Snowstorms & Sleigh Bells: A Stitch in Time holiday novella

by Kelley Armstrong

  I sigh and plow forward, head down, as the edge of the road guides me. The actual road has long since vanished under the snow, but brambles along the shoulder peek through to guide my path. August insisted I take the flashlight we found in the boot, and while I swear it only conspires with the snow to render me blind, it does help me pick up that brown vegetation.

  August said the house was about a quarter mile back. Either he was measuring with grave optimism, or the storm has upended my own sense of distance. Likely a combination of the two. Either way, it seems to take forever before dim lights appear. I pick up my pace, only to have a gust of wind knock me clear off my boots.

  I sit in the snow a moment, grumbling to myself. Then, as I begin to rise, I catch a faint jingle.

  Sleigh bells?

  The sound, only faintly audible, slips away, and I shake my head. We are not in a world of sleigh bells. More likely I heard wind chimes from the farmhouse.

  I continue on until I reach the drive. There’s a car at the top, covered in snow. The house is dark except for one lighted front window, and that gives me pause. I do not have a watch, but it must be later than I thought. I hate to wake the owners. However, it is an emergency, and I can only hope they understand.

  As I head up the front walk, I realized that what I’d thought was a lighted front window is actually a holiday decoration lighting the window. A menorah. There’s a doormat with festive dreidels wishing me a happy Hanukkah, and I smile at that. In the Victorian world, it would be a rare Jew who dared put up such decorations, especially in the countryside. I only hope that this family does so with confidence and without trepidation, though I am certain there is a little of the latter still.

  My mother was Jewish, and so I recognize the symbols from my grandparents’ home, where we had celebrated Hanukkah. I don’t recall quite what I thought of that as a child. It seemed a variation on the holidays rather than a symbol of their faith. For us, even Christmas was mostly devoid of religion, and I wonder now if that was our parents’ way of reconciling the two, tucking religion aside rather than choosing which faith to raise their daughters in. We were raised in love and kindness, and that was what mattered.

  Now, though, I pause to look at that LED menorah, and I reflect a little, in a way I might never have if I hadn’t visited the modern world. My father met my mother through her father, who’d been a doctor and his mentor. I don’t know what my maternal grandparents thought of the union, only that they’d accepted it and loved us. Did that union explain why we had no contact with our paternal grandparents? Perhaps.

  My mother’s father died when I was young, and her mother passed when I was a teen, but my memories of them are as bright as those of my parents. I look at that menorah, and I silently declare that I will do more to understand that part of my heritage, because it is one, as I realize after living in the twenty-first century. A faith, yes, but also a heritage.

  I straighten and rap on the door as I prepare a bright “Happy Hanukkah” greeting. When no one answers, I press the bell. It buzzes. Then all goes silent, only the whistling of the wind to be heard.

  I both knock and ring the bell again, to no avail. Then I head back down the driveway, where the car sits, and I realize it isn’t just covered in snow. It has a tarp over it. Put away for the winter.

  I peer at the barn. It looks like a stable, which means the owners won’t be away long. I walk to it. The door is latched but otherwise unlocked. I hesitate a moment, during which I debate the propriety of peeking in versus the danger of my son spending the night in a storm-blasted convertible. The choice is simple, and I push open the door.

  The smell of hay and horse wafts out, but the latter is faint, and when I walk in, I shine the flashlight on empty stalls. Two look as if they’ve been occupied, but they’re empty now. Have the homeowners boarded their horses while they’ve gone away for the holidays?

  I shine the light around. The barn isn’t what I’d call tidy, but it is clean. The mess is mostly confined to a workshop area, where someone crafts furniture from the looks of it. That workshop contains a pot-bellied stove, with wood piled beside it.

  I glance from the stove to a pile of clean straw. We could take refuge here. Light the stove. Sleep on the straw. It is trespassing, but while my parents raised me to be a law-abiding citizen—and to be considerate of others—they also raised me to be practical. If I meant no harm and I left the barn as I found it, then the owners should understand my predicament and forgive the trespass.

  I give one last look around, and then I head to put the proposal to August.

  8

  August agrees that my plan is a reasonable one, far more reasonable than either staying in the cold car or battling the storm further in search of another house. Not a single car has passed to be flagged down. We are, simply put, out of options.

  We bundle Edmund up as best we can, even as he fusses that he is already warm. Then we set out. The storm has subsided enough for the trek to be an easier one, and August is able to concede to Edmund’s protests that he does not need to be carried “like a baby.”

  When we reach the house and head up the drive, Edmund spots the LED menorah in the window.

  “How does the flame light the whole candlestick?” he asks.

  I explain that they are not real candles, but a lighted decoration.

  “It is a menorah,” I say. “For the Jewish celebration at this time of year. Hanukkah.”

  “A Jewish Christmas?”

  “No, it’s a holiday that falls at the same month and is very important to the Jewish people.”

  I lead him up onto the porch and point out the dreidel decorations and tell him what they are and that a game can be played with real ones.

  “Have you ever played it, Mama?” he asks.

  I’m about to say yes, many times, when I pause. I see August there, watching with curiosity. I’ve never told him about my mother’s heritage. That was no oversight, I am shamed to say. August’s family had enough reasons to object to me. My family was not nearly on his level. Worse, I was “in business.” Orphaned, too, as if I’d done something to cause that. Twenty-four and unmarried and lacking even a dowry. Whatever was August thinking?

  Now that I truly understand how horrible his father and brothers had been, I wish I had tossed my heritage onto the pile of my “undesirable” traits and let them deal with it. At the time, though, while my pride would have forced me to deny it, I had still held hope they would accept me. That someday, they would declare I was indeed good enough for August. And so, burdened with all the “objectionable” qualities I could not hide, I hid the ones I could, including my Jewish heritage.

  That meant that I never told August my mother had been Jewish. It seems an unfathomable oversight, yet I was no more likely to go to a synagogue on Saturday than a church on Sunday. So why bring it up? Again, because it was more than religion. It was my heritage, and I denied it, and that shames me.

  “My mother was Jewish,” I say.

  Dare I admit that I brace a little for August’s reaction? Just because a loved one has never shown any sign of prejudice does not mean they don’t possess any. I cannot imagine that of August, but I also cannot imagine what ugly biases his father wedged into his young brain.

  August only smiles. “Well, then, you are a quarter Jewish yourself, Edmund.”

  Edmund considers, his expression thoughtful. Then he says, “What does that mean?”

  August scoops him up. “Perhaps your mother will explain more once we are in the barn warming our fingers and toes. I have Jewish business associates, but I fear I do not understand the faith as well as I ought. Now, let’s get into the barn and get the fire going. I may have pilfered some twenty-first-century sweets from Thorne Manor and tucked them into my pockets. I have no idea what they are, but I propose we find out.”

  A fire roars in the tiny woodstove. August and Edmund have arranged hay bales around it. As we eat the sweets—wrapped candies and chocolates—I answer what
questions of Edmund’s I can about Hanukkah. Whatever I cannot answer, I promise we will research together. Then Edmund is gone, warmed up and poking about the barn. August and I share a hay bale, his arm around me.

  “It’s Happy Hanukkah, then?” August says. “Like Merry Christmas.”

  “Yes, but in the twenty-first century, unless you know for certain that someone celebrates Christmas, people say Happy Holidays. There are other religious celebrations at this time of year, and even if one does not celebrate any, they understand the sentiment.”

  “I confess, I’ve never considered whether anyone in my acquaintance might not celebrate Christmas. I’ve probably even wished my Jewish associates a merry one, which is rather embarrassing.”

  “I’m sure they understood.”

  “I hope so. I shall now acknowledge the proper holiday.” His arm tightens around me. “There are wonders here, in this world, and I have only begun to scratch the surface. My life is in our time, and I would not wish to leave it, but I find this all very fascinating. Fascinating and overwhelming.”

  “It is indeed.”

  “I don’t know how I’d manage it without you as my guide.”

  I smile and lay my head on his shoulder. “You’d figure it out.”

  “As you did. I cannot imagine it, Rosie. To come through the stitch into this world, incomprehensible to us in so many ways. You had no one to guide you. You navigated this world and not only survived but made a place for yourself. Started a business, rented a flat, learned to drive a car. All on your own, without even being able to admit where you came from, to explain the defects in your understanding. You did all that.”

  “I had to.”

  “That doesn’t make it any less incredible.”

  My cheeks heat, and I’m glad he can’t see me blushing.

  “Here is what I did not understand,” August says, his voice even lower. “I knew you had been separated from your family—from me and Edmund and Portia and Miranda. I could imagine how difficult that was. But you were separated from everything you’ve ever known. Cast into this world to fend for yourself.”

  I squirm.

  He sighs. “You don’t want to talk about what you suffered. It’s done, and you wish to move onward. But . . .” He pulls me tighter against him. “When you were giving me that endless lesson on operating a car, you said I needed to check in the rear-facing mirror every now and then, so I know what’s behind in case it catches up and overtakes me. We do not need to talk about what you went through if you would rather not, but I still need to think about it, to understand it, and that means I will occasionally mention it. When you pull back or make a joke or change the subject, it doesn’t tell me you’ve healed. It says that I’m poking a sore spot, and I don’t mean to, but you must understand that it hasn’t healed and care for it, even as you’re moving onward.”

  When I don’t answer, he kisses the top of my head. “You went through an incredibly difficult and, yes, traumatic situation that lasted for years. As strong as you are, you cannot expect to escape from that unscathed. Whether you’re willing to accept that or not, understand that I have accepted it. I’m just not certain what to do with it.”

  I’m quiet for a moment, and then I whisper, “Be patient with me.”

  His arm tightens around my shoulders. “I will be as patient as you need me to be, Rosie. You have shown me more patience than I ever deserved, with my jealousy and my suspicion. I only ask that you allow me to acknowledge what you’ve been through and do not throw up your armor each time I allude to it.”

  I nod against his shoulder, and we sit quietly until Edmund lets out a little shriek. Then we both jump, nearly tumbling off the hay bale.

  “Mama!” He holds up a box in his hand. “I found a game of drey-dals.”

  I rise and walk to where he stands in front of a wall of storage shelving. It’s filled with all the things modern parents tuck away but cannot bring themselves to discard. Boxes labeled as children’s clothing and toys and also a stack of games. In the last, Edmund found a set of handmade dreidels.

  “You know how to play, yes?” he says, holding up the wooden box.

  I smile. “I believe I remember. Let’s find out.”

  We play dreidel by the woodstove as the wind howls and snow beats against the windowpanes. It’s far from the holiday evening I imagined when I woke this morning, but it is a memory we will cherish after we have forgotten any other.

  I shudder to imagine how late it must be when we finally fall asleep in the hay. Edmund goes first, and I think perhaps August and I will stay awake, unable to sleep in such a place. But I snuggle down with him to talk and before I know it, I am in dreamland.

  I haven’t been sleeping long when I wake. I feel straw beneath my fingers, and I’m thrown back to those early weeks in the twenty-first century, nights spent wherever I could find shelter.

  I bolt upright, gasping for air, terror slamming through me.

  I’m still there. I never left. I didn’t get home. I—

  “Mama?”

  I look to see Edmund standing in an open doorway, bathed in moonlight. He looks ethereal. Unreal. A spirit come to haunt my dreams and torment me, and I scramble up, clawing at the straw as I rise and sprint to him. I snatch him up.

  Real. He is real. Warm and alive.

  “Mama?”

  I hear the trepidation in his voice, and I set him down, gulping air as I hug him and stumble over apologies.

  “It’s all right, Edmund,” August says behind me. A warm hand goes around my waist. “Your mama had a nightmare. That is all.”

  Shame licks through me, and I start to apologize to both of them, but August pulls me to him and whispers in my ear, “Patience, remember? You have all you need from me, but you must grant it to yourself as well. No apologies.”

  My eyes prickle as I nod. Then I draw in a deep breath, cold air searing my lungs as I realize where we are. In the barn. Standing at the door. Which was open when I grabbed Edmund. That’s what woke me—the draft of ice-cold air.

  “Edmund?” I say carefully. “Were you going outside?”

  “No, Mama. I was listening to the sleigh bells.”

  “Ah, do you hear them, too? I did earlier. There are no sleighs here, though. Not the kind with bells anyway, and it is far too late for anyone to be out playing in the snow. I think it is wind chimes. From the house.”

  Edmund shakes his head. “It is sleigh bells. Do you not hear them?”

  I pop my head outside. The storm has abated, and the night is silent, the now-cloudless sky stretching above with endless stars.

  “It is a very pretty night,” I say. “But I fear I do not hear any bells.”

  “I do,” he says, frowning. “Even with the door closed.”

  I glance at August, who moves closer to lean out and then shakes his head. “Your hearing must be far better than ours, Edmund.”

  “No,” Edmund says firmly. “I hear them, Papa. Nearby. The sound of sleigh bells.”

  We look at each other. The night is definitely silent.

  “What did you hear earlier, Rosie?” August asks.

  “I thought it was also sleigh bells, but very distant. Then I realized it could not be, and I presumed it was wind chimes, blowing in the storm.”

  “There is no storm now, Mama. No wind, either.” Edmund walks back to where he’d been sleeping with Amelia’s too-small coat draped over him. He picks it up. “We ought to go and have a look. It is a mystery.”

  “It is very late, Edmund,” I say.

  He pulls on the long coat, which barely passes his waist. “It is a Christmas mystery, and we must solve it.”

  I look at August, who throws up his hands. “Our son has spoken.”

  I sigh and go to fetch Bronwyn’s coat.

  9

  Do I hear bells? I honestly don’t know. I did earlier, but I am no longer certain what I hear now that I am trudging to the road with my family. I keep thinking I catch just the faintest jingle,
yet when I try to latch onto the sound, it disappears, as it did before.

  All I know is that Edmund very clearly hears a sound that I can barely detect, while August hears nothing at all? That worries me because there is only one obvious solution: a ghost.

  My son has encountered ghosts before, and they have never meant him any harm. What I fear is the type of ghost he mentioned earlier, with Miranda’s pirate Robin Hood. The spectral replay of a tragedy. We are on the road where Miranda insists she saw the pirate murdered. Is that what Edmund hears? Not sleigh bells, but the clinking of swords or a horse’s harness? The pirate’s death repeating on a loop for Edmund to witness?

  “Edmund?” I say as we reach the road.

  “Yes, Mama?”

  “I know your aunt has been explaining your Second Sight.”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  “If you are hearing something we are not, and we know a pirate’s death plays out along this road . . .” I clear my throat. “I would not wish you to witness such a thing.”

  Edmund says nothing. He simply continues onward, boots crunching in the snow. When I glance at August, my husband’s green eyes twinkle with amusement.

  “Edmund?” August says.

  “Yes, Papa.”

  “Are you hoping to see a pirate tonight? Is that why we’re out here?”

  Edmund takes two more steps before saying, “I really do hear what sounds like sleigh bells, Papa. I would not tell stories about that.”

  August motions for me to hold my response and let Edmund continue. He walks a few more steps, leading the way, before he speaks again.

  “I should like to see the pirate,” Edmund says. “I do not wish to see his death on purpose. If I spot him, I will turn away before he is attacked.” He looks back at me. “Is that all right?”

  “I believe your mother would prefer you not to seek out the pirate,” August says. “At the risk of seeing something disturbing. However, as your aunt has described the poor man’s end, and I trust you do not wish to see that, then I think we might allow you to decide whether we ought to continue investigating.”