Chapter Text
In the bleak midwinter
Frosty wind made moan
Earth stood hard as iron
Water like a stone
“Do you think it’ll finally snow tonight?
“I swear I can almost taste it, in the air.”
“Wouldn’t it be gorgeous if we had a proper white Christmas, for once?”
The three girls sigh in wistful unison; a few steps behind them, you pull your arms more tightly around yourself and roll your eyes.
December has trampled in like some sort of ferocious brute this year, dragging behind it a cold like you’ve never experienced in your ten long years of life. For the life of you, you don’t know how anyone could ever describe it as ‘gorgeous’.
It’s beastly.
And it’s not just the chill that stalks you into your lessons, into House, under your sheets at night. Even worse is sensation that the whole world is hovering on the cusp of something, something you can’t name, something that comes closer and closer and never breaks. You can practically hear the cracking of fault lines in non-existent ice, taste the tang of a simmering storm your tongue.
You just wish it’d just blooming snow already.
At least if it snowed, everything wouldn’t seem so bleak and grey, at least all this cold would be worth it.
At least then everyone would shut up about it.
But clearly you’re the only sane person at this school. The only person who sees this horrible month for what it really is. Because the second the calendar changes from November, Polis goes barmy. All ‘Tis the season’ this and ‘holiday spirit’ that, despite the four o’clock pitch-black darkness and the moan of the wind. You just don’t understand how everyone can possibly be so excited about this time of year.
An unlucky pebble crosses your path and you kick it right across the street between the boarding houses. Ahead of you, Ling chooses that exact moment to glance back at you, catching the last moments of your satisfied smirk, and it must embolden her because she smiles back.
Your lips curl into a scowl but she doesn’t give up. Worse, she tries drawing you into the conversation.
“What about you, An? Or are you going to be our resident Scrooge again?” Ling teases, albeit gently.
Normally, you’d take immediate offence, but she isn’t wrong. Last year you’d been the only boarder in your shared bedroom without holiday decorations around your bed, grumpily tearing away the tinsel your overly-cheerful roommates had taken it upon themselves to string around your bulletin board and declaring yourself the Caireen House Grinch.
“It’s Anya and I’m not a Scrooge,” you grumble, searching on the ground for more rocks on which to take out some of this prickly feeling inside you. Obviously you don’t hate Christmas. Who could possibly dislike getting gifts—even if your parents had completely ruined your life by getting you all the wrong gifts last year—and a break from school? “It’s not like I’m bah-humbug about Christmas, just…ho-hum.”
Once upon a time, you suppose you’d been excited about the holiday season right alongside your schoolmates. Back when you were tiny and daft and believed in things like Father Christmas and flying reindeer and other magical nonsense.
But you’re ten years old now–a full decade on this Earth—and you’ve seen all that magic reduced to mere plastic glitter and adult trickery. It feels like one big farce, now, and you just can’t be bothered.
“Does your family celebrate Christmas?” Katie asks, a little cautious, and oh brilliant, they’re all talking to you, now.
“Of course,” you snap, but then you take a deep breath and try to force your vocal cords into some semblance of politeness. Because these girls have never been anything but nice to you and it’s not like they have any way of knowing, anyway. You’ve barely said twenty words that weren’t growly one-word responses to them across the four terms you’ve been at Polis. “If my grandparents ask, we’re Hindu,” you begrudgingly elaborate, “but my parents grew up in London, so we do all the normal stuff. I get presents like everyone else.”
In your peripheral vision, you watch Ling nod in understanding. After a beat of shock at the sheer quantity of words coming out of your mouth, anyway. “I get it. I’m technically Buddhist,” she offers.
“And Rebecca, in the year below, is Jewish, I think,” Katie adds.
“Sabah and Naz are Muslim,” Anna finds her voice to contribute, her cheeks turning the same colour as her hair as she meets your eyes. “And plenty of others. Not everyone is Christian.”
You uncross your arms and pick at the seam of your pinafore with a noncommittal grunt of acknowledgement. You’re not exactly looking at your schoolmates but you’re not scowling either.
“But Christmas…well, I think Christmas is more than just religion,” Ling goes on. “At least the way Polis celebrates it.”
“Christmas at Polis is so wonderful,” Katie sighs and that sets off the lot of them again. They coo over negative temperatures and look forward to the ear-ache of caroling. And then they literally burst into song, wrapping their arms around each other’s waists and screeching ‘Joy to the World’ to the cloud-occluded night sky.
Ling gestures for you to join them but you let them fall ahead, rolling your eyes at the ground.
Because you just don’t get it.
Sometimes you wonder if you’re defective or if you’re just missing some critical piece of the puzzle. Because grown-ups and older kids know the dirty secret of Santa, that he’s no more than film set buildings, painted and pretty from the outside but actually completely useless—no ceiling, no back walls, no protection from the chill. And somehow that knowledge doesn’t stop them from being half-giddy, dashing around like hyperactive reindeer, a-wassailing their carols and gliding around with that look in their eyes.
Like they’re in awe of the same old things they see every single other day of the year. Except that now it’s cold, too.
You’re missing something, and you’re not quite sure what. That urge to run with the deer or fall on bended knee, to join the angelic chorus and the need to repeat any sounding joy like the rest of your infected school.
All you feel is the rude wind’s wild lament and the bitter bloody weather.
Mrs. Daisy greets you all at the boarding house door, tutting over the general lack of hats and asking after everyone’s day; you take advantage of the large group and slip past her before she can find something to fuss over about you, too.
The tip of your nose is still frozen when you push open your bedroom door with a mighty sigh, more than ready to get into some warm pyjamas and forget about the awful weather. Instead, a tiny figure in a giant men’s t-shirt leaps off her bottom bunk and grins the biggest grin at you.
“Anya! Guess what? Guess what, Anya?”
(You forget about the cold entirely.)
An enthusiastic 5-year-old shouldn’t be out of the ordinary, but it is and you find yourself scanning your eyes around the room for context before responding. You note with some confusion the craft tub of crayons on Lexa’s bed, the piles of coloured paper, and scissor-cut shapes adorning the usually austere duvet cover. There isn’t a textbook or notebook in sight, no calculators or photocopied essays from older girls anywhere in her general vicinity. Her handmade French flashcards from Mlle. Géroux aren’t even poking out of her shirt pocket where they’ve taken up permanent residence sometime in the last week.
“You’ve decided to sit an Art GCSE exam in January,” you finally deadpan, untwisting your scarf and half-considering whether you should send her downstairs so Mrs. Daisy can check her over for a fever.
“Better!”
Lexa’s eyes are sparkling—actually sparkling— and the usually solemn little girl presses her lips together as if she’s having trouble keeping in the excitement; her sock-clad toes curl in and then do a little tap dance against the wooden floor as she waits for your response. Her hair is free of the tight double-plaits you’d done for her this morning, her curls uncharacteristically wild and fluffy around her head and you busy yourself with your coat buttons in order to hide the smile budding at the corner of your mouth.
“Better than an exam…. I’m stumped.”
Lexa giggles. Giggles. Clearly your sarcasm has come out more like playfulness.
(That’s been happening a lot recently, especially around her. Much to your chagrin.)
“My grandparents want me to stay with them over Christmas break!” she finally reveals, doing a little twirl on the tip of her toes and she’s the definition of joy right now, so eager and hopeful like all children her age should be.
But maybe you are a Scrooge because the news makes your heart clench in that peculiar way the little girl often manages to do, the kind where you’re not sure if it’s joy or pain.
(You sometimes wonder if the two can be separated, when it comes to Lexa.)
“That’s great, Lexa,” you manage to tell her though, mostly genuine. You give her an affectionate shove on your way to hang up your coat and she beams even brighter.
And it is good news; glad tidings of great joy if you ever heard it. Maybe Lexa’s fairy godmother has finally gotten off her arse and is granting the little girl the happily-ever-after she’s more than earned. A better once-upon-a-time, in the very least.
You hope it’s only the Grinch in you pumping a whoosh of mighty dread through your veins, making your too-small heart clutch at itself like it’s falling through space without a handhold.
“The Headmistress told me this afternoon; I’m to leave the evening school lets out for term. She’s not exactly sure on the travel arrangements yet but maybe I’ll get to ride the train! I’ve never taken a train!”
“Thrilling,” you comment wryly.
(It comes out as soft and sincere.)
Lexa bobs her head in fervent agreement and another wave of excitement ripples down her body.
You hide another smile by turning to the mirror inside the wardrobe, pulling the bobble out of your hair and finger-combing out your French braid. God, it always feels so good to release all that tightness, the feeling of soda-pop bubbles erupting from your scalp.
But then something occurs to you and you frown, good feeling gone.
“Wait. Where did you think you were going to stay over Christmas break?” you ask the five-year-old, still hopping around the room like a hyperactive bird, skinny little legs and billowing shirt completing the look.
Lexa stills and her smile falters, only for a split-second, but it’s enough for your heart to give up and embrace its plummet. “I’d assumed back to the group home,” she says quietly, eyes on her hands. You can see her attention fluttering as her fingers twist around themselves, desperately seeking something else to latch onto and change the subject.
And this, this is why you reserve your hate for those two so-called grandparents of hers. Because what kind of person lets their helpless grandchild be taken away from everything she knows and plopped into a group foster home? Who leaves a five-year-old in a boarding school for much older kids without clothes or a toothbrush or even a word of acknowledgement, leaves her to believe she has no one to depend on but herself and she’s nothing more than a burden, all because…well, you don’t know why. They don’t like children? They’re miserable old sods? You don’t think even the Headmistress knows.
“What are you making over there?” you prompt after a throbbing pause, clearing your throat and gesturing over at the art supplies to grant her the distraction she craves.
It works; Lexa brightens again. She scurries over the bed and rummages through a pile of paper scraps, pulling out a vaguely leaf-shaped one with red marker dots around its edge and holding it out so you can see.
“I thought…well, I can’t go to their house without gifts—it wouldn’t be proper. And I don’t have any money to buy them a real present, but I thought…well, if I can come up with a pattern, a design of sorts, maybe Mr. Cooper in the Textiles lab can spare some fabric scraps, maybe some old thread…”
Last Saturday, despite your better wisdom, you’d joined most of the older Caireen girls in a Red Cross babysitting workshop. Amongst the heaps of useless advice (never leave a child alone on a changing table—really? Who would ever do that? All three of your baby brothers would have immediately head-dived to the floor if you’d dared look away. They tried while you were looking) was the suggestion that, upon being presented with a young child’s scribble drawings, you should ask them to tell you about it rather than asking ‘what’s that?’.
And, well, that may have actually been a useful tip because you have no idea whatsoever what her design is supposed to be.
“That’s…cool, Lexa. Um, tell me more about it.”
(Okay, strike that advice—you feel like a complete idiot.)
Fortunately, Lexa doesn’t notice what a dog’s dinner you are at this, only puffing out a sigh of relief and sinking down onto the bed. “Oh, good. I’m glad you think it’s a good idea. My mother taught me how to sew a little but I thought maybe her mother taught her how to sew, too. So maybe her parents—my grandparents—maybe they’d like some holly berry ornaments. For their Christmas tree. If they have one. Do you think they celebrate Christmas? Maybe I should make them less Christmas-y. Just in case.”
You can’t believe how many words are coming out of this girl’s mouth right now, how many times she’s said ‘Christmas’ in one breath. She’s usually so careful, so precise in her words. It makes you equal parts want to hug her and wrap her up in bubble wrap, but you settle for ruffling the disaster of her curls enroute to your desk.
“I’m sure they’ll love them, whatever they celebrate,” you hope to holy heaven you’re not lying, pulling your prep notebook out of your rucksack and deliberately not looking at the exuberant little sprite on the other side of the room.
“I’ve had some practice sewing name labels on my new uniform but I’d better get some extra practice in,” Lexa continues, her words still bubbling out fast and furious. “Embroidery is different, anyway. Is that the word, embroidery? I should check.” She jumps up again and practically prances over to the bookshelf for your dictionary, the one you’d told her she can use anytime she wants; she looks at you questioningly before touching it and you sigh but nod anyway.
Out of the corner of your eye, you watch her thumb through the pages, moving her finger down the page with rapt focus until she’s found the word she’s looking for. She glances over at where you’re pretending to be busy and then simply nods silently to herself before replacing the book with care and padding back to her bed.
Half a minute passes before you turn in your chair and regard Lexa again, hunched over her grand designs, tongue poking out of the side of her mouth. She looks up right away, eyes shining and bright and heartbreakingly expectant.
You forget what you were going to say.
(You’re not sure you had anything to say; you suspect you just wanted another look at your serious little charge acting like an actual child.)
“I’ve got biology prepwork, so shh,” you tell her gruffly, itching the back of your neck. “It’s 7:30 now, tap me when you’re done with your fun time so we can add it to the chart.”
Lexa’s jaw drops. “This can count toward my fun quota this week?” she asks, looking down at the art supplies spread around her with awe.
You squint an eye at her. “Are you having fun?”
Lexa considers the simple question for far too long. “But it’s for a reason,” she finally contends but you hear the reluctance in her argument; Lexa despises those forty-five minutes of age-appropriate fun you’ve insisted upon in payment for weekly maths tutoring and you know it’s only her strict sense of justice that she says it at all.
“So?”
“So it’s not the usual aimless play or telly-watching you usually make me do.”
“Play is never aimless,” you lecture her with a smirk, although you have to stop and think about the most recent dose of CBeebies cartoons you’d forced her to watch. Those had been rather dire, even by your low standards. But then you remember that she’d spent the previous three hours reading an encyclopedia, so not aimless in the very least. “Besides, it’s Christmas. I’ll let you off easy this month.”
With a solemn nod followed by one less solemn and more bouncy-puppy, Lexa turns back to her embroidery designs again, hugging herself with glee once she thinks you won’t notice.
And you don’t. Notice, that is. You’re entirely engrossed by the music blasting out of your headphones and your diagram of the water cycle.
You don’t notice her dash out of the room after a few minutes, returning with a needle and thread that she punches through paper scraps for practice, tongue bit between teeth and eyes so close to her stitches it’s probably dangerous.
You don’t notice when she finds a blue scrap of paper sewn to her jumper sleeve, nor the cute little blush when she figures it out or the furtive dart of her eyes in your direction while she unstitches herself.
And you definitely don’t notice the tightening of your ribcage every time her mouth slips into an unconscious smile while she works, the way her hands are shaking, the little stone that settles in the bottom of your stomach and refuses to go away.
--
Lexa’s nightmares are fiercer than ever that night.
She whimpers and cries out, twists and kicks so much that her duvet ends up on the floor.
You’re this close to waking her, but the memory of finding her huddled up in a corner of the room, trying to stay awake so she wouldn’t disturb you with her nightly demons again, still haunts you.
Your usual hummed chapel hymn fails and it’s only after several made-up verses of actual singing that the thrashing begins to settle down. Even after you sneak across the room and return her coverings to their proper place, you can still hear muted little whimpers.
It happens three more times that night, and every night of the following week, and you blame sleep deprivation for this growing puddle of lead in your stomach, this cloud of heaviness that engulfs you every time you think about Lexa going to her horrible grandparents’ house. This feeling of helplessness, this despair of being a ten-year-old child, powerless to fix anything for an even more the helpless child, the one crying out in the frosty night.
All you can do is keep humming her hymns.
So you do.
--
Daytime Lexa, on the other hand, is a beacon of sweetness and light. More than you’ve ever seen her—and that’s saying something. She’s basically the spirit of Christmas incarnate, no problem whatsoever filling her fun quota in the following days, especially not in the holiday-infected zone formerly known as the junior boarding house.
Obviously you don’t know what she’s usually like at Christmas, but learning her legal guardians have finally decided to acknowledge her existence seems to have flipped a switch in the quiet little girl—that switch you’ve been searching for ever since the Headmistress introduced you at the beginning of term. The one labeled ‘happy five-year-old’.
She totes her textbooks into the Common Room instead of studying in your shared room, an action remarkable in itself, but by Wednesday, the books have been demoted to mere acquaintances at her side. By Friday she’s not even bothering to bring them at all. They’re completely replaced by Christmas movies and threading popcorn chains with the rest of the boarding house, fractions forgotten for Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer and European capitals traded in for a scrubbed version of Home Alone.
(And good riddance—those dusty old books never made her smile like the movies do, never sent her into happy little tears when a long-lost family is reunited, never inspired the unconscious humming of the accompanying soundtrack while she’s getting ready for bed.)
Lexa even smells like Christmas. On the days you don’t drag her to lacrosse practice with you, you find her with biscuit dough on her cheeks or handing out freshly-brewed mulled cider at the front door of House instead of her usual reading nook. The Caireen pine tree arrives suspiciously early this year and for days after, Lexa can be found in the sitting room instead holed away with her books, adjusting the ornaments or simply sitting cross-legged under the boughs, neck craning up to inhale its scent. She stares so hard at those fairy lights you think their echoes must be permanently imprinted behind her eyelids when she closes her eyes.
And then there’s her less conventionally ‘fun’ holiday activities. You have to shake your head at some of them, but there’s no doubt that packing a borrowed duffel bag brings the little girl a massive amount of satisfaction. There are still weeks before Christmas break but Lexa folds and re-folds her school uniform pieces into crisp corners, laying them gently in the duffel each night before taking them out in the morning. Even the men’s t-shirt she uses for pyjamas is folded and packed each morning.
You’ve even caught her opening the bag just to check everything over for wrinkles.
The only possessions Lexa hasn’t packed up a fortnight early are the mysterious package she keeps under her bed and the only non-uniform piece of clothing she owns, the black dress that you’re pretty sure that she wore to her mother’s funeral. She’s taken the pains to drag a stool over to the wardrobe and take it out several times now, once even removed it from its hanger, but it always ends up back where it started.
The other activity that fills her days is her holly ornaments. Having acquired materials from the textiles teacher, Lexa can almost always be found with her sewing project in hand, hunched over her creations with her tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth in concentration. She’s ripped out more stitches than you want to think about, determined to make them perfectly straight and even and equidistant and a million other specifications that exist only in her own head.
(Meanwhile, your six-year-old brother makes it through printing three shaky letters of his name at the bottom of your parents’ letters before getting distracted by some shiny object. On a good day.)
She’s just so…quiet about it. About all her fun, actually.
Lexa checks her duffel bag and embroiders her holiday gifts without the usual childish narration, without showing anyone when she finally manages a perfect line of stitching or asking for opinions on what she should pack.
Today, you watched her square her shoulders and retrieve the black dress from the wardrobe. She’d brought it over to the bed and sewn one of her cheery holly leaves onto the bodice of the dour thing, examining it for a long time before taking a deep breath and folding it to join the rest of clothes in the duffel.
All without comment.
(It’ll probably go back on the hanger in the morning.)
It’s not that you think quiet fun is a bad thing—it’s not like you’re the most talkative person—she’s happier than you’ve ever seen her and you’re thrilled for her. It’s more than that, though, and it takes you awhile to figure out why her fun makes your heart clench in the same way as it does when she unconsciously cries out in the dark. It’s not until she finishes her first holly ornament after four long days and probably a billion attempts, staring at it for a couple of minutes before putting it away without a word, that you put it together.
Lexa holds her happiness close to her chest in exactly the same way she does her grief, her joys the same as her sorrows, her hopes at the same threat level as her anxieties. If you’re worried about Lexa’s upcoming visit with her grandparents, you can’t even imagine how she must feel.
No wonder her little body erupts in nightmares every night after keeping it in all day.
Outside, the temperature keeps dropping and the pit in your stomach keeps on growing.
It doesn’t snow, and you really, really don’t care for this time of year.