Author: Michelle Franklin, Word Count: 1,550
Featured in Midwinter Archaeological Story Moot: Live Stream – Twixtmas 2025
The sun from the window warmed the side of her face, and Maedlynn was persuaded to open her eyes at last. Lord Darren was standing over her, his grey eyes teeming slightly.
“Winter mornings are second only to autumn mornings,” said Maedlynn, glancing out the window, admiring the glittering landscape. “I miss the scents of autumn, but the snow is so beautiful and quiet, it’s impossible to argue with it.”
“You might be persuaded to quarrel in a few months’ time,” said Darren, smiling down at her. “Many grow weary of not being able to move about the estate.” Darren drew her curtain of hair from her eyes. “For now, there is a surprise awaiting you in the front room.”
“A surprise? Good or bad?”
“If it were bad, Searle would be in here telling you about it, and we would be hiding from it together.”
Maedlynn laughed. “Very true.”
Darren’s ear found sounds of discord happening downstairs, and he went to smooth away the seasonal wrinkles and let Maedlynn to dress. She emerged from her bedroom ten minutes later in her winter clothes and came down stairs to find something extraordinary occupying one corner of the front room.
Searle was standing in front of the hearth with an air of frustration, not over what he was currently doing, but he was wearing the tempered anger of a mother who had just shooed away a bothersome child and was very put-out. He was sewing apple stems together and trying not to think about violence, especially because Maedlynn’s father had been the source of his frustration. He exhaled, put his needles away, and held the garland of small apples he had threaded together against a large fir tree in front of him. He wreathed it diagonally along the boughs, careful to keep the bald wedge of the tree against the back wall, and then examined it with folded arms, deciding whether the arrangement offended him or not. The lower boughs were already hung round with hard gingerbread and golden baubles, everything carefully curated and no space wasted. He was mentally directing the management of the tinsel, wondering whether it had better not be exactly in line with the apples, when Maedlynn descended the stairs. He took up the box of tinsel and began dotting it along the pine needles with perfect precision.
“Miss Maedlynn,” Searle addressed her, without turning round, “I do not meant to be rude, but if your good father tries to improve upon the arrangements of my tree once again, I really will sew his hands together.”
Maedlynn brought her hand to her lips to stifle a laugh. “What has he done now?”
“He thought that placing the red baubles all in a line on the bottom of the tree was best. I kindly reminded him that this is to be a festive piece, not an arborous lobotomy.”
“That is very poor behaviour from him,” said Maedlynn archly. “I can only apologize.”
“I know you are not to be held accountable for him, but his ideas on proper tree decoration are really very shocking. The master has just taken him away to the kitchen, where he might be safe from my diatribes and harass Agatha about the pudding she is currently feeding.”
Maedlynn approached the tree and admired it. It had no unusual features beyond those that Searle had gifted to it, but it somehow seemed happy to be inside. “But what is all this, Searle?” she asked, eyeing the garland undulating along the mantlepiece. “Why is there a tree inside the house?”
“A winter custom from Frewyn for their holiday—so says Agatha, and because she is the one who brought it here, I have no choice but to believe her. Apparently, Frewyns don’t bring the trees into the house. They find a blue cypress tree outside and ornament it with glass-covered candles, though I’m not sure how that would be possible. Leave it to Frewyn ingenuity, though it be for something religious. That is all I can tell you. You will have to ask Agatha for the rest, my dear, though I know the custom has something to do with the rebirth of the year and hoping that things will begin to grow anew two months hence. Do not ask me what bringing a live tree into the house has to do with any of it, but apparently dressing it and putting offerings under it appeases any old gods that might still be listening.”
“But you don’t really believe in the old gods, Searle.”
“Oh no, my dear, my dear. Not in the least. I’m far more sensible than that. I only believe in cleanliness, because gods tend to make a horrid mess of things, and their followers even worse. Being godless and immaculate is much the best thing.”
Maedlynn laughed. “Then why take the trouble of fitting up a tree?”
“I blame Agatha really, as I do for most things I do without good reason, because she uses any excuse for cake, and everybody is happy about it. She began doing this when the master was young, as a means of improving his spirits when he was ill. We kept it up over the years, but things only got to such a pitch once the master’s parents had passed, and we needed to give the house a bit of good cheer. One might argue that dressing a tree is not necessary to anyone’s happiness, but it is certainly necessary to my sanity. It is a something to do and a something to look at during the long dark of the winter months. It also gives the front room a gorgeously sharp scent.”
“It is a live tree,” Maedlynn reminded him. “Won’t the needles coat the floor if the tree begins to dry?”
Searle beheld the tree with a kind of reverence. “There it has all my earnest admiration. Its entire expiration cycle is spent throwing its dying limbs on the floor, to show how displeased it is with the world. I entirely understand its feelings. Besides,” with a sigh, “watering it will give me something to fuss over after I’ve already cleaned the floors and polished the banisters fifty times.”
“I’m glad it has become such a household custom. You know I love anything that has to do with celebrating holidays, though I might not know what those holidays are about. I am only surprised at your being so openly festive, Searle.”
“I am always festive, my dear, especially when I can be festive quietly by myself. Holiday cheer is everything I like about the world, because it sometimes comes in a bottle, one which I can take to the office and nurse alone. My festive character only begins to wane when Agatha comes to harass me about presents and giving a dinner for all the remaining maids, and all my usual candour returns.”
Maedlynn took up one of the baubles. She wanted to put it on the tree, but feared Searle’s polite consternations and knew better than to try. She handed the bauble to him instead.
“Go ahead, my dear,” Searle reluctantly encouraged her. “You are mistress of this house, and you may touch the tree as you like—but you must promise never to tell your father that I gave you permission.”
Maedlynn laughed and placed the golden bauble exactly where Searle did not make a face when she held it up to the tree. She stood back and weltered in the tender glow, the golden globes taking up the firelight and showing it to the rest of the hall.
“Who brought the tree inside?” Maedlynn asked.
“I did,” said Darren, suddenly entering from the adjacent hallway.
“Hatley would never allow anyone but the master to take one from his copses,” said Searle.
“I don’t exactly take the tree,” said Darren, smiling. “He shows me which one he has grown for this specific purpose, cuts it for me, and then allows me to bring it to the house. I might own the woodland, but he is in charge of what is coppiced and cut from where.”
“I should never wish to cross him,” said Maedlynn, “especially when it comes to his regulations about the woods.”
“No. Wolves might prefer the outdoors, but he has a relationship with the natural world that makes him protective of every leaf.”
“Does Mr Hatley worship trees?”
Darren canted his head and thought for a moment. “I don’t know that he would say so, but he certainly does respect the woods.” Darren turned to Searle. “Do you need my help putting decorations along the top?”
“Yes, sir, if you will please employ yourself.”
Darren was applied to for his immense height and long reach, and Searle instructed him as to where and how every last decoration was to be placed, but the honour of placing the last fell to Maedlynn. Darren put a small decoration in her hand: it was a grey werewolf, with white felt teeth and grey button eyes. Darren lifted her up and held in her in place whilst she hooked the wolf to the top of the tree. He embraced her on her way down, and the two of them revelled in the glow of the tree complete, the viridescent display humming with life.
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