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Frank Barrow rose from his kitchen chair at the sound of the front door. “Leonie! I was worried you weren’t going to get here. Was there a problem with the train?” Leonie squeezed him tight.
“No, the train was fine. The house looks beautiful! I see you got the boughs from the Jonses after all.”
“Yes, I helped with the cutting, this year. Morgan’s getting older, too. Let me take a look at you. How did you get that hole in your skirt?”
Leonie detached herself and stepped outside again to get her valise. “Dad, I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve brought a friend or two. Or… three.”
Frank Barrow was taken aback. “Of course they’re welcome. We wouldn’t turn away anyone at Christmas.” It was so like Leonie to invite some lost souls from school. “We’ll need to, ah, fuss a little, but we’ll manage. I always buy a big roast.”
Leonie smiled. “I’m so glad to hear you say that, Dad. I knew you would.” She embraced him again.
A voice came from the front walk. “Can I come in now?” A familiar voice. A voice with a frosting of German accent. He sounded bored.
Leonie’s quiet curse was only partly muffled by Frank’s shoulder. He lowered his arms slowly. Hearing no reply, Cabal walked past them, into the house. His suit was dusty and torn. “Good afternoon.”
Cabal was closely followed by Horst Cabal, smiling. “Sorry for the intrusion, sir. Merry Christmas.”
Frank Barrow turned a look of great sorrow on his daughter.
“We got caught up in, ah, well. And I insisted we stop here first, so I’d be home for Christmas. May they stay for dinner?”
Frank’s forehead creased, and Leonie held her breath for a long moment. Horst’s smile faded, and Cabal regarded all sardonically.
A voice caroled from outside, “yoo hoo! Darlings! Oh, what a pretty house. Can we stay? For the dinner? Not that I’m going to eat. I’m a…”
“…vegetarian,” Leonie substituted smoothly, as a lively red-haired woman bounced into the house. “This is Miss Zarenyia, dad. She’s from….” Leonie dried up, looked anxiously back at the grinning devil.
“…London.” Cabal supplied. “She is on an academic exchange at the university.”
“Yes, I am, duckie. How nice to meet you, Mr. Barrow.” She offered her hand to Frank with an infectious giggle.
“Detective Inspector Barrow,” corrected Cabal. “Retired.”
“Some jobs you never retire from, Mr. Cabal. Please, call me Frank, Miss Za- Zarenyia.”
“May we stay, Detective Inspector Frank? I’ve never been to a Christmas dinner….”
“…In Penlow!” cried Horst. He moderated his tone. “You know, jolly old England, heart of the country… eh?” he finished weakly.
Zarenyia hadn’t let go of Frank Barrow’s hand yet. He blinked, blushed, and put his arm around Leonie. “Yes. Yes, of course. You may all stay.”
***
Dinner was lovely after all.
“Is this a present?” Zarenyia waved her Christmas cracker. Frank was in the kitchen with the roast.
Cabal answered. “Yes and no. Here, pull this end, pinching the end of the cardboard tape.” Zarenyia was predictably delighted with the snap, the whiff of sulphur, and the paper hats. They all wore a hat, except Cabal. But nothing matched her delight at the terrible jokes, which she read out loud in every language and laughed immoderately.
Frank picked up the carving knife. “I’m afraid we’re having a roast, Miss Zarenyia. But there are potatoes and rolls and vegetables, so I hope you won’t go hungry.”
Zarenyia’s smile stretched wide. Her eyes lingered on Frank Barrow until a small noise came from under the table and she winced. “Ouch.” Leonie was glaring at her. “I wouldn’t darling, really I wouldn’t.” She whispered, but it was a small table.
“There’s lots here for Miss Zarenyia to eat, dad. She’ll be fine.” Frank’s cheeks were rather pink again. It might have been the heat of the kitchen.
Leonie served Zarenyia with generous helpings of the side dishes, though she only remembered to eat when Cabal prodded her. She pushed her potato about her plate while telling a very funny story about saucy Greek amphorae. The wine was passed freely up and down the table, and despite the presence of Cabal and Frank at the same table, it was a merrier and louder Christmas than the house had seen in more than a decade.
At the end of the meal, Frank gave Zarenyia his arm to escort her into the parlour, and Leonie took a step forward. Her progress was stopped by Cabal, who nearly elbowed her in the stomach under the guise of offering her his arm. “Your father is quite safe,” he said in an undertone, tucking her arm under his. “When you went ahead to greet him, I was very clear with Madame Zarenyia about dietary options.”
“Good. It’s just… she flirts so, and….”
“It is her nature. I trust her promise.” He saw her to a chair and handed her into it absent-mindedly.
Frank built up the parlour fire. Over his shoulder, he called, “may I interest any of you in a parlour game?” He went to the brandy decanter and shook it enquiringly at Horst, who accepted a glass.
Cabal shifted uncomfortably. Leonie replied, “I don’t know, it’s getting late, and our guests are….”
She was overridden by Zarenyia. “A game?” Her eyes were round with delight. “I adore games. What kinds of games do you play?” As Frank explained, Leonie went to the kitchen to mix a hot punch.
Zarenyia was practically wriggling in her seat. “Charades sound wonderful.”
Leonie passed out glasses of punch. Cabal, who had refused brandy, made to decline, but Leonie pressed it into his hand. “It’s not poisoned. I made it myself. If Zarenyia is leading the parlour games, we will all need another drink.”
Frank smiled at Zarenyia. “You mean you’ve never played charades? Really?”
“Truly! We don’t have it - them? - where I live.”
“…London?”
“Punch, dad?” Leonie looked daggers at Zarenyia, who mouthed blithe apologies.
“No, I’m happy with my brandy, my dear. Now. Charades, everyone? Mr. Cabal, you strike me as a player of charades.”
Leonie could see Cabal’s eyes hardening. “Oh, not yet, dad. Later. How about Lookabout?”
Zarenyia pouted, but Lookabout it was, and Cabal surprised them all when he volunteered to go first. He sauntered back to his seat almost immediately, having found the silver tea-spoon propped against a candle-stick. Zarenyia hadn’t tried very hard; she spent the round grimacing at herself in a convex mirror behind a candle-sconce and had quite forgot the competition. She hid one of Leonie’s thimbles, and the game resumed.
“How about Squeak Piggy Squeak?” said Horst. “I used to love Squeak Piggy Squeak.”
Cabal roused himself from contemplation. “Because it allowed you to sit upon, and be sat upon by, various young women. The way you played that game was liable to a morals charge.”
“That’s completely untrue. I had a natural genius for discerning squeaks.”
“How about forfeits?” Leonie interjected.
“What are ‘forfeits’?” Cabal asked.
Zarenyia’s ignorance received an indulgent smile from Frank; Johannes’ only a sneer. “It’s a game. That humans play. You wouldn’t have heard of it, Mr. Cabal.” There was a small silence. Cabal’s face went blank, as if he’d gone somewhere else for a moment, but Leonie’s expression clouded over. Frank felt a flush of shame and resentment.
“I’m not sure there’s anything so grand about being human, Frank.” Zarenyia’s smile was not quite that of a silly girl up from London. “And I haven’t heard of the game either, I’m afraid.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Zarenyia. My apologies, Mr. Cabal. That was boorish. Please accept my apology.”
“Of course, Frank.” She bounced up from her seat and kissed his cheek. “No hard feelings. What’s a forfeit?”
“Ah… yes, right. Forfeits.” One person would leave the room, and the remaining players would each surrender an inconsequential item to be judged for return to its owner.
It was Leonie who said, “here, Cabal, you judge the first round.”
Cabal turned his eye roll into a glance at the clock. Zarenyia was practically wagging a nonexistent tail in desperate anticipation. “This one round, then.”
He came back into the room to find four articles in a box. A gold ring, a handkerchief, a chain, and a small, fine pair of scissors. Cabal frowned at the collection. “Miss Barrow, your fob. Miss Zarenyia, your Sumerian ring. Detective Inspector Barrow, this must be your pair of scissors. Your wife’s?” Cabal heard what he said a half-second after he said it, and he looked quickly up at Frank.
“Yes.”
“Her embroidery scissors?”
Frank cleared his throat. “I found them in a drawer yesterday. They’ve come in useful.”
“And for my brother,” a white scrap went fluttering through the air, “a woman’s handkerchief.”
“Can’t imagine how that happened.” Horst smiled cheerily and tucked it into his pocket.
“If only we could all say the same.”
Zarenyia clamoured to be the next judge, and she neatly identified Leonie’s silver earring, Frank’s comb, Cabal’s match case and a stub of pencil from Horst practically without looking at the items.
Leonie served another round of punch, and somehow Horst had persuaded everyone that the next round was to be played with real forfeits: performances.
Cabal scoffed. “Pass me by on this round. I’ve seen how you play.”
“Oh come on, Johannes, have another glass of punch. I promise I won’t make you kiss anyone”
“I will not.” He nodded stiffly and retired to a far chair.
Horst was a delightful judge, with just the required spice of devilry. He required Frank to tell a funny story from the police, which he did. Zarenyia was challenged to recite a poem, and she declaimed something in Latin with a strong rhythm. It made Cabal choke on his drink at the other end of the room. Leonie made such a mess of a tongue twister that she put down her punch glass.
“Now you, Johannes,” Horst commanded.
“I told you, I am not playing.”
“Ah, but I have your watch, and if you want it returned…”
Cabal patted his waistcoat. “Childish.”
“I just want you to sing.”
“Why?”
“Why not. For our hosts? Unless you think they’d dislike it.”
Perhaps Cabal was as far into the punch as Leonie. Perhaps it was Zarenyia’s encouraging smile, or the quirk of Frank Barrow’s forehead predicting his guests’s refusal.
Cabal sang a German carol. He had a pleasant voice, baritone and musical. He shaped the notes with simplicity and deliberation. Horst watched Leonie’s face carefully as his brother sang, and he thought he detected something in the raptness of her face. Frank Barrow seemed lost in his glass of punch. Zarenyia joined Cabal for the last verse, her lovely silvery voice arcing over his. Together they sang of the constancy of the fir tree, its unchanging branches. Cabal looked away from the round of heartfelt applause that followed, but Zarenyia rose to give a grand curtsey.
Frank muffled a yawn. “That’s it for me. Miss Za- Zarenyia, we’d be happy to offer you our guest room. Horst. Ahem, and Mr. Cabal. We could - I hope you’ll stay tonight. You could go down to the pub, that way, and not fuss about the train.”
Zarenyia smiled. “Thank you so much, Frank. The boys can share the guest room, if I can bunk in with Leonie.” She shot a hopeful look under her lashes. Horst accidentally poured his brandy onto the rug.
“Thanks, dad. For everything.” Peace on earth, indeed.
“Merry Christmas, all.” He kissed Leonie’s forehead. “Sleep well.”
****
The record murmured on the player in the parlour, where Leonie and Cabal sat. She stifled a yawn. Their conversation was becoming intermittent, but Leonie didn’t want the evening to end. It was such a lovely moment, with the music and the warmth and the glow of Christmas still hanging over the town. The night was clear and soft outside, and there was no wind to disturb the long fingers of the trees. Leonie had closed up the rest of the first floor, leaving a little lamp in the window to guide the revellers home.
She fed the fire, and Cabal didn’t object. He was in a brown study, gazing into the coals.
***
Horst and Zarenyia walked arm-in-arm towards the pub. Neither of them minded the coolness of the night. Horst spoke first. “I think they’re all right? Don’t you?”
“They’re not hurt. But I’m the first to admit, poppet, that I’m not the keenest student of the bits between the ears.” She sighed bracingly. “Our dear squishy humans. Oh, you are almost human, sweetheart. No offence intended, of course?”
“None taken, of course.”
“You were with Johannes for the whole thing, weren’t you?”
Horst nodded. “We were all in that pretty palace-y thing, when hullo, this funny little chap came around the corner and I thought Johannes was going to fall over. He didn’t, but he went pale, then red, and then Leonie did fall over, and all hell broke loose.” Horst used the metaphor with some authority, having seen Hell break loose at least twice.
***
Cabal had hardly spoken to her since they got free. “Come on, Cabal, dance with me.”
He looked at her blankly. “I’m tired.”
“Nonsense, you’re never tired.”
He scoffed lightly, his eyes sharp now. “I am tired. I think I could sleep for a week.”
“Well.’ Her voice softened, “I’m tired too.”
She pushed her chair back against the wall. “I’m going to think you don’t know how to dance”
“Of course I can. Mother would not have allowed anything else.” He shook his head slightly.
“Then show me. Just one song, Cabal. Consider it my Christmas present.”
“We do not, by custom, exchange gifts.”
“Then this year is the exception. Please?”
***
“And then what happened?” Zarenyia absentmindedly took a coat from her inter dimensional closet. She didn’t need it, but a human would.
“Well, Johannes threw himself down next to her and started banging on her chest, and I admit, I rather lost the thread for a few minutes. The little fellow was horribly amused, and it seemed to be something he’d done, but Johannes didn’t threaten him.”
“Oh dear.” Zarenyia tried to count on her fingers the number of entities Johannes wouldn’t try to threaten. “Did you catch a name?”
“No, and Johannes wouldn’t tell me after, either. Oh, he said something under his breath when the chap appeared It was Nyar… no, I can’t remember it. Nyar-something. Johannes seemed to think the situation was extremely serious.”
“Oh. Oh. Well.” Zarenyia was at a loss for words.
“And then the dreadful little man said he was just kidding, and Leonie started breathing again, and that’s when you reappeared.”
***
Cabal climbed gracelessly out of the low chair. He stood toe-to-toe with her for a moment, as if he was uncertain how to proceed. He had unbent so far as to remove his jacket, but his vest was neatly buttoned and his cravat cinched tight.
Their first few steps were almost comical - shuffling, out of time with the music and each other. Leonie tried to remember exactly where the settee was, behind her, and wondered if she’d had more brandy than she’d thought.
Leonie forgot about the music and the furniture and thought about Cabal, this odd man who was her friend. She concentrated on getting her steps into harmony with his, matching her movements to his. He held her a little distance away, and they settled into a simple step, barely moving any distance in the close quarters of the parlour. He smelled faintly of brandy and smoke. His shoulders were stiff at first, but bar after bar of music, they softened. The music drifted through the little house. Leonie hummed with the words - a sentimental modern song about a boy who was far from his girl on Christmas eve, and the Christmas kiss she wished she could give him.
I need your lips to kiss, I need your hand to hold.
I should have told you this, I’ll love you when you’re old….
The new logs caught, and the light of the few lamps was joined by warm, leaping flame. Now that her feet were sorted out, Leonie remembered to look at Cabal. He was looking at her.
“I’m all right, you know.”
“You appear to be.”
“I don’t know what you did to pull it off.”
Cabal stared moodily over her shoulder. “I believe it finds me entertaining. I cannot speculate about its motives.” A silence fell, filled by the music. Cabal asked abruptly, “are you? All right?”
“I am. It was frightening. But I wasn’t actually awake for most of it, and it’s over now.”
He nodded stiffly. His hand tightened on hers. “I appreciate that you assisted me today.’ He swallowed. “I was concerned by your indisposition. I am pleased the effects were no worse.”
She smiled at him, in an uncomplicated moment of happiness. She loved dancing and Christmas and - good company. The song unspun itself on the record, and she relaxed into the moment.
At the song’s end, Cabal dropped his head low for a moment. It could have been the fatigue - but his temple touched hers for a moment, and a whisper of his cheek touched her cheek. Perhaps he needed to touch her for a moment, to know she was there. And when he made to pull away, it seemed like the most natural thing in the world to turn her head and brush his cheek with her lips. In thanks for the dance, just for Christmas, just because, after all, she loved him. Her hand was on his cheek, cupping his face towards her chaste kiss, fingertips on his sharp stubble. He turned to meet her kiss and their lips met.
A minute later, she leaned against him for a moment, wrapped close in his arms. A new song began. And slowly, tentatively, they began to dance to it, his hand curled around hers, their brows touching.