Merry Christmas To All, & To All A Good-Night

7

Merry Christmas To All, & To All A Good-Night

    Oberon hovered, looking disapproving. “This is not going to work.”

    “Go away, Father!” hissed Isabella.

    He looked down his handsome straight nose. “For one thing, mortals don’t wear petals on Christmas Day.”

    “I’m going to change!”

    “Into what, may I ask?” he drawled. “A Christmas elf, perchance? A gob—”

    “You’re not funny, Father! Into a—a sweater.”

    “I don’t think that’s the right word, is it?” he drawled.

    “Knitted, and it covers the torso and the arms!” she said crossly. “It’s in Ben’s head!”

    He raised the eyebrows very high. “But does that prove anything, one wonders?”

    “Go away, Father! The children have gone to the Realm of Snow: why don’t you go there? I thought you wanted to see more of your grandchildren?”

    “There’s no hurry.” He eyed her sardonically. “Or only in mortal terms.”

    “They are half mortal!” she snapped unwisely.

    “Thank you for reminding me of that, Isabella,” he said acidly. “Very well, then. But just don’t say you haven’t been warned.” With this, mercifully, he vanished, whoosh!

    Isabella went into Daniello’s and Margot’s room and looked carefully through Margot’s woollen sweaters. There was nothing there that approximated to the pictures in Ben’s head—well, generically, yes: knitted, covering the torso and the arms. But none of them had those pretty Christmassy patterns, like the ones Old King Cold called Yuleisle. Oh, well, never mind! Happily she magicked up a merry Yuleisle sweater for herself.

    Oops! That was wrong. Isabella looked at herself in the mirror, frowning. She’d done it just like Margot’s sweaters but it hadn’t come out like the ones in Ben’s head. They were... woollier, somehow. Should she nip back to the Faerie Realm and ask Baa-Baa Black Sheep and little Baa-Lamb for help? But they were probably having their Christmas dinner, and she’d be asked to stay, and getting back to the mortal realm in good time for Jessica’s Christmas dinner would be too complicated, really...

    “Woollier!” she ordered, waving her hand.

    No, that wasn’t it. Now she looked a bit like Baa-Lamb, only striped! She tried very hard to remember exactly what had been in Ben’s head. Not that horrid Tracy looking down her nose disapprovingly at the one he’d worn—when was it? Oh, yes, last Christmas, when he’d gone home to his Mom’s house. He’d put it on for the journey, to wear under his big windcheater, and she’d said he looked like a clown—which he didn't, at all: clowns had big red noses, huge feet, and white-painted faces with mad hair and tiny hats. And they were funny. Ben’s merry Yuleisle sweater had been...

    “Got it!” she cried. “Looser!”

    The sweater loosened immediately. “Um, yes. And not so woolly,” added Isabella on a weak note, waving her hand limply.

    That worked, and soon she was ready, remembering at the last moment to grab a coat and muffler.

    “BOOTS, ASS’S HEAD, MORTALS WEAR FOOTWEAR!” boomed the voice.

    Biting her lip, Isabella put boots on her feet.

    Jessica herself opened her front door. “Hullo, Isabella! Merry Christmas!”

    “Hullo, Jessica! Merry Christmas!” returned Isabella conscientiously.

    “Come in! –You do look nice! What a lovely green coat! Is it new?” smiled Jessica.

    Ooh, help. She’d just reached out her hand, thinking: Christmassy coat! It was very dark green, with a trim of white fur at the neck. “Um, yes,” she said limply.

    “And boots to match! Where did you get them?” Jessica asked enviously.

    The ankle-boots were also dark green. With lowish heels, Isabella just hated those silly mortal very high heels—you’d never see Mother in very high heels!

    Quite right, darling, came a faint echo.

    Ooh, help, so was she watching, too? “Um, what? Oh, the boots.” Help, what could she say? “I just, um, struck it lucky, I guess,” she said weakly.

    “I’ll say. –Oh, there you are, Ben; it’s Isabella, why didn’t you get the door?”

    “Hey, Isabella. Merry Christmas,” said Ben, smiling. “—Because I was trying to stop Damian electrocuting himself with those goddamn fairy lights, as ordered!” he said irritably to his sister.

    “Fuh-fairy lights?” faltered Isabella. That picture in his head didn’t look anything like—

    “Yeah. His misguided male parent,” said Ben grimly, “attempted to explain to him that the blinking light turns the electric current off and on, and that the electric current comes through the wires, so now he's obsessed with unplugging the Hellish things!”

    That was a very clear picture in his head! Isabella beamed at him. “That’s very clear, Ben!”

    To her surprise he gave a sheepish laugh—you’d have sworn it was little Baa-Lamb when he’d done something really silly—and said: “Guess I asked for that. But it’s nerve-racking, I can tell you!”

    “Mm.” She could fix it, of course, so as they didn’t need the dangerous electricity, they’d just be like real fairy lights, but given that Ben had concluded that most of the day before yesterday had been a dream— “Maybe I can help to distract him. Has he had his presents yet?”

    “No, waiting for the guests!” he grinned. “Luckily he’s too little to remember he usually opens them earlier. Come on through, no sense standing around in the draughty hallway!”

    Isabella smiled weakly, and went in. One of the presents under the tree was the train set from New York, and what was Ben going to say to that? Or would he conclude that today was a dream as well?

    Damian was in a state of high excitement, and Isabella had to admire the tree, and its lights, and then crawl round on the rug with him, playing a game of feeling the presents and guessing what was in them. Evidently that was what mortal children did, at Christmas. He was sure one of them was a book: well, that wasn't difficult, it was a book-shaped present. They all had very pretty paper wrapping and lovely bows on them. Mortals sure went in for bows at Christmas! Isabella sat back on her heels and smiled up at Ben. “It’s all very Christmassy, isn’t it?”

    “Uh—sure. Well yeah, Jessica’s made a real effort. Um, just don’t expect any—” He glanced cautiously at Damian. “Christmas P,U,D,D,I,N,G. Two people in the family don’t like it. Poor old Bob’s gonna miss out.”

    “But he doesn’t count!” said Bob’s voice with a laugh in it from the doorway. “Merry Christmas, Isabella! Why don’t you come over here?” He leered at her.

    “Been on the Johnnie Walker since ten this morning,” explained Ben drily. “Well, started off the day with a slug of brandy to his Christmas coffee, but you don’t count that, I’m told.”

    “Not on a parky day like this, no!” Bob smiled encouragingly at Isabella.

    She went over to him obediently and, mysteriously pointing above his head, he swooped on her and gave her a smacking kiss. On the mouth, what was more! Help! Did mortals usually do that at Christmas time?

    “Excuse him,” sighed Ben. “Combination of the Johnnie and the mistletoe, really.”

    “Mistletoe?” she gasped. The plant had immense magic properties! Having it in the house more or less guaranteed the man would father a baby within the coming year, but not only that, it was a deadly weapon when its stems were made into arrows or spears: even a fairy could be killed by it!

   It was, of course, strategically placed by Bob over the sitting-room door. Ben pointed to it, looking dry. “Yeah, ancient Druidic rite,” he drawled, eying his brother-in-law sardonically. “Which doesn’t excuse him, though it is his excuse.”

    “Buh-but you’re not an ancient Druid, Bob!” she gasped.

    He grinned. “Not yet, no! It only feels like it after that marathon these last two days. –Chopping, slicing, icing gingerbread men all wrong—don’t ask—stringing popcorn ineptly, stringing other stuff ineptly—”

    “Artificial holly berries: she didn’t manage to get real cranberries—except canned,” allowed Ben fairly.

    “Um, ye-es... Oh! For the tree!” gasped Isabella. The tree certainly looked impressive.

    Bob followed her glance. “Gaudy but not elegant,”  he said proudly.

    Ben coughed suddenly.

    Isabella smiled. “Of course, Bob! Christmas trees should be! It’s lovely!”

    “Yeah,” he agreed, grinning broadly. “Me and Damian think so.”

    “It looks super, Dad!” he piped, jumping. “C’n we open the presents, now?”

    “Uh—not yet, old son. Gotta wait for Uncle John and Aunty Megs. –My uncle and his wife,” he said glumly to Isabella. “Well, they’re okay, but it’s a fair way to come, they’re down in Portsmouth. Gotta have them, there’s no-one else, their Fiona’s the nearest, and she’s in Germany with that cretin of a Hans she married. Insists they go to his parents every year.”

    “John and Megs could go over there,” drawled Ben. “Or haven’t you heard of planes, boats and automobiles?”

    “They don’t speak the lingo and his parents don’t speak any English, and bloody Hans has stopped using his—what there was of it—or, just drop it, Ben, will you?” he sighed.

    Ben eyed him drily and replied pointedly: “Yeah, okay. I’ll apologise to Isabella for the mistletoe thing, instead, since no-else seems to be about to. –I do apologise for him, Isabella. Like I said, he's full of Johnnie.”

    “Um, yes—oh! I see, whisky! That’s okay, he didn’t mean any harm. Um, but mistletoe’s so... risky,” she finished weakly.

    “Risky?” echoed Bob in surprise.

    “It is with you around, guy!” noted his brother-in-law swiftly.

    It was hard to imagine anyone not knowing. Father was right, mortals had virtually no education! “No, I mean it’s such a powerful plant,” said Isabella limply. “You have to be very careful of it. Like it says in the rime:

“Don’t you know the Mistletoe

Hath a power beyond our ken,

It will strike and strike again,

Deadly blow ’pon deadly blow,

For deadly blows the Mistletoe.

Hang it in the house with care,

For a Child your wife will bear

If so be the Mistletoe

Bears its berries white like Snow.”

She smiled at them. “Mother would always add this:

“Lovers’ Vows will Last for aye

Should they Kiss beneath its Eye,

Be you Friend or be you Foe,

Fear alike the Mistletoe.

    “But Father claimed it wasn’t part of the original, at all.”

    They were gaping at her.

    “Where the Hell did you get that one from?” croaked Bob.

    “Yuh. That,” croaked Ben.

    “From Mother,” replied Isabella simply.

    “She knows lots of rimes, doesn’t she, Isabella?” squeaked Damian, jumping.

    “Yes, lots and lots, Damian! And stories!”

    “Right,” said Bob limply. “Never heard it before.”

    “Me, neither,” Ben agreed. “Well, Mom had all these daft books with fairy rhymes, so-called, in them, but that’s a new one on me. I never heard that mistletoe was deadly, Isabella.”

    “Yes!” cried Damian. “’Cos poor ole Balder, his brother Herther, he shot him with a mistletoe arrow, ’cos see, he was blind! He shouldn’t have been playing at bows and arrows at all. Ronny’s grandmother, she told us that story, too.”

    “Yes, it’s one of Mother’s cautionary tales,” murmured Isabella.

    “Salutary!” owned Bob, grinning. “Hope she mentioned that no kid should be playing with bows and arrows unsupervised, while she was at it. Well, fancy a slug, Isabella?”

    A slug? They were so slimy! “Ugh! No, thank you!” she shuddered.

    “Not Johnnie Walker straight up at this hour, you cretin,” groaned Ben. “Have a nice cup of eggnog, Isabella.”

    “Eh? Glug!” objected Bob.

    “I won’t say you’re wrong, but I will say, as your wife went to all the trouble to prepare it, getting, an I mistake not,”—he eyed him drily—“cans of the base over from the States—”

    “I say, Isabella!” squeaked Bob, as of one inspired. “Have a lovely cup of eggnog!”

    Damian at this collapsed in giggles.

    “That was about his level,” noted Ben pleasedly. “Well, it’s an American tradition, Isabella; I don’t think it’s so popular over here. You might as well try it.”

    Doing her best to ignore Bob’s mutter of “You can only die once”—a saying that seemed to be quite popular in the mortal realm, whilst in Fairyland, of course, it was irrelevant—Isabella accepted a cup of the thick, creamy drink from the big bowl on the beautifully decorated small table beneath the front window. It seemed to be a table for the eggnog. Besides the beautiful shiny Christmas ornaments and the boughs of pine and holly, there was the great big glass bowl with its own matching ladle, and a set of lots of pretty glass cups, without saucers. Thir— Oh, no. Twelve. Not so lucky; Isabella’s face fell.

    “It’ll be worse before it gets better!” Bob predicted breezily.

    She tried it cautiously. Ugh, yes, it had egg in it! Raw egg, ugh!

    “O-kay,” said Ben grimly, taking it off her.

    “I’m so sorry!” she gasped. “I don’t like things with raw eggs in them!”

    “And so say all of us!” agreed Bob happily. “Right! Johnnie! –You can have soda in it, if you insist,” he added generously.

    “For God’s sake, Bob!” cried Ben. “If you must offer the girl hooch, at least give her a belt of ginger in it! Or better still, that ginger wine muh—uh, stuff, that Jessica likes,” he finished on a weak note.

    “Oh, yeah, whisky and Green Ginger: why didn’t I think of that?” said Bob happily. He got out his whisky and, after some grunting and muttering into the cupboard, a dark bottle with a green and white label. And poured.

    “Ooh! Nice! Sweet! Warm!” gasped Isabella.

    “Yes,” agreed Ben limply. He felt quite weak. Bob was the ultimate end of the universe when he was, as he himself had phrased it, half-cut. He sipped his tumblerful cautiously. Jesus! It was very sweet, but not only that, about eighty percent proof! “Look, don’t give her another, we don’t want her comatose for Jessica’s famous Christmas dinner. In fact, just the Green Ginger Wine alone would  have been sufficient, Bob.”

    To Isabella’s relief Bob merely replied mildly: “Yeah? Think you’re right, actually. Forgotten what a wallop this packs.”

    “Ooh, can I have some, Dad?” piped Damian.

    Bob looked at him tolerantly. “Rave on, Sonny Jim. Your mother’d kill me.”

    Ben sighed. “It is Christmas, Bob, at least give the kid a taste. –Cast your mind back to when you were his age.”

    Bob smiled slowly. “Grandpa’s special Christmas punch, talking of wallops! Phew! Well, it was sweet, all right, but I think he put a couple of pints of vodka into it because the rum wasn’t strong enough! Could just have used this stuff,” he noted, picking up the Green Ginger bottle, “but he used to slice real ginger up and boil it with loads of sugar, and something else—lemons, maybe—for the base. Looking back, it must’ve been a lot of sugar, because there was only about a pint of that to at least four of the hard stuff—well, it was a big bowl—and two bottles of ginger pop: those went in when Grandma was looking! –Yeah, come on, Damian: just sip, it’s very strong.”

    Eagerly Damian sipped. Predictably, he choked. “Good!” he gasped, his eyes watering.

    “See?” said his father, unmoved. “Told you it was strong.”

    “I like it!” he declared valiantly.

    “Yeah, well, wait another, uh, four minus, I mean minus four, um, well, when you’re old enough to drink you can knock it back as much as you like, only just don’t tell your mum I gave it to you, okay?”

    “Okay,” he conceded. “Isabella, can you tell me a story?”

    Smiling, Isabella agreed, and since it was Christmas they sat down on the rug for the story, very close to the tree—it was rather low, you would have had to do a  bigger and smaller spell to sit under it.

    Ben wandered over to where his brother-in-law was collapsed in his big chair earnestly examining the label on the Stone’s Green Ginger Wine and said very quietly in his ear: “Five’ll get you ten he lets it out to her before you’re a day older. Chum.”

    “Sufficient unto the whatsit is the whatsit thereof!” replied Bob with an airy wave. “Oops! Sorry!”

    Ben gave him a Look, grabbed the bottle of Johnnie which somehow had found its way to the occasional table at Bob’s elbow, and walked out with it.

    “Par’y pooper,” muttered Bob. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes in order to concentrate better on Isabella’s story...

The Story of Bertie Beetle Who Always Forgot,

And of Santa Claus Who Never Forgets

    Once upon a time there was a very young beetle called Bertie. He was a very good beetle. He was kind, did what he was told, and always told the truth. But he had one great fault: he always forgot. No matter how important the errand, his answer always was: “I forgot.” When he was sent out with a note for the Honeydew Melon Fairy his mother would find the note still in his pocket at night, and there’d be no honeydew delivered for their porridge in the morning. Father and Mother Beetle talked the matter over, and decided that something must be done to make Bertie Beetle remember. It was nearly Christmas, so they decided to consult Old King Cold.

    So when Bertie started writing out a list of things he wanted for Christmas, Mother Beetle warned him: “Santa Claus may forget some of those.”

    But Bertie replied happily that he couldn’t, because he was going to put a copy of the list in his Christmas stocking. And in any case, everyone knew that Santa Claus never forgot!

    Christmas morning came, and Bertie Beetle was up at dawn to see what was in his stocking. Father and Mother Beetle stayed in bed, letting him find out for himself what Santa Claus had done.

    Bertie Beetle came in looking very sad. He was holding a list that was a lot longer than the one he’d made out. He put it in his mother's hand, while tears of disappointment fell from his eyes. “This is all what Santa Claus gived me.”

    It was a list of all the errands Bertie had been asked to do for six months. At the end of all was written, in staring capitals, “I FORGOT.”

    It was a hard lesson. Poor Bertie cried for a mortal hour. Then it was time to go to Grandpa Beetle’s, to see his great big Christmas tree. Perhaps, said Mother Beetle, something might be under it for him.

    Strangely enough Bertie Beetle found everything he’d put on his list under his grandpa's tree! “Hurray!” he cried. “Santa Claus never forgets!”

    So was he cured of his bad habit of forgetting? Not all at once, beloved fairies, beetles and everyone, it must be admitted; but after that when he forgot anything his mother would warn: “Remember, Santa Claus does not forget.”

    Bob sat up straight, blinking. “Huh? That doesn't follow, surely?”

    “Yes, Dad!” cried Damian. “’Cos Santa never forgets!”

    Bob shrugged. Okay, so be it.

    “It’s one of Mother's,” explained Isabella with her lovely smile.

    Ben had come back in time for it. “Jeez, almost as bad as those things in those books of Mom’s.”

    “It was good, Uncle Ben!” cried Damian.

    Bob cleared his throat. “Yeah, okay, Damian. It was good, as once-upon-a-time stories go. –Do they all have to start with that?” he wondered idly.

    “Yes!” cried Damian and Isabella in astonishment.

    Bob winked at his brother-in-law.

    “Yes,” said Ben repressively. “Sure they do, Bob; what's wrong with you? –Don’t answer that. Have a mince pie.” He handed the plate.

    “Ooh, can we eat them now?” asked Damian.

    Bob winced. “Yes. It’s Christmas Day, geddit? ’Twas the day you eat the mince pies, not the day before, or the day before the day before. Uh—you probably won't like—”

    Too late, Damian was eating one. A surprised look came over his face, but he got it down him.

    Bob took one glumly, because if he didn’t Jessica was sure to ask him what he'd thought of them. Well, he could always lie, but it was slightly more convincing if you'd actually tasted the ruddy things. Well, possibly.

    Isabella was also looking surprised. “Jessica’s special Christmas mince,” explained Ben heavily.

    “Yes. It’s got raisins and nuts in it. Sugar, too!”

    “Right. And candied peel.”

    “I thought it would be meat,” she admitted weakly.

    “Nope, it’s been centuries since— Oh! No, Christmas mince, Isabella, surely you realised?”

    “Um, I—”

    “Leave the girl alone, Ben, it’s a wonder she's even upright, never mind thinking clearly! Ruddy Damian rang her at six ack-emma this morning,” Bob reminded him. “—Sorry again, Isabella.”

    “That’s okay, Bob!”

    “We never knew he knew your number,” he explained.

    “Well, now you do,” said Ben drily. “Put another mince pie in it, Bob.”

    “They’re not as bad as last year’s,” he conceded. “That was a special recipe: more orange peel or something. Foul. Think she's gone back to the old recipe.”

    “Raisins and nuts,” agreed Damian. “Nice icing, Uncle Ben!”

    “Nice in itself, yes. Most of it applied ineptly,” sighed Bob.

    “I think they look very pretty, Bob,” said Isabella kindly. “You’ve put little silver balls on them, too!”

    “Yeah, she had packets of those. They’re not regular,” he said heavily.

    Isabella looked in a puzzled way at the heavily decorated mince pies. “Do they have to be?”

    Ben laughed suddenly. “No, they sure don’t! Well, they aren’t as good as Mom’s, but as far as mince pies go they’re not bad at all!”

    “What’s Jessica doing?” asked Isabella shyly as they all took a second mince pie, even Damian. Though he was just eating the little silver balls and the icing off his.

    Jessica’s adult male belongings goggled at her, but Damian explained helpfully: “She’s in the kitchen. She’s cooking the turkey!”

    “Oh. Doesn’t one just put it in the oven and the oven cooks it?” she fumbled. That was certainly how Margot had described it.

    “You said it!” yelped Bob, collapsing in a fit of laughter.

    “There’s veg’ables, too,” said Damian solemnly.

    “Of course, Damian,” she agreed kindly.

    “Just don’t ask, Isabella,” warned Ben. “Well, I'd offer to take you in there but she’s just ordered me to keep everyone out.”

    “Pies,” sighed Bob, mopping his eyes. “Boy, that done me good! –Pies, Isabella, Christmas pies. Large ones. Filled with special Christmas muh—um,” he amended as he met Damian’s innocent gaze, “stuff. Mixtures.”

    “Pecan pie!” the little boy cried.

    “I’ll say! –Gosh, do you remember that, Damian?”

    Damian looked vague. “’Course.”

    “Uh—yeah, leave it at that, I think,” Bob decided, hauling himself to his feet as the doorbell pealed. “That’ll be them, thank God. Not that it'll make the turkey ready one instant earlier, true, but at least it’s progress.”

    “Hurray! Now we can open the presents!” shrieked Damian, leaping wildly.

    “He tends to be like this at the best of times, Isabella,” noted Ben drily as his brother-in-law went out to answer the door: “not tempering the mode of speech for the benefit of the offspring, y’know? But the amount of booze he’s absorbed is exaggerating the characteristic, I’m afraid.”

    “Silly!” she gurgled, breaking down in giggles. “I think he’s lovely!”

    Ben raised his eyebrows very, very high. Okay, so be it, his irritating brother-in-law was lovely.

    Bob’s Uncle John and Aunty Megs turned out not to be the cosy elderly couple Ben had been expecting—well, they were elderly, yes: he was retired; but given he was a retired judge and she was an accountant, still working, with all her wits very much about her— They were very much into Trivia—okay, whatever it was called over here—and had brought their set with them. Not only that, they’d brought their neighbours, Paul Something and Penny Something, pleasant-looking people of around their own age, but as well—

    “Aunty Sue!” he gasped.

    “Merry Christmas, Ben, honey,” his aunt greeted him cosily.

    “It’s a surprise!” shrieked Damian, leaping madly.

    “Yeah,” admitted Bob with a silly grin. “Cooked it up between us, eh, Aunty Megs? I’ve been sweating blood, positive Someone’d give it away. –I’ll just get Jessica.” He hurried out.

    “I see,” murmured Isabella under cover of the subsequent cries of delighted surprise, etcetera, etcetera. “Jessica didn’t realise.”

    Ben had retired into the background—all you could do, when the females of his family got together. He was very glad that Isabella had joined him in it. “You said it!”

    “Yes!” she agreed with a confused laugh. Of course Jessica had never read what was in Bob’s and Damian’s heads, because mortals didn’t! Oh, dear, why had she ever wanted to come? It had been hard enough alone with Ben at the coffee shop, but this was about a million times harder! They were all full of... assumptions: yes, thought Isabella glumly, assumptions, that she didn’t understand.

    Ben took her elbow gently. Ooh! Warm! “Too much family, huh? Never mind, Christmas comes but once a year,” he whispered.

    “Mm,” Isabella agreed gratefully, not pointing out that one dreadful year when she’d been very little Father had decided to have an extra one. Poor Santa Claus had gone into a tizz-wozz and Mother had had to put her foot down. So they’d just had a party, with presents.

    The dust finally cleared, and everybody sat down with a glass of something in their fists, the older women accepting glug—Ben had decided to think of it as that in future, Bob had his good points—but Isabella sticking with the Green Ginger and the guys all voting for Bob’s Johnnie except that Paul guy, he seemed actually to be enjoying the glug. Not only that, he seemed to be enjoying Isabella very much, and she was reciprocating, goddammit! Well, smiling like crazy every time the guy so much as glanced her way. He wasn’t even anything to look at—well, cute, he guessed, if you liked those Billy Crystal-type looks: round-faced, small features, you might call him merry-looking. Whereas Bob’s Uncle John Masters was very good-looking indeed, just what you imagined a judge did oughta: tall, silver-haired; distinguished was the word. Didn’t raise even a flicker, as far’s he could tell. Not that that wasn’t all to the good, but... Ben found himself wondering if the Paul guy was actually an elf—or a pixie, since his name started not with E but with P—and pulled himself up short, frowning. Losing it. Too much Johnnie Walker before the sun was scarcely over the yardarm. That turkey had better hurry up, or he’d be paralytic by the time it eventuated—and, he noted drily, eyeing his brother-in-law, who had “found” a clutch of Christmas crackers under the tree and was now wearing a very silly paper hat—he wouldn’t be the only one. Uncle John was knocking it back, too. So much for sanctimonious speeches from the bench, huh? They’d had a few of those for Christmas on British TV. Not this specific judge, no, but along those lines. Ads for driving when drunk, that kind of thing. –Uh, against it. Against it.

    The newcomers had of course brought armfuls of gifts. Gee, Ben and Jessica didn’t have anything for Aunty Sue because they hadn’t known she was coming, Bob, had they? Bob, however, had thought of that, and ceremoniously handed her, unquote, “a real English present!” Ben shook in his little cotton socks but good old Aunty Sue, thank God, just collapsed in roars of laughter. Wellington boots. Yeah, well. It could have been much, much worse—well, English sausages, for a start.

    “He did want to give her English sausages but he was afraid they’d go off in the warm room,” Isabella whispered at this point.

    Ben jumped. Gee, was she reading his mind, again? “Uh—yeah. Well, he would!” he admitted.

    Oops, Damian was taking the joke perfectly seriously and was urging Aunty Sue to try them on!

    “Crumbs, they fit!” gasped Bob as she stood up in them, grinning.

    Well, they did now, it was a really easy spell. “Yes,” agreed Isabella.

    “Now you can come to the North Pole with us, Aunty Sue!” piped the little boy.

    “The H,E,A,T,H. Snow to your eyebrows,” explained Ben heavily as his aunt’s face took on that frozen—hah-hah—look, talking of which. Like he could feel his own taking on every time the kid mentioned North Pole, Fairyland, et al.

    “Oh, right! That North Pole! –Yeah, I’d sure like that, Damian, honey. Now, why don’t you open another? See, that one’s got a real pretty bow on it!”

    The real pretty bow went the way of all flesh as Damian tore into it. Surprisingly enough, it was from Aunty Sue herself. A robot! It wasn’t a sophisticated one that you had to buy a two-thousand-dollar p.c. to control, plus and the five-thousand-dollar specific program, just a plastic toy. Well, he was only four. Jessica was pleased to approve. Did it need batteries for that light on top of it to—? And its eyes, yes, Damian. He refused to let her investigate its innards but Aunty Sue explained quickly that it did, and she’d put some in it. Damian discovered its legs would move and duly walked it round on the floor. He was gonna call it Alexander.

    “Alexander Robot?” said his mother weakly.

    “Yes, ’course,” he grunted, walking it.

    “Okay, dear,” she said weakly.

    “What about Arthur C. Robot?” ventured Ben.

    The adults collapsed in sniggers, muffled in the case of those with nice instincts, but Damian just replied calmly: “No. Alexander, ’cos he is.”

    “I see,” said Isabella to Ben as the beaming Jessica then unwrapped the large, gaudy package Bob had urged on her. “Your Aunty Sue unpacked it carefully and put the batteries in and then packaged it up again so’s it’d look as if it had never been opened.”

    “She sure did,” replied Ben, grinning like—what was that British expression? Like a nana, was it? Yeah, like a nana! “She’s like that, and looking back, something like twelve Christmases back home would’ve been real let-downs if good old Aunty Sue hadn’t done that with all our gifts!”

    She twinkled at him. “Only the ones that needed batteries to work, I think!”

    “Mm-hm.” They were sitting together on a handy couch. Cautiously he put an arm round her shoulders. Gee, she didn’t shrink or shriek, or recoil in maidenly horror! Ben felt very, very warm. He looked muzzily at the present-openers, not really seeing them any more...

    Ooh, help! Bob had found the parcel containing the train set! Isabella felt paralysed, it was like that time Father lost his temper because she couldn’t work out the hair curling spell and worked that standing spell on her.

    “One more big one for Damian!” he grinned. “–Wonder what it is?” he asked himself. “Hoy, Jessica, we didn’t buy this, did we?”

    Jessica was so thrilled with the set of negligée and nightgown he’d bought her that she didn’t even give him a repressive look. “It’ll be from Santa Claus, silly!” she said with a giggle.

    “Oh, yeah, Santa Claus,” agreed Bob, looking smug. “Fancy another slug of glu— yummy peach eggnog, love?”

    “No, I’ve had enough, I need to be sober to finish the dinner. –Come on, Damian, honey, there’s one last big one for you!” she beamed.

    “Big one for me,” agreed Damian, temporarily abandoning Alexander Robot. The judge picked him up immediately and sneakily opened the door in his tummy.

    Damian was unpacking the train set... “Big box,” he grunted. It was just a cardboard box, giving nothing away. Isabella shut her eyes...

    “A TRAIN!” he shrieked.

    Ben came to with a jump. “Huh?”

    “Look, Mum! Look, Dad!” shrieked Damian. “It’s a TRAI-AIN!”

    Bob got down on the floor with him immediately. “Crumbs, so it is. Who the—? Gosh, it’s a real genuine old— Where the Hell did this come from? Come on, own up!” he demanded, glaring accusingly, if drunkenly, at the company.

    The judge abandoned the robot and got down on the floor with them. “My God, it's an antique— Look at the station!”

    “Leave it ALONE, Uncle John!” shrieked Damian. “It’s MY station!”

    His Honour put the station down hastily. “Sorry, old man, of course it is.”

    Damian was hugging the engine. He glared at him.

    “Damian,” said his mother weakly, “toys are for sharing; remember what we said at Petunia’s birthday party?”

    “That wasn’t a train,” he replied logically.

    “No, it was a flaming paddling pool, as I recall,” said Bob in an evil if somewhat drunken voice, “and—”

    “Recriminations butter no parsnips, Bob, dear!” his Aunty Megs reminded him.

    “Soaked,” he muttered.

    Abruptly Aunty Sue joined them on the floor. “Ben,” she said in shaken tones: “look here. I’d swear this is Dad’s old train set that he gave you for your, uh, seventh birthday, was it?”

    “Can’t be,” said Ben weakly.

    “Yuh—um, didn’t you say, at one stage,” said his sister slowly, staring at him, “that you might get your friend Tom to—”

    “I called him but it never happened: the B,I,T,C,H of the Western World wouldn't let him set foot across the threshold, and never mind it looks like it, it can’t b— That’s the station Uncle Chas made me!” he gasped.

    “Yes,” agreed Aunty Sue. “Thought it was.”

    Ben passed his hand across his face. “But—”

    “My God,” said the judge in awe. “So it belonged to your grandfather, Ben? It must be worth—”

    “That’ll do, John,” said his wife briskly. “Toys are meant for kids to play with, okay?”

    He smiled weakly.

    “—It’s from Santa Claus, Damian, dear, and you enjoy it!” finished Aunty Megs brightly.

    With that, to Isabella’s huge relief, it seemed to be settled, and since that was the last present from under the tree, Jessica went back to the kitchen, Aunty Megs and Penny bustled after her, and the boys and Aunty Sue settled down to help Damian play with—

    “NO! I can DO it! Let ME, Dad!” Like that. And: “The tender doesn’t WANT the waggon, Uncle John!” Like that, too. And: “The rails go THIS way, Paul!” And: “It’s a guard’s van, Aunty Sue, not a caboose!” Like that and that, as well. That took them all off with their cloaks over their faces.

    Ben sagged back on the couch. “I could swear Tom said...”

    Isabella swallowed. Her throat felt both paralysed and parched. “He did say he couldn’t get in, didn’t he?” she croaked.

    “Yeah. Well, must have done it...” That dream was coming back to him in glowing Technicolor. He stared at her, frowning. “I guess he must have bribed Mortimer to let him in—uh, the building superintendent, Isabella.”

    Was it going to be all right, after all? Isabella nodded hard.

    “Yeah. And got it couriered over, thought he’d surprise me. It’s sure done that,” he admitted, grinning weakly.

    “Yes. It—it had bows, too,” she croaked.

    “Sure did! Well, what a surprise, huh? My old train set!”

    “Go on: join in,” she said shyly.

     Ben looked at the shemozzle going on down on the rug and twinkled at her. “No way! I’ll just sit here in the warm!”

    “Yes,” said Isabella in huge relief. “That’s nice, Ben.”

    Yep! Nice was what it was! He glanced down at her, smiling. “That brooch I got you is okay, is it? Not too—uh—too personal?”

    How could a pretty little thing made of metal and little milky stones be personal? “No, of course not. It’s lovely, Ben. Thank you so much.”

    “Great. Well, saw it in the shop window, thought of you. They are only moonstones.”

    “Moonstones!” she breathed. “So that’s their name! I love them, Ben!”

    Couldn’t be bad, huh? Ben sat back, grinning, his arm tightening round her shoulders...

    In the kitchen Aunty Megs said eagerly: “Jessica, dear, who is that lovely girl?”

    “Well, she’s our neighbour’s sister. Isabella Prince. From over the back, Megs.”

    “Damian’s fairy at the bottom of the garden!” contributed Penny Parks with a giggle.

    Jessica blinked. “Don’t you start!”

    “Did I tell you that?” said Megs in surprise.

    Penny smiled calmly. “You must have done, Megs, dear.”

    “I see: it’s all over Portsmouth as well, is it?” said Jessica with a silly smile. “Would you believe, Megs, he’s got little Jennifer Winters from down the street absolutely convinced Isabella’s a fairy, and not only that, he told the poor little girl that the Princes’ aunt’s a fairy as well!”

    “That’s logical!” squeaked Penny, collapsing in helpless giggles.

    “Don’t laugh,” Megs murmured with a smile in her voice. “It’s only a stage, Jessica: you do know that. Just enjoy it while it lasts, it won’t be long before he’s as horribly pragmatic as the rest of them.”

    Jessica swallowed a sigh. As well as Bob’s Cousin Fiona off in Germany, his Cousin Tim was an engineer, currently in Bahrain, whence it was apparently impossible to return for the Christmas break, and his Cousin Jerry, the last to leave the nest, was working in, if you please, the Sahel. He was with Médecins Sans Frontières, and yes, it was a real good cause and entirely praiseworthy of him, but that left his parents with nothing, didn’t it? So much for charity beginning at home: was there a grown kid in the world that ever thought of that? Well, not until they had grown kids of their own—no.

    “Yeah, okay, I’ll try and just enjoy it,” she agreed. “Now, maybe if you could stir the gravy, Megs—”

    The ladies got on with it. Silently Pixie Penny reflected that it was an awful waste of mortal time, but then, her and Paul were under Guess Whose orders to keep an eye on Princess Isabella, and if that was what he wanted, so be it. Fortunately Jessica didn’t seem to find it odd that Bob’s Uncle John and Aunty Megs had warmly invited their rather new neighbours to a family Christmas dinner!

    Why was it, mused Ben, as the decibel level rose and Bob opened a third bottle of champagne, that the Yuletide bird had become such a tradition when really, it was such a boring meat? True, they were eating it with every appearance of gusto. That was, Aunty Sue, Bob and the judge certainly were. Mountains of it. Avalanches of gravy with it. –Not “His Honour,” come to think of it, in England. “Me Lud,” that was it!

    Ben ate a very small portion of Jessica’s special sweet potato with marshmallow topping, just so’s she couldn’t say he’d never even tasted it. Foul as ever, yep.

    Uh, yeah, he mused, the three of them were tucking in, and Damian, for a small, over-excited person, had also had a goodly portion. Jessica herself had had a reasonable helping.—He recalled perfectly well that she’d always preferred turkey cold in a sandwich, with mayo and cranberry sauce.—Bob’s Aunty Megs had also had a merely reasonable helping, but then, she was the sort of wiry Englishwoman, rather horsy in looks, who didn’t overindulge in the pleasures of the flesh. Of any sort, mused Ben, staring thoughtfully at the judge, now rather flushed, allowing a rather flushed Jessica to urge another boiled sprout upon him. –Why? Well, sprouts were traditional in England at Christmas and Bob’s mother had always served them up—yep, her what these days never ate anything less exotic than figs wrapped in vine leaves and baked in honey, that cosy mom. In other words, Jessica had taken the line of least resistance, who could blame her? Maybe the guy didn’t get it at home from the horsy “Megs”, he mused. Though with those looks of his, he doubtless wouldn’t have any trouble getting it elsewhere. Unless he was one of those real handsome guys that were all looks and no juice. Uh—no, he decided, looking again at the flush.

    He ate a small piece of turkey.

    Oh, yeah, what he’d been thinking, before distracted by dirty musings about respectable English judges, Isabella, Paul and Penny were not noticeably tucking in to the actual turkey. They had all received generous enough portions, yes—Bob had been in charge of the carving, over which one would draw a veil, yea now and unto the seventh generation. Generous but mangled—yup. But all three of them seemed much keener on the cranberry jelly and cranberry sauce—Jessica had served both—than on the meat. Or the gravy, really. They were all tucking in to the goddawful sweet potato thing, too.

    True, Mom had always made it. True, Gramma had used to make it. That did not make it good. Or even palatable. However. The roast potatoes were okay, as also the plain green beans which Jessica had mercifully not slathered in anything. Sneakily Ben scraped gravy off of a slice of turkey and ate it and a small portion of potato with plain green beans. That piece of roast parsnip off to the side of his plate could stay there. What had possessed the woman? Even Bob’s mother had never gone that far!

    Isabella ate a little piece of white turkey meat with a generous spoonful of cranberry jelly, since Ben seemed to have stopped watching her, thank goodness. That was better! Why were mortals so keen on meat? The meal would have been much nicer if it had just consisted of the cranberry jelly, the cranberry sauce, the lovely dish of sweet potatoes with marshmallows—Margot had been right in saying Daniello should have been here: he’d have loved it!—and the delicious green beans. Jessica had explained that they were frozen ones, but she’d found a real nice brand, they called themselves baby beans but they weren’t really, just smallish ones. One of Bob’s colleagues was a Frenchwoman who’d invited them to a meal at her home, and she’d served real baby beans, French-style, to die for, but Jessica had never managed to find any, though she’d hunted all over. Isabella had imagined her hunting through all the gardens of England with a basket in her hand, but it hadn't been like that at all, the picture in her head had shown her visiting supermarkets, small shops in high streets, and street market stalls. Oh, dear. Mortal life was certainly complicated, Mother had been right in warning her about that.

    Ben sipped his champagne cautiously. Hadn’t improved, no. It was French, and it did have a year on its label, all you could say for it. Isabella didn’t seem to be drinking hers. He said very quietly in her ear: “That champagne too sweet for you?”

    Isabella jumped. “No!” she gasped. Actually it was very sour. How could anyone think it was too sweet? It wasn’t nearly as nice as the gingery wine.

    Ben sniffed slightly. “Yeah, well. Bob does know better. He'll have chosen this for Jessica.”

    “Does she like it?” she ventured.

    He glanced drily at his sister. “Well, yeah! Don’t think that pink flush is just down to slaving over a hot stove.”

    Isabella could see perfectly well he didn't think it was at all, and he didn’t think most of it was the champagne, either, he thought it was because Jessica fancied John Masters and he fancied her! “She wouldn’t seriously,” she whispered.

    He jumped. “Uh—no,” he conceded. “Was I staring at them?”

    “You were earlier,” said Isabella truthfully.

    “Getting obvious in my old age. That or it’s the effect of this champagne of Bob’s.”

    Bob had caught that. “It’s French and it’s got a year on its label, Ben, what more do you want?” he cried cheerfully.

    “Well—something approaching a bouquet? But I’d settle for less rather than more, Bob,” he drawled. “Less sug—“

    “Ben, honey, just drop it, it’s Christmas,” sighed his Aunty Sue.

    “Yes, stop it, Ben! Not everybody likes their champagne as dry as dust!” said Jessica crossly.

    “Not dry as dust, Jessica,” said Megs on a weak note.

    “It’ll do!” declared the judge robustly, grabbing the bottle and refilling Jessica’s glass on the strength of it. “There you go, my dear! –Isabella, pass me your glass, my dear!” He beamed fulsomely at her, brandishing the bottle.

    Very flushed, Isabella began: “No, I— Thank you, but—”

    “John, don’t force the girl to drink,” said his wife heavily.

    “Perhaps they don’t drink alcohol at home,” put in Paul helpfully.

    “She’s very young, John,” added Jessica.

    “No, well, far be it from me to encourage youth to drink: these days they seem to start around fourteen, they’re hardened topers by the time they hit fift—”

    “John, we don’t need the speech from the bench, thanks!” said Megs tartly.

    “I was merely about to say,” said the judge loftily—went good with the pink crêpe paper hat on his head, Ben noted by the way—“that Isabella is old enough to drink.”

    Ben frowned. “I don’t think she’s used to it, however.”

    “Do your parents drink, Isabella, honey?” asked Jessica kindly.

    “No,” said Isabella. “Not alcohol, except maybe a taste of cowslip wine.”

    “There you are!” agreed Paul quickly.

    “Right, all the more for us!” decided Bob happily, wrenching the bottle back off his uncle.

    “Bob, for Heaven’s sake, offer her something else,” said Jessica weakly.

    Bob looked blearily down the table at Isabella. “Funny how your toes always feel extra-warm whenever she’s in the room, eh?” he remarked to the table at large. “What do you fancy, Isabella? There’s sixteen different brands of fancy water, if you fancy that. Some in blue bottles, à la New York trendies, some not,” he added airily.

    “I’ve got grape juice!” put in Damian proudly at this point.

    Assorted adults who’d completely forgotten about little pitchers jumped sharply.

    Weakly his mother agreed: “Yes, that’s right, honey; it’s lovely, isn't it?”

    “It’s sweet, Isabella!” he urged. “Isabella likes sweet things, ’cos she’s a fairy!” he informed the table at large.

    Rather fortunately—whether it was because it was Christmas or merely because of the amount of champagne that had flowed on top of Bob’s liberal Johnnies, the Stone’s Green Ginger Wine, or the eggnog—none of the mortals appeared even to notice this remark. Isabella and the two pixies sagged and exchanged weak smiles.

    So Isabella was provided with a glass of chilled fizzy grape juice and happily informed Ben it was delicious. His word would have been revolting, any other day, but it didn't even cross his mind as she smiled into his eyes.

    Isabella ate gooey, yummy pecan pie with ice cream and green jelly happily, smiling and nodding at Ben as he asked her cautiously if he was enjoying that. The green jelly wasn’t as good as the sort they had in the Faerie Realm, but still very nice! All the puddings were lovely; in fact, as it was a special day, why not just serve those? Mortal meals were really strange. Well, true, Mother was very keen on young fairies eating up their lovely fresh salads, but they were much nicer than huge helpings of hot turkey meat with gravy and very brown potatoes and boiled sprouts. –That name had seemed familiar and after quite a while it had come back to Isabella that she had had sprouts once before: Mother had just popped them in a salad, sliced finely. Fresh. No wonder she hadn’t recognised them! Those had been straight off the sprouts bush—was it a bush? Well, sort of. It had a great tuft of leaves at its top, like a very cheery hairdo: a friendly-looking plant. But she could see in Jessica’s head that these had come from a supermarket, and Jessica was quite sure they’d been sitting there for days, but they’d been the only ones she could find. She had tried at the small shop in the high street but nice Mr Diver had said: “Sorry, Mrs Masters: I did have some lovely fresh ones but they’ve all gone, I’m afraid. We've got some nice cabbages in, though.” Jessica had winced and refused his cabbages as pleasantly as she could: Bob’s cabbage patch was still going strong.

    Ben had discovered that what looked like vanilla ice cream was actually that cassata stuff. Ugh. He tried to eat it sneakily without touching the nuts, but it wasn't easy. Lucky young Damian had blatantly given up on his and was eating the chocolate one instead, with the weird green Jell-O. But as Ben wasn’t four...

    “In some countries,” noted Bob in tones of clinical detachment—Ben winced—“pumpkin is considered a vegetable. In others, of course—”

    But good old Aunty Sue chimed in before he could really stick his foot down his throat: “Yeah; I was in New Zealand—years back, this was, gee, late Sixties, I guess—and my hostess had never heard of pumpkin pie: when I mentioned it she thought I meant a savoury pie!” She chuckled cosily. “So I made them one for dessert—gee, I did it hard, they never had frozen pastry back then, would you believe?—but luckily Margie was a whizz at homemade pastry, so she magicked up the crust and I just did the filling. And good old Kevin, her husband, decided he was never gonna eat pumpkin as a vegetable again! –Veggie, they always said: cute, huh?” She beamed round the table impartially.

    Ignoring the essential point, the judge asked keenly, leaning forward: “Why in God’s name were you out there?”

    “Well, it was one of those exchange scholarship programs for kids in their senior year at high school, y’know? Fulbright!” she said brightly.

    There was a blank silence from the Brits around the table.

    The judge recovered himself first. “What were you supposed to learn from going there, Sue?”

    “I guess, that not everybody lived like us pampered Americans, John! Several of their neighbours didn’t even have cars.” She shook her head reminiscently. “It was a different world, all right. No air conditioning or central heating, either. We were in the north of their North Island, where it’s warmer, but gee, those winter nights sure were frosty!”

    “Yes, ’cos Jack Frost, he comes and nips your toes!” chirped Damian.

    “Uh-huh, he sure does, honey!” The beaming Sue kindly wiped his mouth with her own napkin—his was very much the worse for wear.

    “Salutary,” noted Ben. “So has pumpkin pie since become a staple of the New Zealand diet?”

    She eyed him sardonically. “No idea. It's become a staple of the Fenton family’s, though. Their granddaughter Hayley’s married, now, and she wrote me just the other week that she was planning one for their Christmas dinner.”

    “So there you are!” said Jessica loudly, glaring at her helpmeet.

    “Yes,” said Bob pacifically, helping himself to a slice. “I was only gonna say, human habits are odd. Don’t think we ever discovered pumpkin pie for ourselves, either.”

    “Gourds of many varieties, including squashes and pumpkins, are native to the Americas,” said Ben heavily.

    “Crumbs, he’s a botanist, too!” choked his brother-in-law, going off into a wheezing paroxysm.

    Isabella had been following the conversation with great interest but some difficulty: there were some very strange pictures in people’s heads when Sue said “New Zealand”: dark, tattooed faces peering out from dark trees in some cases, wonderful curling, twisty dark carvings in John’s and Megs’s heads, and pretend elves in Jessica’s! Sue also had these pictures, but fainter, much overlaid with a vision of neat little pastel wooden houses, all single-storeyed, with good-sized lawns, very unlike the London houses... And a very strong picture of a cold, ugly bathroom.

    Now she put in eagerly: “I sort of thought pumpkins were for—” Not fairy coaches, no! Help!

    “Um, lanterns,” she ended weakly. Not mentioning bigger and smaller spells, either.

    The three Americans brightened immediately and plunged into descriptions of Halloween lanterns and how to make same and Ben’s and Jessica’s father’s attempts to make same and their grandfathers’—Sue’s father’s and the other grandfather’s as well—much better lanterns... Phew! Somewhere at the back of her head Isabella could now hear Father saying I told you so, but she determinedly ignored him.

    After the Christmas dinner the adults retired to the sitting-room for coffee and brandy or liqueurs. Damian came, too, looking obstinate, and ignoring his mother’s suggestion that he might like to take a nap, but soon gave in, and allowed himself to be carted off to his room over Bob’s shoulder. No-one could manage a slice of cake so Jessica put the magnificent Christmas cake away again. And after Ben had forcibly stopped Bob and the judge, and Bob again, from pouring Isabella a brandy, a Cherry Heering that she was sure to like much better, or a—gulp—banana liqueur that she was sure to like much better still, they all settled down to a good game of Trivia! –Yeah, okay, Trivial Pursuit. Whatever.

    Ben already knew that good old Aunty Sue was a whizz at it, so he wasn't surprised to find her wiping the floor with  the judge and Megs, heh, heh. Except when it came to the English soccer or cricket questions, of course. Ben’s sister played her usual bitterly competitive game: why hadn’t that dickhead of a Bob warned his goddamned uncle and aunt? But as she knew beans about English sports, too, didn’t do too well. Ben himself didn’t bother much, though he had a strong feeling he could show the lot of them a thing or two if he put his mind to it. Bob started off good by answering a literature thing that nobody else had a clue about but soon fell asleep in his big chair. Isabella was hopeless—hopeless. Not only she’d never played before, she didn’t seem to have the slightest conception, even after it had all been explained to her at least four times, of what the point was. Let alone whose turn it was. Gee, after a while Me Lud decided kindly that they'd do better to play partners, and Isabella could be his partner! Ben glared: he hadn’t seen that one coming, curse the man! His Aunty Sue ordered him firmly to partner her. So, as Paul and Penny were happy to play together—they were both pretty mediocre but neither seemed to mind—that left Jessica and Megs, didn’t it? Predictably, they wiped the floor with everybody else, including His Bloody Honour, hah, hah, hah.

    “That was so hard,” whispered Isabella, retreating thankfully to Ben’s side, as the usual scuffle ensued over picking up all the pieces—cards—whatever, putting them away correctly, and remembering where you put the box, if you must put it over there, John! –Like that.

    “It was with this lot, yeah,” he agreed grimly. “I’m real sorry, Isabella.”

    “That’s okay,” she murmured, smiling that smile of hers—ooh, toasty toes, warm all over, in fact...

    “No, Jessica, she’s not a coffee drinker!” he said loudly, coming to with a jump as his sister suggested another round of coffees.

    “No, um, thank you, Jessica, but it is rather brown, isn’t it?” gasped Isabella, going very pink.

    “Puts it good,” noted Ben sourly, eyeing his sister drily. Jessica could not make coffee. No way. Dishwater, was one word for it, though he had heard Bob, in his more incautious moments, use worse. He got up. “But if coffee’s the order of the day, I’ll make it. –I shall make it!” he said loudly. “Sit down, Jessica! –Come on, Isabella, you can give me a hand.” And he escaped to the kitchen with her.

    “Jesus!” he said feelingly. “I can only apologise for them all, Isabella!”

    “No, they’re just being themselves,” she said shyly.

    “And a half! Gee, His Honour the judge is a pain, huh?”

    “He does go on a bit.”

    Ben sniffed. “Pontificates, yeah.”

    She went into a cascade of tinkling giggles, lovely! “What a super word!”

    He smirked. “Not bad, huh? You wanna find the coffee, Isabella, honey? I think it's in that cupboard,” he grunted, unscrewing the coffee-pot. It was an excellent Italian-type espresso pot: made coffee that, frankly, was better than Starbucks’, if given half a chance. Unfortunately neither Jessica nor Bob was capable of that, apparently.

    “They don’t put enough coffee in it, do they?” murmured Isabella, handing him the can.

    “You said it! That or she buys the wrong brand,” he conceded, taking the lid off and sniffing cautiously. He shrugged. “Seems okay.”

    “I think she said it’s Italian,” she ventured.

    “Italian roast, yeah, well, nothing wrong with that,” said Ben heavily, filling the middle compartment. Isabella was looking very puzzled. “Haven’t you seen this type of pot before? Oh, well! See, you put the water in the bottom part, the steam builds up as it heats, and the pressure sends it through the coffee, here! Then it all drips out—see here? Through this.”

    Isabella nodded interestedly. Merlin had once said, with a sniff, that mortals were besotted with engineering. Was it? Yes: engineering. “I see. It’s engineering, really, isn’t it?”

    He blinked. “Uh—yeah, I guess so! Well, applied physics—yeah, definition of engineering!”

    It would be, Merlin was good at those. “Mm.”

    Ben put the coffee on and leaned reminiscently on the bench. “Back home Mom used to make coffee the good old-fashioned American way: big old enamel pot on the cooker, bring it to the boil, snatch it off of the heat and drop an eggshell into it to clear the scum! Weird, huh? It was good coffee, though... Think she got that one off of her Gramma!”

    “I see, your grandmother’s mother.” Mortals certainly went in for ancestors a lot. Mother had once tried to warn her, but she hadn’t taken much notice, oh, dear...

    “Yeah, both sides of the family have been Americans for generations... Well, at one stage my Aunt Kate went all Early American: tried to claim the Andersons came over with the Mayflower—um, maybe that’s not a commonplace to an English person,” he recognised awkwardly as she looked blankly at him. “The first pioneers who settled in Pennsylvania, Isabella. But after some time of intensive research she established that no ancestor of ours, however distantly related, had ever come over that early, so she went off of the whole idea.”

    “I see! She changed her sitting-room!” she gasped.

    Ben grinned. “She sure did. That was a real nice rocker she had, too: set her back a packet. She shoved it up in the loft above the garage, would you believe? I tried to rescue it not long since, but Tracy wouldn’t hear of it: not the look she wanted for the apartment.” He shrugged.

    “I see... You thought it would be cosy to have something Early American and that had belonged to your aunty,” she said slowly.

    Ben looked wry. “Uh-huh. Even though it wasn’t a real ancestral rocker.”

    “No, but generations of people must have sat in it...” said Isabella slowly.

    “Yeah. Oh, well.”

    The coffee hissed through the pot suddenly, and Isabella jumped.

    Ben laughed. “It does that! It’ll just be a minute, now. What would you like instead?”

    If she asked for something sweet he’d disapprove, she could see that quite clearly. “Could I have some fizzy water, please?” said Isabella shyly.

    He looked pleased. “Aerated mineral water? Sure you can, honey!”—It was the second time he'd called her that—he didn’t seem to realise he was doing it. Isabella went very pink.—“Now, let’s see... She’s got Perrier, that’s a good brand! Like that?”

    She would, so he poured a glass of Perrier for her, feeling very, very warm. He would, he decided, walk her home after supper. Never mind whether Jessica frowned disapprovingly or nodded and smiled encouragingly—and which would be the more embarrassing, it was very hard to decide!

    Oberon hovered, looking down that straight nose. “So?”

    Heatedly Isabella retorted: “You know perfectly well what happened, Father, so go away!”

    He came slowly down to earth and sat in the big chair Daniello used. “Not as comfortable as your average mushroom, let alone a cobweb hammock,” he mentioned with a sniff.

    “Then why sit there?”

    “I’m pretending to be a mortal grandfather,” he drawled. Slowly his appearance changed from his dark-haired, handsome self—he was very like Daniello—to that of an elderly man with spectacles perched on his nose and a shock of grey hair. Ugh, and a droopy fawn cardigan!

    “Don’t!” she gasped.

    Abruptly he switched back, giving her a dry look. “That’ll be him, in his old age,” he predicted.

    Isabella stuck her chin out. “Pooh! He’s never worn a silly droopy cardigan in his life, why would he start then?”

    “They do,” said Oberon simply. “They lose interest in kissing, too.”

    She went bright pink. “You may well have been watching that, but must you mention it?”

    “Apparently, mm.”

    Her jaw trembled but she said valiantly: “It was very overwhelming, you must know that, and I knew it would be, and—and it was!”

    “For him, too, I’ll grant you that,” he drawled.

    “Yes. So I’ve decided. That horrible Tracy shan’t have him!”

    “Isabella, it isn’t fair to take him just because you want him. Just look at Daniello and Margot, and think about it.”

    “What?”

    “He’s committed to her, you ass’s head, that’s what!” he shouted.

    “Ssh! You’ll wake the neighbours!”

    Oberon scowled. “He’s going to stay for all of her mortal lifetime—yes, droopy cardigans and all,” he added, since that was clearly what she was wondering. “Dare say he won’t lose interest in kissing, though—well, there never was a male fairy who did,” he noted proudly.

    She sighed. “We all know that, Father. –Okay, I can do that!”

    “What, look all wrinkled, like a prune?”

    “Ben’s Aunty Sue’s old and she doesn’t look like a prune!” she snapped.

    “Uh—no, quite a good-looking woman, for her mortal age,” he conceded. “She does have wrinkles, though, Isabella.”

    “Nice ones,” said Isabella firmly.

    “Mm. Smile lines,” Oberon conceded with a sigh. “Very well, my darling. But it will be hard work. You may have to pretend to be mortal for all of his mortal life.”

    “I can do that,” she said grimly.

    She had all of her mother’s determination, that was for sure. “Yes,” he said heavily. “I dare say.”

    “I—I can still come back and see you all, though, Father.”

    Theoretically, yes. Nothing to stop her. But what he was afraid of was that she would lose interest in the Faerie Realm. It had been known to happen. Well, look at cursed Godfrey Gobl—Uh, Mike. There you were: Mike. He’d popped over to see him quite recently, and the irritating creature had insisted on the mortal name! At least Isabella seemed to be sticking with her own name, that was one comfort.

    “Yes, well, just mind you do.” He stood up. “Come here.”

    Looking mildly surprised, Isabella came over to him.—What was that thing she was wearing? Made her look like little Baa-Lamb, with fancy stripes!—Oberon held her in a tight embrace and kissed her cheek. “Don’t forget us, Fairy Isabella,” he said in a choked voice.

    Isabella looked up at him in astonishment. “No, of course not, dearest Father!”

    “Mm,” he agreed wryly. “Give me a kiss, sweetheart.”

    She kissed his cheek obediently.

    “Mother will be down to see you very soon. She’s a bit busy, several of the beetles and lizards overate themselves horribly at the Christmas feast. –Honey. Marshmallows. Raspberry jam—don’t ask why that,” he advised wryly. He rose slowly, wings a-flutter.

    She looked up at him, smiling. “Give them all my love, Father!”

    “Some of it,” muttered Oberon. “What you can spare, mm?”

    “There’s plenty to go round,” she replied with the serene smile that was like her mother’s.

    Abruptly Oberon vanished, his eyes full of tears.

    Isabella didn’t notice the tears. Mmm, being kissed by lovely Ben... She sat down on the rug, unaware that in fact she was hovering cross-legged a full six inches above it, and just let her mind float. Lovely Ben... He had dark hair like soft little black feathers, very like Higgledy-Piggledy Hen’s, come to think of it... And very dark eyes. He’d had it in his head that some of his ancestors, the Anderson ones, had been Danish: his Aunt Kate had found that out; but they would all have been fair, only Ben was very dark... Isabella thought about it. Ooh, yes: right at the back of his mind was the fact that on his mother’s side some of his ancestors had been native Americans! Black hair and darkish skins—and high cheekbones, just like Ben’s! Though their hair wasn’t so feathery... Lovely feathery, dark-haired Ben, thought Isabella happily, lighting the fire without benefit of anything. She stared into the flames, smiling. Cosy! Well, if he wanted a cosy home he should have one!

Next chapter:

https://isabelladowntoearth-anovel.blogspot.com/2022/11/after-christmas-delights.html