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With the boys out trick-or-treating and no obligation to be at home, Mycroft had been looking forward to a quiet evening in front of the hearth of his retreat. He set aside a cup of sencha to steep, and settled into his armchair.
Despite himself, he remembered his boys' cheer at masquerading as devils, cowboys and whatnot. Dissatisfaction rose in his gorge. In a week they would be begging strangers for pennies. They observed every holiday, regardless of origin. Victoria called it cultural education, but in Mycroft's eyes they should have outgrown these childish games long ago.
Just as he was about to pick up his Dostoyevsky, the doorbell rang. Squeezing the bridge of his nose to calm himself, Mycroft knew he should have put up a sign that nobody was in for the holiday.
At the door gaggle of costumed urchins waited, their goodie bags raised expectantly.
"Trick or treat!" they shouted in unison.
Mycroft's face darkened. Maybe he should have stayed at home after all, let his wife handle the unwanted callers. Children loved her.
He kept his voice level. "If you lads don't scamper off this minute, I will sue each one of you for trespassing, do you hear?"
They looked him over and, instead of bolting in terror, they muttered amongst themselves, not in the least boggled.