ornaments meant for the much smaller tree that usually occupied the market square. The spriggan chose a silver ornament and hung it from the side of his head, roughly where Strelka wore her earrings.
“How does it look?” asked the spriggan.
“Very festive,” said Alison.
The week before Winter Solstice offered Alison a welcome reprieve from the turmoil of wedding planning.
Having already sorted her Solstice gifts, she welcomed the chance to wrap them in peace while the others frantically completed preparations for the day.
“I’ve never had so much time to get things done before,” she told Willow as she wrapped a tiny bow around the small box that held Keir’s present.
“I was never able to take more than a day or two off from number-crunching. It’s a busy time at year end.
I was always the one rushing around the shops at the last minute, buying whatever they had left with little thought to how it would be received. ”
“That sounds awful,” said Willow. She was lounging in a bed Alison had made from a wicker basket and a thick tartan blanket close enough to the fire to feel its warmth, but not so close as to singe her lovely fur.
“It was awful,” said Alison. “But it was the only way to get by.”
Keir still wasn’t back from checking in on his patients by the time she had finished, so she retrieved the poetry book and set about filling in some of the blank pages.
“I feel like I haven’t written enough about summer. What’s your favorite thing about summer, Willow?”
Willow scrunched her tabby brow, thinking hard. “Dragonflies,” she said, finally. “They’re the absolute best to chase. They often manage to bring a fish to the surface when they land in the water. It’s double the treats.”
Alison wasn’t sure about the relatability of fishing with live dragonflies as bait, but chasing insects in summer might do more generally. “Thanks.”
“Did you write anything about the wedding yet?”
Alison shook her head. “My poems aren’t that personal.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think my poems are good enough for all that.” Alison had written poetry inspired by events in her life, but nothing that intimate.
“Then you’re not going to write something for the wedding?”
Alison laughed. “The last thing I want to do at my wedding is force everyone to listen to something I wrote. We’re there to celebrate our marriage, not to listen to me ramble.”
“If you say so. But you’ve never written anything for Keir? Or about him?”
“I love him too much to do that to him.”
Willow hopped out of the basket and onto Alison’s desk. She sat in front of Alison, staring at her with big green eyes. “I wish you wouldn’t do that. Your poetry isn’t bad, you know.”
“You’re my worst critic! I don’t think I’ve ever written a line that you liked the first time.”
“That’s not true. I like plenty of your lines. And if anything, I’m your second worst critic.”
Alison was beginning to get annoyed with the cat. “How much poetry have you read anyway?”
Willow turned away from Alison. “Lady Willana liked poetry. She used to read it to Gwenla. So alright, I haven’t read any, but I’ve heard plenty.”
“Oh, Willow. I’m sorry,” said Alison. She was quite embarrassed at her outburst. “I just get a little sensitive about the poetry. I didn’t mean to be rude.” She held out her hand, and Willow allowed her to give her conciliatory chin scratches.
“Well, all I was trying to say is that you don’t need to be so sensitive. You have a talent.”
“I appreciate that. It’s nice to hear it but harder to make myself believe it.”
“I didn’t mean to push you. I know you have a lot on your plate as it is with the wedding.”
With Rinka around to share some of the planning duties, Alison did have a bit of time back. Perhaps it wouldn’t be a terrible thing to write something for the wedding. Not a poem necessarily, that felt a bit trite. But something a bit more raw. Something she could share with Keir from the heart.
“You know what? You’re right,” said Alison, retrieving one of the blank pages. “I’ve never been fond of those stuffy old Unified Pantheon vows anyway. I’ll give it a go.”
Willow purred and rubbed against her hand, scratching a stray line on the page.
“Sorry,” said Willow, looking at the mark. “Just helping you get started.”
On Solstice morning, Keir gently woke Alison just after dawn.
“Happy Solstice, my darling,” he said, bringing her a cup of tea in bed.
They had spent the night at his house; they were heading to Gwenla’s house for lunch and needed to bring some of Keir’s chairs in order for everyone to have a place to sit.
Keir was already shaved and dressed, and next to him on the bed, there was a small giftbox.
“Aren’t we going to exchange gifts with the others?” asked Alison. She had taken his gift to Gwenla’s with the rest the day before.
“My gift to you is a bit sentimental. I thought you might like the chance to open it in private.”
Alison studied the box as Keir handed it to her—it was small, roughly the same size as the one she’d used for Keir’s gift. Jewelry, perhaps?
She tugged on the string and removed the wrapping.
Inside the box was a small golden pendant in the shape of an oval. It had a floral filigree not unlike the ring she had chosen for Keir. “Weyland made this?”
Keir nodded. “Open it.”
Alison turned over the pendant, seeing the tiny hinges and realizing it was a locket. “It’s not the cursed one, right?”
“No,” Keir laughed. “No, I didn’t raid Idris’s cursed objects closet for anything other than the ring, and I only did that because you loved it so much. The locket is one of Weyland’s creations, although how he was able to create something so delicate with those hands of his—”
“Oh,” said Alison, opening the locket.
Inside was a picture of her late father. He was young in the picture; it must have been taken when Alison was just a little girl.
“I wrote to your mother for it. I thought you’d like to have something of his at the wedding. Something you could keep with you, close to your heart.”
Tears sprang to Alison’s eyes. “Thank you,” she said softly.
Keir held her as she gently cried. “I’m sorry he can’t be there with us,” he said, stroking her dark hair.
“He would’ve loved you,” said Alison. She was certain of that. Though it was incredibly difficult to go through such an important time in her life without him, it was a comfort to know he would’ve loved the person she had chosen.
When her tears had calmed, Alison looked at the empty frame on the left side of the locket. An idea struck her. “Are there any pictures of your mother? I’d like to have her with us as well.”
“I’d like that too,” said Keir, clearly touched by the gesture. “I’ll take a look when we’re at the manor for New Year’s.”
Keir helped Alison put the locket on after she had dressed. The gold was lovely against the dark green of her Solstice dress, and it felt so good to carry a bit of her father with her wherever she went.
Alison, Keir, and Charlotte were the first to arrive at Gwenla’s gathering.
“Finnli, be a good lad and help them with the chairs,” said Gwenla. “I’ve got to go check on the roast. Will you help yourselves to some wine? The kettle’s on if you’d rather have tea. Oh, and Charlotte—the brandy’s in the cupboard with the fruitcake.”
With Keir and Charlotte’s additions, Gwenla’s cozy living room was full to the bursting with gifts.
It was full to the bursting, period: the little brown couch was covered in red pillows, all of them handstitched, and there was a great pile of knitted blankets in the corner.
(Not that they were needed: the fire roared in Gwenla’s ancient hearth.)
Dinah and Willow were missing; Alison was surprised not to find them by the fire. But then she heard Dinah’s meows from the kitchen. “No roast for you, troublesome girls!” said Gwenla.
“But really Gwenla, it does smell so nice,” said Willow in her silkiest, most persuasive voice. “Surely one little bite wouldn’t hurt us.”
“You’ll have your bite when we eat and not a moment before it.”
There was a knocking at the door.
“Alison, could you get that?” called Gwenla from the kitchen.
Alison greeted Rinka and Idris, who had arrived by carriage. “I hope you don’t mind the indulgence. The gifts were a bit…heavy,” said Rinka.
The carriage driver began unloading box after huge box from the back of the carriage.
“I don’t know where all of that is going to fit—” began Alison, but Idris had already begun to rearrange the great gift pile to make room.
“Are Lady Sibba and Weyland coming?” asked Rinka, gesturing to a pair of gifts.
“They’re keeping to themselves this morning,” said Alison. “They said they might pop ‘round later.”
“Did you invite Julian?” Keir asked Charlotte.
Charlotte blushed. “No. I wasn’t sure it was a good idea, with the rivalry and all.”