Chapter Text
The floorboards are cold underneath Susan’s feet, when she slips of her shoes and makes her way across the hallway towards the living room. She feels like a child sneaking about the house in the dark hours of the night before Christmas, trying to catch a glimpse of Father Christmas delivering presents. Susan is no longer a child, of course. In fact, long years have passed since then. And there is no reason to sneak, as she is the only one who lives here, the house hers and hers alone, ever since her parents died.
It is, however, in fact the night before Christmas, with dawn, late as it might occur this time of year, merely a few hours away.
Susan’s mind is torn for a moment, leaning this way and that, considering whether she should be surprised by that fact or not. On one hand, she has spent the evening over at Paul and Maggie’s, who, year after year, seek to outdo themselves with an extravagant party on Christmas Eve and won’t stand for anyone not having fun or leaving any earlier than midnight. On the other hand, Susan has excused herself quite a bit earlier than she would have even the year prior, growing weary of youthful merriment much faster now, so that part of her feels like there should be much more of the night left, than there is.
Finally, her mind settles on just accepting it as it is, in a way that only those people can, that have lived for a long time or are children still.
And then, because she is all grown up, Susan decides she might as well stay up and cherish the quiet hours of the night.
And because there is a child within her still, she chooses to do so in the same way she would have many years ago.
So, she lights a fire in the fireplace and curls up in the armchair in front of it with the heavy book of fairytales that had been her childhood favourite and a steaming cup of tea that tastes of spring and summer.
The creamy pages are smooth beneath her fingertips as she flicks through the book, showing no signs of their age, pale and flawless, much like the hands grazing over them. It’s a beautiful edition, heavy and leatherbound, with ornately written titles, and illustrations so vibrant they seem to be leaping of the page, the mythical creatures looking real enough to touch.
Susan lets herself get lost in them for a moment, for nothing makes her yearn for wonder more than the sight of snowflakes dancing in the wind, than a world covered in a cold blanket, beautiful and deadly, and the promise of spring underneath it all.
It’s that thought that makes her gaze shift to the window, urging her to try and catch a glimpse. Of what, the treacherous play of snow and ice, or a hidden reassurance that no winter lasts forever, she does not know.
And it’s that shifting of her gaze that makes her notice an oddly shaped package on her windowsill. She doesn’t recognize it as something she herself put there, and she certainly can’t recall any visitors leaving it there either.
Susan shifts her book to the side table, careful not to spill her tea or push the cup over the edge to shatter upon the floor. Then she gets up. Walks over to the window, as if in trance. And lifts the package.
It is shaped like a cone, slightly curved, and wrapped in simple, brown paper. A piece of string is tied around it with a neat little bow, and, attached to it, is a little card which bears nothing but her name in sweeping letters. She turns both the package and the card over in search of any hint as to who might have left it there but comes up empty.
Worrying at her lip, she carries it back over to the armchair. Would it be improper to open it now? But it was technically Christmas Day already, midnight long past. And whomever it was from, clearly meant to remain anonymous, or they would have signed the card. So, what could it hurt to open it now? In the quiet of the hours of the night nothing but the soft ticking of the clock and the flickering flames within the fireplace for witnesses?
Carefully Susan loosens the string, and pries open the paper to reveal a small ivory horn. It is artfully crafted, shaped like a lion’s head, and lies comfortably in her hand, nearly familiar in its weight, like she has held it before. Susan can hardly tear her eyes away from it.
What a strange present indeed. Who would think to bestow her with such an object? And what use could she possibly have for it?
She lifts her eyes to the mantle above the fireplace, carrying an array of picture frames, as if it were to hold any answers. The photographs show her and her friends throughout the years, at various occasions, sporting ever-present smiles. None of those people seem the type to give her such a strange present.
There is one photograph that shows her with her parents too. Her father’s expression quite serious, though there is the hint of smile tucked into the corners of his mouth. Her mother’s smile is a shy, but loving thing, gently coaxed forward mere moments before the picture was taken, so that it’s genuine, rather than put on. Susan herself is captured in a moment of laughter, though she doesn’t remember what prompted it. It’s her favourite photograph of her parents and it holds a place of honour in the centre of the mantlepiece. But as her hand tightens around the horn she’s still holding, she can’t help but frown. For the first time, since she put it up, it feels like it’s too empty.
Underneath it, for a second, the flames flicker higher and the fire roars.