Wicked Winters

by Melanie Karsak et al.

  “Mummy?”

  “Yes?”

  “Does… Does Father Christmas visit the little children in heaven?”

  Beside me, the fairy gasped.

  I watched through unshed tears as the younger version of myself forced a smile. “Of course. He finds good children wherever they may be.”

  Maisie smiled. “I’m glad. Goodnight, Mummy. I love you.”

  “I love you too,” I said, kissing her once more. I turned then, and as I went, I saw that my hand was covering my mouth, holding back the sobs that wanted to escape my lips. But I never let her see me cry. Never. I wanted her to have nothing but love and light until her final days.

  The younger version of me fled the room.

  After the ghost of myself had left, I approached the bedside and looked down at my daughter. She had closed her eyes, her long lashes lying on her cheeks. I reached out to touch her, to push away a wild curl, but my hand passed through. When Maisie shivered, I pulled my hand away. My heart felt like it was being clenched in a vice.

  “She really was such a pretty thing,” the fairy said, hovering over Maisie.

  “She died overnight on Christmas Eve. She never saw Christmas morning.”

  “Why did she die?” the fairy asked.

  “Her father… He was supposed to be watching her. Maisie fell into a pond. She survived, but she took a fever. After the fever abated, she was so weak. It was like something was eating her up from the inside. She could barely get out of bed. She just slowly wasted away.”

  “And her father?”

  “It was his fault. He wasn’t watching her. The children were all ice-skating, but he was drinking and talking with the other men. He didn’t even know that she’d gone under the ice until the other children started screaming.”

  “Where were you?”

  “Working.”

  “Working,” the fairy repeated.

  I glared at her. “Don’t say it like that. My husband was a lazy creature. I had to work. He only had to watch her for two hours that day, keep her safe. There was a winter carnival. Marley and I were working. But I should have been there,” I whispered. “If I had been there, she never would have been on that thin ice.”

  “Hmm,” the fairy mused.

  “Sweet baby,” I whispered, looking at the tiny figure in her big bed. There was a wisp of a smile lingering on her lips. “My sweetest one. Mummy misses you so much,” I said, tears slipping down my cheeks.

  From downstairs, I heard shouting and the sound of breaking glass. My voice and Tom’s rose to a terrible crescendo.

  “Bloody hell, we’ll wake her.” I went to the door to listen. I didn’t remember Tom and I fighting that night. In the days before Maisie’s death, everything had been very, very silent.

  “I know you blame me,” Tom shouted.

  I stilled, feeling like someone had poured cold water over me.

  No.

  This wasn’t the Christmas Maisie died. It was Christmas the year following.

  Gasping, I turned and looked back at the little bed.

  The image behind me began to fade. The cheery glow of the candle, Maisie in her bed, everything a picture of softness and warmth began to dim as a greyish-blue pall began to take over the room.

  “No. Maisie,” I said, stepping toward the bed.

  Right before the darkness enveloped the entire scene, taking Maisie with it, my little girl sat up in her bed and looked right at me.

  “Mummy,” she said with a smile, then she blew me a kiss.

  “Maisie,” I whispered, reaching out for her. But then the image faded. A moment later, the scene was replaced by the dingy darkness of an empty bed. The whole world faded to hues of blueish grey.

  “I do blame you. Of course, I blame you. You were drunk. You weren’t watching her. If you had been watching her, she never would have fallen into that water. You were supposed to look after her,” I screeched from below.

  Tom.

  Anger pulsing through my veins, I turned and headed downstairs.

  “Ebbie,” the fairy called, fluttering along behind me.

  “Don’t call me Ebbie.”

  “It’s time to go now,” the fairy said,

  “That son of a bitch. I want to see the look on his face one more time,” I said through gritted teeth.

  I emerged into the kitchen in time to watch a haggard version of myself, my bun pulled out into wild strands, hurl a plate across the room at my husband. It was Christmas once more, but there was no sign of it anywhere in the house. No trimmings or treats to be found, just more of the terrible blue-grey pall that hung over the house.

  “Ebbie,” Tom pleaded. “Please. I lost her too.”

  “And who is to blame?”

  “I…”

  “You! It was your fault she died! You. You!”

  “I… Me and the lads were making a plan. It seemed rude not to drink. It was just me and the boys talking. Ebbie, we’ve been through this a million times. I know I should have been paying more attention. Don’t you know I regret it every day? I was stupid. Stupid.”

  I hurled another plate at him. “Our child is dead because you were stupid.”

  “I’m confused,” the fairy said. “Why did you marry such a bad man?”

  “He wasn’t bad when I married him. He was charming and fun. He did drink from time to time, but he was never lost in the bottle. Not at first. But after Maisie was born, he drank more and worked less.”

  “And after Maisie died?”

  “He drank every day. All day. And never worked. And then…”

  “And then?”

  I pointed back to the scene.

  “To hell with you. To hell with you, Ebbie. I loved her too. I won’t stay here and listen to you blame me every day of my life,” Tom said then picked up a case that was sitting by the door.

  “Where are you going?” I seethed.

  “Away. Away from you,” he said, then turned and left, slamming the door behind him.

  I grabbed a teapot off the table and hurled it toward the door. It shattered into a thousand pieces. “Don’t come back! Don’t you ever come back,” I screamed in his wake.

  I stared at myself. Wild-eyed, breathing hard, my hair a mess, I was standing in the center of the kitchen staring at the door. It wasn’t until you could hear the sound of the gate at the end of the lane banging shut that I collapsed, weeping, onto the floor.

  “Come back,” I whispered through sobs. “Come back.”

  “But he didn’t come back, did he?” the fairy whispered.

  “No,” I said flatly, staring at the miserable version of myself lying there, a broken thing.

  “What a terrible thing to happen on Christmas,” the fairy said with a soft sigh.

  I stared at myself, alone, crying in the middle of the room.

  “I want to go back now,” I whispered. “Please don’t show me anymore.”

  “All right,” the fairy replied.

  The fairy led me outside. There, the carousel pony was waiting. I slipped on.

  The fairy whispered into the horse’s ear. A moment later, the pony took off in a trot. Allister appeared once more, racing alongside the pony and me. Stupid, giddy dog. He was happy to chase anything, even spirits.

  “Look,” the fairy said. “He can see us. Animals are very smart.”

  Smiling weakly, I looked at my old companion—knowing that he too would die that year. I hadn’t had it in me to get another dog after that.

  The carousel horse leaped into the air and flew back toward the flat I lived in now, back across the river.

  But as we flew, I spotted Tom making his way down the road toward the airship towers.

  “What happened to him?” the fairy asked, both of us watching his hurried steps.

  “I don’t know. I had someone look for him. He took an airship to India. No one knows where he went after that.”

  “You suppose he’s still alive?”

  “You would know better than me, spi
rit.”

  But her question was one that plagued me to no end. Was Tom still alive? Would he ever come back? How could he just abandon me like that? I was angry. I blamed him. But I needed him too. I needed him. He was the only thing I had left of her.

  I turned away, closing my eyes. An icy wind blew on my face, cooling the hot tears slipping down my cheeks.

  “Ebbie,” the fairy whispered.

  “Yes,” I said through gritted teeth.

  “I’m sorry for everything you lost. But now, you need to wake up,” she said.

  “What?”

  I felt a strange jolt, like all my muscles spasmed at once, and I fell to the floor as the clock on the mantle chimed one o’clock. I was in my bedroom in my flat once more. I sat in a heap on the floor in front of the fireplace.

  A dream.

  A terrible dream.

  I lay my head down on the floor and stared into the fire.

  “Maisie,” I whispered. “Maisie, Mummy loves you,” I said then slowly slipped back to sleep.

  4

  The Ghost of Christmas Present

  When the clock on the mantel bonged out two o’clock, I rose from the wooden floor, feeling an ache in my back. Although I was not yet forty, my body felt twice its age. I slid toward the fireplace and gingerly set a log on the fire. The flames nipped at my fingers, but I snatched them back. I was about to place another log when I heard a strange noise coming from the downstairs of my townhouse. I paused to listen, thinking it was the neighbors. Then the sound came clearly: someone was playing the piano in my parlor.

  My heart skipped a beat.

  Marley had said I would be visited by three spirits.

  It was either that or someone had broken into my house to play “Oh Come, All Ye Faithful.”

  Frowning, I rose. Grabbing my pistol and slipping it into my pocket, I tiptoed downstairs. The chandelier had been lit in the parlor. Someone was singing in a deep tenor, the music resonating throughout the house. And then I smelled…cookies. Not just cookies. I smelled bread, cakes, and more.

  When I stepped into the parlor, I was startled to see the place was trimmed more elaborately than Buckingham. Everywhere I looked, garlands with red and gold ribbons, glass balls, and other ornaments were strung. On every flat surface were trays loaded with mountains of cookies and cakes. Candies and other sweets in glass jars were stuck into every nook and cranny of my small parlor. A massive Christmas tree stretched to the ceiling. Candles illuminated the tree, a brilliant silver star at the top. And hanging from the mantel were stockings with the names Ebony and Fawn sewn thereon.

  But the most alluring thing in the room was the man sitting at the piano. Wearing a green-and-red kilt, a rich emerald green doublet, and a Highlander’s cap, the man gave me a smile as he finished the last bars of the song. He had deep, chocolate-brown hair and a broad chest. With a dramatic flourish, he danced his hands across the keyboard of my pianoforte then rose.

  “Ebony Scrooge. Just look at you,” he said, opening his arms wide. He had a rich, Scottish accent and bright blue eyes. On his square jaw, he wore a neatly trimmed beard. I nearly panicked when I felt heat rise into my cheeks. While I hadn’t looked at a man since Tom had run off, I had always fancied a Highland lad. There was something about a Scot with a great barrel of a chest and fine legs that caught me off guard.

  “Look at me, why?” I said, pulling myself together.

  The man crossed the room then stepped close to me. Moving in a circle, he eyed me up and down.

  “Why, I’ve never seen a sourer, more drab-looking apple in my entire life!” he said with a laugh.

  Humiliated, I frowned at him.

  “Play!” he called to the piano.

  At once, the piano keys began dancing of their own volition. The man moved toward me, grabbed me by my waist and arm, and then pulled me into a spin, dancing me around the room.

  “Come on, Ebbie. Where’s your mirth? It’s Christmas Eve, and as I hear it, you were once a charming dance partner.”

  Feeling embarrassed, I pulled away. “Let go of me.”

  But his words struck my heart. Once, long ago, Ebony Kenworth had been a mirthful girl who’d loved to dance.

  “Ah. I see. Not the tune for you?” the man said, looking thoughtful. “Oh, no. That’s not it. I know the problem. You’re not dressed for the occasion. Look at you. You look like a pinched old maid. Let’s fix that,” he said, then snapped his fingers.

  A moment later, I found myself dressed in a pretty red gown with embroidered holly berries and green leaves on the trim, my hair pinned up at the back, long curls hanging from my ears. I set my hand on my chest, feeling my beating heart. The corset squeezing me, I was dressed like a young girl who’d come out for her first season. I clasped my hand around the button necklace hanging from my neck. “What is this madness?” I demanded.

  “The present, and I am the Ghost of Christmas Present. Now, I can put you back into that drab, ripped work dress, but why in the hell would we do that? Look at you, lass. You’re like bloody Snow White. You’re beautiful. Come on, let’s go get a drink,” he said, then took my arm and led me into the dining room.

  The moment we passed through the archway, however, everything changed. Rather than my own townhouse, I suddenly found myself standing in the parlor of Fawn and Charles’s home.

  “What’s this?” I asked, looking around.

  Fawn, Charles, and a number of other couples were gathered in my niece’s modest home. They were laughing merrily. A group was seated at one table playing a hand of whist. On the other side of the room, Charles was playing Christmas carols on the piano while some of the couples danced. A footman worked his way through the room, passing out wassail. Trays of sweets sat on the tables. The whole scene was causal to the point of improper but entirely merry.

  “Who is ready to play Snapdragon?” Fawn cheerfully called as she appeared in the doorway, a kitchen maid following along behind her. The maid was pushing a cart on which there was a bowl filled with brandy and raisins.

  The others in the room cheered, leaving behind their frivolities to join Fawn at the center of the room. A drum table had been cleared. Moving carefully, Fawn and the kitchen maid set the bowl of brandy onto the table.

  “Don’t let Fawn light the raisins, or she’ll set the whole place on fire,” one of their friends called.

  At that, the others laughed.

  I smiled at my niece then turned to the spirit beside me. “She is clumsy. Just like her mother.”

  “I love a game of Snapdragon,” the Scotsman said. “Don’t you, Ebbie? Oh, with your nimble hands, I bet you’re a quick one at this game.”

  I smiled wistfully. “Once, perhaps.”

  “But not now, right? There’s nothing good about Christmas, is there? Wasting time and money on frivolity. People would be wise to remember they’ll be hungry the next day. Won’t they?”

  “Will you use my own words against me?”

  He laughed. “Not at all, lass. Not at all. But once upon a time, you were a merry thing too. Just like your pretty niece. And I’m sure those harsh words of yours have nothing to do with all that rot and pain you feel deep inside you come every Christmas. Humbug indeed. Come, let’s watch,” he said, then pulled me toward the scene.

  The revelers gathered around as the footman doused the lights. Only the fireplace and the candles on the Christmas tree illuminated the dim room.

  “Everyone knows what to do?” Charles asked the others.

  I remembered when Fawn had brought Charles to meet me. I had liked the young banker from the start. He had a sweet, merry spirit much in league with Fawn’s, and they were very much in love. Perhaps, too much in love. Being around them often served as a painful reminder of my desperately lonely state. In fact, spending time with Fawn was a constant reminder of everything I had lost: my parents, my sister, my daughter, my husband. Fawn was only three years younger than Maisie had been. The two of them would have been like sisters. Now, I only fel
t ghosts beside my sister’s daughter.

  “Do we really need to put them in our mouths while they’re on fire?” one of the ladies asked.

  Fawn laughed. “If you want to be a dragon!”

  The others chuckled.

  “And where did you learn Snapdragon, Fawn?” another lady asked.

  “Ponders End,” Fawn replied, referring to the prestigious boarding school to which I had paid to send her after her father had died.

  “Oh, don’t let Aunt Ebony find out about that,” the same girl answered. “She’ll demand her money back.”

  I frowned at the girl.

  Fawn giggled merrily. “Not at all. Aunt Ebony is resourceful, not miserly. How else could she afford to send me to such a wonderful place?”

  “Wouldn’t she come tonight?” Charles asked Fawn.

  Fawn sighed. “You know how it goes with her. I made her promise to come for tea tomorrow, though.”

  “Well, it’s a pity she’s missing such fun,” Charles said. “And if not for her, we wouldn’t know this game. Everyone, let’s all go savage in Aunt Ebony’s name. Without her, Fawn never would have learned Snapdragon!”

  At that, Charles lit the bowl of brandy.

  Brilliant blue flames shot up from the dish.

  “Ladies, watch your sleeves,” Charles called as he removed his jacket and rolled up his cuffs.

  Fawn grinned at her husband. “For you, Aunt Ebony,” she said, then moving quickly, she jabbed her hand into the fiery concoction and pulled out a burning raisin. With the blue flame still flickering, she shoved the morsel into her mouth, giving her a temporary appearance of a dragon.

  Laughing merrily, one by one, the others tried their hands at it.

  Beside me, the spirit laughed. “How delightful. How delightful.”

  I watched my niece. How sweet she was, how lively. Would Maisie have been like her? Would she and her own husband be here with these other young couples? What would my daughter have been like?

  “All right, lassie. Shall we see about that drink now?” the spirit asked, turning to me once more. “I could use a brandy.” Entwining his arm in mine, the Scotsman led me away from the scene.