I paused a moment.
“What is it?”
“It’s just…they are so merry.”
“As were you, once.”
“What do I have to be merry about now?”
“That,” the spirit said, pointing to Fawn.
I frowned. He was right, but I hated to be reminded of it. “Let’s go,” I said, then turned toward the dining room.
“You know, Ebony, you’re still young yourself. And pretty to boot. Your life isn’t over. There is still time for you to—”
“If you know what’s best for you, Highlander, you should measure your next words very carefully.”
“Oh, aye, whatever you say,” the Scotsman said with a chuckle, then we stepped into the side parlor only to be immediately transported elsewhere.
I swayed, disoriented by the sudden rush. We were standing in the breezeway of a house. The spirit pushed open the door to reveal a small, humble home. A gaggle of children was crowded around a kitchen table, setting out plates as they chatted loudly. I eyed the children over. They were familiar-looking, but I couldn’t quite place them. But then, I saw him. Sitting by the fire, his leg wrapped in a splint, was Bailey Cratchit’s husband, Robert.
“Do you have the applesauce set out, Millie?” Robert called.
“Yes, Father.”
“Peter, get the bread. Your mother and Tim will be back any minute.”
“Of course, Father.”
“I’m sorry, children. I hate to see you do all this work yourself,” Robert said.
“What happened to that chap?” the spirit asked me.
“That’s Robert Cratchit, my assistant Bailey’s husband. He runs deliveries for the butcher, but the cart he drives turned over in the high snow, and he broke his leg.
“Must be hard for them, being they are such a large family. My word, how many children?” he asked, then counted. “One, two, three, four. My, my,” the Scotsman said with a naughty laugh as he elbowed me in the side. “Must be a lot of romance in the Cratchit home, wouldn’t you say, Missus Scrooge?”
“There are six children. And I wouldn’t know,” I said, forcing my cheeks not to redden at the innuendo.
“Where are the other child—“ the spirit began, but then the door opened.
Bailey entered, holding a platter on which there was a roasted chicken. She turned, stopping to help someone behind her. I gasped when I spotted Bailey’s son, Timothy. He was walking with a crutch and looked half the weight he had when I’d last seen him. There were dark rings under his eyes, and his skin was deathly pale.
Echoes of Maisie’s appearance shook me to my very core.
“Ah, here is another little one,” the Scotsman said. “My, he’s a wee lad. What’s ailing him?”
“I don’t know. Bailey told me he is an unwell child. Sickly from birth. But I don’t remember the crutch. He had a limp before,” I studied the boy’s legs. They looked more twisted than they had been. I watched as he struggled to reach a small stoop in the corner. Lowering himself, and wincing with pain, he sat down then set his crutch against the wall.
“Oh my goodness, it’s so late. I’m so very sorry. But here we have the chicken,” Bailey said. “But where is Martha?” Bailey asked, referring to her eldest daughter. With Fawn’s help, Bailey had found work for her eldest girl as a maid in the house of one of Fawn’s friends.
“She couldn’t come,” Robert said sadly. “She sent word from the big house. They couldn’t do without her tonight.”
“But…” Bailey began, the happy expression on her face deflating. “But it’s Christmas Eve.”
“Surprise!” I heard a voice call from the back. Martha appeared holding a massive cake trimmed with icing and candied fruits.
“Martha,” Bailey exclaimed, crossing the room to kiss her daughter. “I’m so glad you’re here. Now, what is this?” she asked, looking at the cake.
“Missus Penny is teaching me how to bake. I hope to get a position in the kitchen. Missus Penny said I have a hand for it. I made this myself, and Lord and Lady Dearborne thought I did such a nice job, I should take it home for my family to enjoy. They are ever so thoughtful.”
“Mama,” a small voice called. Rudy, Bailey’s middle son, rushed across the room to hug Bailey. “Did you see Father Christmas out there?”
“Oh,” Bailey said, and I heard that odd catch in her voice. “No. But I’m certain he is making his rounds tonight.”
Bailey looked at her husband. The two exchanged a sad look.
They had gifts for the children, didn’t they?
“That’s neither here nor there. Now that your mother’s here, let’s feast,” Robert called.
Peter hurried to his father’s side and helped him to the table.
Martha finished organizing the food as Bailey went to fetch Timothy, who was still seated on his stoop. “Are you hungry?” Bailey asked him.
He shook his head.
“Will you eat for me? I need you to grow big and strong.”
He nodded then said, “Mummy. Did you see that man at the butcher’s shop? Did you see how he looked at me?”
I could tell from the impression on Bailey’s face that she knew what her child was talking about but didn’t want to say so.
“No, son. I didn’t.”
“He saw I was…broken.”
“Timothy—”
“No, Mummy, it’s all right. I think it’s a good thing. Tonight, maybe he will think of all the broken people in the world. Maybe he will pray for us, pray for all the broken ones so that all the broken things inside us heal and make us right again.”
“That’s a very kind thought, my dear. Very nice, indeed. Now, come. You must try Martha’s cake.”
“It did look good.”
“You must be sure to eat some, so she doesn’t feel offended.”
“All right.”
Bailey picked up the boy and set him on his stool by his father. The children worked quickly, filling their plates with the humble trimmings. Unlike the heaps of desserts and delights at Fawn’s house, the Cratchit’s barely had enough to feed the whole family. The one small chicken didn’t stretch far.
“What shall we cheer?” Bailey asked, raising her cup. She looked at her husband, who looked decidedly less than cheerful, but I could see he was trying his best to be merry.
“To Lord and Lady Dearborne for letting me bring home my cake,” Martha declared, raising her cup.
“Very good,” Robert told his daughter with a nod.
“And to Mister Phelps for holding Father’s job until he is ready to come back to work,” Peter added.
“Yes,” Bailey said, setting her hand on Robert’s.
“And to my teacher,” Millie joined.
The others chuckled.
“Yes, to your teacher,” Robert agreed.
“And to Missus Scrooge,” Bailey said.
Robert huffed.
“Robert,” Bailey said softly.
“Sour old apple. She knows we’re in such a state. But here you are, barely fifteen shillings in your pocket for the week, and it’s so late. It’s not right.”
“I don’t know she’s all that aware of our plight, Robert. I try not to share my troubles with her.”
“She could ask.”
“That’s not her way. And thanks to her, we have at least this much,” Bailey said, motioning to the table.
Robert huffed again.
“I think Missus Scrooge is a broken person like me,” Timothy interjected.
Everyone turned to look at the child, the Scotsman and me included.
“What do you mean, darling?” Bailey asked.
“Some people are broken on the outside. I think Missus Scrooge is broken on the inside. That can happen to people, right? When bad things happen to them, it can break them on in the inside.”
The child’s words silenced the table.
“I don’t think she’s trying to be mean, Father. She just…she’s just a bit lost. A bit broken,” Timothy told Rob
ert.
The Scotsman turned and looked at me.
I stared at the small boy. How was it such a tiny babe could speak the truth so plainly, see the world so clearly? He was right. There was something broken inside of me. I had lost…everything. There was nothing left for me but to work, to make money to ensure Fawn had a future, and to keep a roof over my own head. But aside from that, I was hollow on the inside. My family, my child, my husband, even my partner were all gone. I had closed myself from the world to keep out the pain. I hated Christmas. Everything I ever loved had been taken from me at Christmas. Everyone else was so joyful and full of mirth. I knew that if I let it in just a little, even a little, that it would be like exposing a raw wound. I had not recovered from Maisie’s death. Nothing inside me had ever been the same. Maybe that would never heal. The wall around me was necessary. To feel anything was a risk, a risk I was unwilling to take.
Robert set his hand on Timothy’s head. “Maybe you’re right. Let us cheer Missus Scrooge. To Ebony Scrooge’s health. And cheers to them all. Cheers,” Robert called, lifting his drink.
“Cheers,” the family answered.
“And may God bless us every one,” Timothy added, earning him a kiss on the head from his mother.
I choked back the tears that wanted to come. We watched as the family ate, but I couldn’t help but notice how Timothy merely picked at the food on this plate.
I was not the only one who noticed.
“My goodness, I better get some cake on my plate before I run out of room,” Bailey said. She slid the cake toward her. The other children exchanged glances; apparently they knew what their mother was plotting. Bailey cut a large piece and set it on Tiny Tim’s plate.
“Thank you, Mother,” the boy chirped sweetly.
“Enjoy, my dear.”
But still, the boy barely ate.
“Why didn’t she tell me he’d become so ill? Why didn’t she let me know?”
“Perhaps because you have a wall as high as old Hadrian’s around you, lass. Who wants to climb over that just to tell their sorrows. And she knows this time of year is hard on you.”
“But…she should have told me,” I stared at the child, seeing the shadow of my own daughter in his sweet, sickly face. I turned back to the spirit. “Can you see the future? Will the child survive?”
The Scotsman frowned. “If these shadows remain unaltered by the future, the child will die.”
“Can I… What can I do?”
“If only you had some power to influence the fortunes of this family,” the spirit said, motioning to the impoverished state in which the family lived. “Or, perhaps, have some connections to someone who could help the boy. But that would require you opening the door to the world. And risking…”
“Risking?”
“You would need to let yourself love a little, Ebony. You would need to let others back into your heart. You would need to risk the pain to enjoy the reward.”
“Your words are like weapons.”
“Look here,” the Scotsman said then, pointing to his jacket. For the first time, I noticed a pin there. The spirit pressed a button at the center of the pendant. A moment later, the whole thing began to turn clockwise, revealing two faces as it did so. “The faces… They are Grief and Hopelessness. Look closely at them.”
I leaned in to see the images more clearly. I was surprised to discover that the terrorized faces on the pendant were my own.
“It is easy to be swallowed by these two bedfellows and cut yourself off from your fellow man. Beware their ravenous natures. These two will swallow you whole.”
And as I stared into the alternating images on his pendant, I knew he was right. I had allowed myself to fall into a pit of despair and had never recovered. I had thrown myself into my work to numb myself to the world around me. But when I blocked out the pain, I had also blocked out the joy. To my own doom.
5
The Ghost of Christmas Future
The clock bonged once more. Opening my eyes groggily, I looked at the old timepiece on the mantel. It was three o’clock. I was still sitting in the chair in my chamber, but the bright fire had grown dim, casting long shadows across the room.
There was a clatter in the corner of the room. Turning, I gripped the arm of my chair and stared wide-eyed into the darkened shadows.
The third spirit. Marley said that I would be visited by three ghosts. The fairy had shown me the past, the Scotsman the present, so that meant…
I heard the clatter of cogs and gears, and a moment later, two cyan-colored lights clicked on, casting a hazy blue glow over the bedroom. With heavy footsteps, the automaton appeared from the corner of my bedroom.
I stood up. “Dickens,” I whispered.
The machine turned and looked at me, its blue eyes flashing into my face.
“Power down,” I commanded.
Nothing happened.
“Power down,” I repeated firmly.
This time, the automaton turned away from me and crossed the room to the window. It paused a moment before motioning for me to join it. The steel and brass gears and outer plating of the machine gleamed in the dying firelight.
I rose on shaky legs. “You do not need to speak. I know who you really are. You are the spirit of things yet to come.”
Dickens turned and looked at me once more, those blue orbs glaring into the hollow of my soul. Again, it gestured to my window.
Moving hesitantly, I joined the machine and looked outside.
When I did so, I gasped. The city was on fire. The entire skyline was filled with smoke, and orange flames licked the buildings. From overhead, airships dropped devices, which exploded on contact, shaking London to the ground. But below…it was far worse. On the street below me, I saw movement. At first, I couldn’t understand what I was seeing. And then, I comprehended. A legion of machines, just like the one at my side, were making their way down the street. As they did so, the automatic guns on their arms blasted civilians, murdering people in an instant. I let out a small shriek and grabbed the arm of the automaton only to feel its cold, metal skeleton.
The machine looked down at me, its glowing eyes narrowing.
“This is me? I did this? By inventing…by making you?”
My mouth grew dry as I watched the horror unfolding on the streets below. Marley was the one who’d made the connections with London’s criminal underbelly. We’d been selling tinkered devices, making bombs and weapons, creations of death. I never thought much about it. I somehow fancied myself still a tinker; I was just making sophisticated firearms. But that was a lie. Where once my creations sparked joy, now they brought death. And in the wrong hands—exactly the kind of hands I was currently making deals with—far worse.
“No more,” I whispered, then pulled the drape closed. “No more. I see,” I said, closing my eyes. “I know what I need to do.”
I had turned a blind eye to everything. Not only had I neglected those I loved, but I cared little for the world itself. I knew only my own pain and what I had to do to prevent myself from feeling it. “Take me away from this sight. Show me there is still some tenderness in this world.”
I felt a metal hand on my shoulder.
I looked up into the eyes of the automaton. This time, they did not glow bright blue. Instead, I could see a scene unfolding inside those eyes. I stared, trying to make out the figures. A moment later, I was transported into the scene I had witnessed in the machine’s eyes.
I was, once more, in the home of Robert and Bailey Cratchit. The whole family was huddled together, hugging one another. How sweet they were. How loving. I had always dreamed of having a family like that. I had planned to have more children, many more. But then…everything had fallen into pieces. My heart lightened at the sight of them, but then I heard the crying. The family held onto one another as they wept.
Bailey kissed her children, pulling them tenderly toward her as they cried. Martha was hysterical in her misery. Bailey’s husband, who was standing once mo
re, held his wife from behind, his arms wrapped around her waist.
Their misery was palpable.
“What’s happened?” I whispered.
The automaton pointed.
There, in the corner, was an empty stool. And beside it, a cane leaned against the wall.
“Timothy,” I whispered. The boy was gone. I turned back to my apprentice. “Oh, Bailey.”
My heart broke at the sight. I knew her pain well. I lived with it every day, knowing it would never go away. There was nothing more horrible than losing a child.
“I must do something. I must,” I said then looked up at the automaton once more. “I will do something. I swear it.”
But the machine simply stared back at me. And once more, I saw an image playing in his eyes.
“I don’t want to see,” I whispered, but even as I spoke the words, I felt that strange pull once more.
A frozen wind chilled me to the bone. We’d been transported outside. A whirlwind of snow dancing around us. It was dusk, and we were in a graveyard.
Standing down the row from us, I spotted Fawn and Charles, and Bailey and Robert, along with Bailey’s children, save little Tim. Bailey wept and lay down a wreath on a tomb. Leaving the automaton behind, I joined them.
“Fawn?” I whispered, reaching out for her arm. But my hand only connected with air. “Fawn?”
Fawn wept hard, then turned and put her head on Charles’s shoulder. His arm wrapped around my niece, he did his best to console her.
“To die alone in the workshop like that,” Bailey said, shaking her head. “It is a great pity.”
“Her heart gave out on her, as if it had gone dry from want,” Fawn whispered. “She was well-loved but never knew it. My father once told me she’d once been full of mirth. She created such wonders. But then her child died, her husband left, and my mother passed… Some people cannot withstand grief. It changes them. Forever. I had hoped I could reach her, bring her back from that dark place. But I couldn’t. No matter how much I tried. I failed her,” Fawn said then wept once more.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Charles whispered.
I didn’t need to look to know where I was. I recognized the graveyard. I stared at the headstones. On the smaller of the two was a small lamb and the name Maisie Victoria Scrooge. Beside that tiny headstone was another grave. On this, I saw my own name: Ebony Kenworth Scrooge. Not far from these headstones were those of my mother, father, and sister.
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