Work Text:
Outside, the snow had begun to fall again, though only lightly. Inside, there was a roaring fire where, a week earlier, stockings had hung for the children. The party was growing more convivial by the punch bowl, and the Greek soldiers had started to roar songs that—so the Secretary reckoned—were probably best left untranslated. Young Alexander had been allowed to stay up to see the New Year in: she thought she saw a glass of wine in his hand.
Out in the hall, a grandfather clock she had never seen before began to chime: Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. Dong. The roar of “Happy New Year” from the Moderns was quickly echoed by the Ancients, for all that their own year began at midsummer. The knock at the front door was quite drowned out.
Hovering in expectation, Sandy darted across the hall. Hephaistion spotted him, guessed that something was up, and whispered to Alexander; he, of course, need only look expectantly towards the doors for all to turn.
Alec came into the ballroom, his dark hair bare except for a few flakes of snow. Behind him, Sandy followed, beaming with fond pride. “The First Foot!” he cried. There were murmurs of puzzlement from the Ancients (and a few of the Moderns) but quick, low explanations were readily received: ah, yes, the first across the threshold.
Alec crossed to the fire, concealing a touch of embarrassment at being the centre of attention. He got a quick kiss from Bim as he passed under the mistletoe, and shook hands with several unknown people who thrust out their hands as he passed. Alexander proffered his own; and, namesakes down the centuries, both Alec and Sandy shook it heartily.
At the fireplace, Alec reached into the pocket of his overcoat and pulled out a lump of coal. With an air of ceremony, he set it on the flames: warmth for the coming year. A bannock was handed to Arete, a packet of salt to Mrs Timmings, and a shilling to the Secretary. To symbolize prosperity, she thought, though the house seems to manage just fine on its own resources. Finally, Alec handed over the ritual bottle of whisky. Sandy opened it and started to pour. From somewhere a large black bun was produced, sliced into strips, and handed round. Slaves passed among the crowd with tumblers, and toasts were drunk to the New Year.
Then the Moderns linked arms—the Ancients quickly joined them—in a great ring around the room. And if many were, at first, hesitant about the tune (and never did grasp the words), they caught the melody soon enough. Olive’s lesson at Christmas had been well learned: all were to sing along.
“Should auld acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot and auld lang syne?
For auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne,
We'll take a cup o kindness yet, for auld lang syne.”