The coughing passed and she straightened, taking a few faltering steps to the door of the hut, laying a hand on the ice-cold metal of the latch.
“I’m going outside,” she whispered. “And I might be gone some time.”
DOC’S IMAGINING FOUND HIM sitting in front of a roaring log fire, hands cupping a tankard of mulled claret spiced with cloves and honey.
It was late in the evening of the last night before the birthday of Jesus the Christ.
The house was still and quiet, yet making the occasional small creakings of an old building. The toasting heat of the parlor contrasted with the bitter frost and driving snow outside the shuttered windows.
Emily had gone up the stairs a few minutes ago, kissing him on the cheek, whispering her affection into his ear, blushingly promising him a special early Christmas present once he joined her in their cozy bedroom, where the copper warming pans were already in place.
The children were fast asleep, two small angels in their beds, curly heads on the goose-feather pillows. Jolyon was still too young to appreciate the magic of the season, but Rachel had been becoming more and more excited over the past few nights, her little face alight with the thrill of Santa’s visit.
Doc had sat them both on his lap and whispered to them of the jolly old white-bearded gentleman with the red suit who would bring gifts to all good children, telling them that they might just possibly catch the sound of his sleigh bells and the clicking of his reindeers’ hooves on their shingled roof.
He drained the glass, sighed and stood.
The two boxes filled with brightly wrapped presents stood waiting in the large closet on the landing, ready to be put in place, one at the foot of each bed.
Doc caught a glimpse of himself in the gilt-framed oval mirror above the hearth and smiled at his image, revealing his perfect teeth.
“By the Three Kennedys, but it’s time to get to business,” he said, “then up to pleasure dearest Emily.”
His face frowned for a moment, wondering why he’d mentioned three Kennedys. He knew nobody of that name.
The maid would see to safely damping the fire. He reached for the clock key on his silver fob chain and wound the Westminster chiming timepiece on the mantel, taking great care not to over wind it and damage the mechanism.
The stairs creaked under his knee boots, the polished mahogany banister warm to the touch.
He paused a moment on the half landing, peering out at the blizzard. The snow still beat against the house like the silent wings of tiny birds, carried on the breath of a cold blue norther that had been raging now for six days.
Doc carried on, reaching the dark at the top of the stairs, deciding to look in on his darling cherubs before bringing in the presents.
Their room was the last one to his left, and he tiptoed along, over the delicate Persian runner, until he stood outside the bedroom door.
He hesitated a moment, head to one side, straining his hearing. He could have sworn that he’d just heard the distant tinkling of golden bells and a muffled noise of animals, high up near the gable end of the roof.
“I think that my imagination is getting the better of me,” he said, smiling.
He put out his hand, turned the chased brass knob and walked into his children’s room, stopping, stricken.
Despite the glowing embers of a fire in the grate, the chamber was absolutely freezing. The curtains were drawn, and a small oil lamp gave a gentle glow to the room. Doc put his hand to his chest, his breath frosting out in front of his face.
The children lay sleeping in their beds, but they weren’t alone in the room.
A bulky figure stood between the beds, his back turned to Doc. All he could make out was that it was a man, and he was wearing a scarlet jacket and pants, and a cap in the same color.
“I beg your pardon, but might I ask who you are, and what precisely your business is?”