Chapter Text
I swear, if I hear the word Christmas one more time, I’m going to lose it.
It’s bad enough that the caroler’s songs carry all the way up to my window, the glass panes unable to shut it out. Jingle bells and laughter and running footsteps, snow-day fun and excitement for presents and the scent of Christmas dinner being prepared—it’s been getting on my nerves all day. I’m poured over a thick stack of papers, applications for loans, trying to figure out which ones I should reject and which ones I can profit from in the form of later debt collection. The numbers keep dancing in front of my eyes and at this pace, I’ll still be at it in the middle of the goddamn night.
Children’s voices, screaming in delight. I can’t take it anymore. I violently push my chair back, throw open the window and shout, “ Shut up , will you?!”
Only now I see who I’ve yelled at. It’s a group of five young children, all dressed up, a few with snowballs in their hands. They stare up at me big-eyed.
“I’m trying to work,” I still add on, a bit more uncomfortable. “Go play somewhere else.”
I shut the window again. Was I too hard on them? They’re just kids, on a holiday–
The second my back is turned, I hear them burst into laughter.
I grumble and shove the curtains closed. The thick fabric doesn’t help much, but I’ll take it. I sit down again and shove the file of loan applications aside, then settle for looking into our statistics. Profits are stagnating for God knows what reason, and with our new settlement in a neighboring town, bills are piling up. It’s not looking good. God, I can almost hear my father’s voice, he doesn’t even have to be looking over my shoulder for it anymore.
I always knew you’d let me down. I build a business, a means to provide, and you let it collapse the second I turn my back?
In my defense, I’ve formally taken over the bank five years ago, and it’s still afloat, so the old man can’t complain too much. I learned from him, after all—how to run a tight ship, how to keep the numbers in order, how to keep employees working the hardest at the lowest possible pay. How to invest and to hoard and to provide for my wealthy life. He’d shown me that kindness, even after everything I got up to in my teenage years, and so far, I’ve been doing all right.
But it doesn’t matter. One wrong move and all of it can be taken from me just as quickly.
I’m immersed into the dull world of finances when there’s a knock at the door. I don’t budge, just stay fixated on the paper because—these interest rates don’t add up, where is that money we should’ve made of that account? Oh, if someone has been taking for themselves, I’ll skin them alive–
The door opens, and a soft voice asks, “Can I come in?”
I grit my teeth, peeved. “How many times have I told you to knock?”
“I did knock.” Surprise in his tone. “I thought you didn’t hear me.”
“I heard you .” Finally I look up. “And if I wanted you to come in, I would’ve said so .”
His expression drops from polite to annoyed. Admonishment. “Monty.”
Monty . He’s the only one who still calls me that. A childhood nickname, it is, from when I was young and careless and without a future. It was a different life that I’ve put behind me, alongside everything that came with it.
Except for one thing that stubbornly keeps worming his way back into my life.
“ What ?” I shove my papers aside, arms crossed, daring him to defy me any further.
Percy sighs. He knows better by now. “Fine,” he says thinly, then pulls his head back and closes the door again. A moment wait, then, three defined knocks.
I’m not sure why, but it almost makes me laugh. While Percy is to date the gentlest soul I’ve ever met, there’s an edge of pettiness to him. I always loved that about him. I loved it because to many of our friends, he was the paragon of good behavior, but I knew better. I knew there was a wicked, mischievous side to him only I ever got to witness—and it was a glorious thing. I suppose it’s why we used to get along so well. We were a perfect complement, and simultaneously, one and the same.
I feel the corners of my mouth twitching, and wipe the shadow of a smile off my face. That’s all behind me now. Percy and I aren’t what we used to be anymore. I allow him to stick around out of kindness, which is already more than he could’ve expected from me after what he did.
“Come in,” I call, voice monotone again.
Percy does, still something of calculated humor in his eyes as he shuts the door behind it. When he sees my earnest expression, it vanishes.
“What is it?” I ask.
He hesitates for a moment. “How are you?”
I scoff in surprise. “I’m sorry?”
“Is that such a strange question?” He’s got one arm crossed before him, rubbing his elbow. “You’re my friend.”
God, really? This ? Now? “I’m your employer, and you’re wasting my time .”
Percy winces. He gives me that disappointed look he’s gotten so much use out of over the past ten years, then surrenders. “I was wondering if you’ll be able to make it to our Christmas dinner this year.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“At my place,” Percy continues. “Adrian will be there and he hopes you’ll be able to attend too. Felicity said she might be, but she’s preoccupied with her protest march, so–”
“Hold on, hold on.” I put a hand to stop him. “ Why is Adrian spending Christmas evening at yours? He should be home, with Father.”
“Oh, please.” He looks pained. “You know he can barely stand to be in that house since your mother passed away.”
“Oh, come on. It’s been years. It’s time he gets over it.”
“Your father is still there.”
Instantly, I’m alert. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Percy sighs. “It’s just not easy for him, is all I’m saying.”
“Ridiculous. It’s time he grows up. He’s a Montague, after all.”
“Adrian is spending Christmas with me and his sister.” A sharp edge creeps into his voice. “With people that care about him .”
“How will Adrian be spending Christmas with you,” I say, sitting up, my tone venomous, “when you’re working all night?”
“I’m sorry?”
The distress in his expression delights me, I lean back in my chair and reach to the decanter behind me, grabbing a bottle at random and a glass. Percy watches my movements sharply. “You heard me,” I continue, pouring myself a glass. “In fact, everyone will be working tonight. Our profits are just not cutting it. It’s in the bank’s best interest.”
“People can’t work tonight!” His voice pitches in disbelief. “It’s Christmas Eve. ”
“Christmas, Christmas, Christmas, I’ve had enough of it.” I put my glass down with too much force, and some of its contents slosh onto my papers. Ugh, I’ll deal with that later. I sit up again and point my index at him. “From now on, it’s forbidden to mention Christmas in this building. Christmas and New Year’s and bloody Easter and any holiday. No more of it.”
“Monty!”
Monty , again. He uses it against me. It makes me angry. I stand up and say, “Anyone who refuses to work tonight or who even protests to it, will be fired.”
“ What?! ”
“Oh, you heard me, darli–” I stop myself, hand flying to my mouth. What a slip-up. I haven’t called anyone darling in years, and especially not him—a bad habit I successfully broke. God, this entire day is messing with me. “You heard me,” I continue, shrugging it off. “Profits are dwindling. There’s only one solution.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Can’t I?”
We stare each other down for a long time, Percy waiting for me to concede but I won’t. The determination in his eyes makes way for sadness. “Don’t do this, Monty.”
“Or what?”
“If you’re firing people,” Percy says, eyes down, and I know I’ve made him angry for real this time, “then I’ll be the first to go.”
Now it’s my turn to drop my jaw. I almost laugh at it. “Uh, no, you won’t.”
Defiantly, Percy crosses his arms. “Won’t I?”
I put both my palms on the tabletop. “You listen to me, Percy Newton. Ten years ago, you had nothing . Your aunt and uncle had kicked you out–”
“–I ran away –”
“–and you had nothing but that stupid fiddle of yours. I owed you nothing but what did I do? I gave you a job. I gave you an income so you wouldn’t be left on the streets. I’ve tolerated your years of trying to meddle with my life, I’ve tolerated years of you , and this is how you repay me?”
Percy looks at me in deep sadness. “You’re right, Monty.” Monty, Monty, Monty . “You never owed me anything. But I don’t owe you anything, either.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I spit.
“It means that I’m done with you. I stuck by you longer than I had to. You think this job was a kindness ?” He’s trying to keep composure, but he’s failing, and of course it had to be me who’d find the ends of Percy Newton’s endless patience. “I took it so I could watch over you. I took it because I was worried. I took it because I’m your friend .”
He knows how much I hate it when he calls us friends. We aren’t. Haven’t been in years.
“But I’ve had enough. You’re just not you anymore.” Pity, pleading, pained. Reconsidering. “Please, Monty.”
“ Don’t call me that. It’s Mr. Montague to you. Now get back to work, Mr. Newton.”
Percy shakes his head. “No. I quit.”
“ Get. Back. To. Work ,” I say, between gritted teeth.
“I’ll have my letter of resignation on your desk tomorrow morning.”
He’s about to turn away, and I can’t have that, I can’t . I grab my glass and throw it against the wall. It shatters.
Percy stops, wide-eyed and shocked. He looks from the stain on the wall to me, and is that fear in his eyes?
He stares at me for so long it’s starting to make me uncomfortable, but I don’t give in. I stand my ground behind my father’s desk, shoulders heaving, for some reason out of breath.
“You were never violent, Monty,” he says, “nor cruel, for that matter.”
I don’t reply.
“I’m sorry it’s come to this,” he says, and with that, he turns and walks away.
“Get back here,” I snarl, but he keeps walking. “Newton, as your employer, I demand that you–” Still no response. I’m getting frantic. “ Percy !”
He stops, hand on the doorknob. He turns his head back half. “Goodbye, Henry,” he says.
Then he leaves.
Jeanne and I have supper in silence.
She can tell I’m in a bad mood and knows better than to ask, or initiate conversation. I’m glad because I’ll just snap at her and I don’t want that. All things considered, I’m pretty lucky to have her.
Our marriage has always been one of understanding. We were wed at eighteen, a symbol of our parents’ business alliance, and we instantly agreed we’d never love each other. We tried to settle for friends, though that soured. She found love elsewhere which I kindly turned a blind eye to, but it’s hard to not be bitter when everyone around you seems happy and you know you can never be.
Percy was my best man.
I was the only one who saw that he was crying.
Jeanne and I are acquaintances at best. We don’t know much about each other. We speak minimally. We sleep in separate rooms. We both avoid eye contact when my father asks why we aren’t parents yet.
We’re as close as two strangers, each speaking a different language, sharing a shelter as we wait for the rain to pass.
There’s a feast prepared for us, but I’m not particularly interested in eating. I keep poking at my plate, seeing that shocked expression in Percy’s eyes over and over again when I threw the glass. Why am I even getting this upset over this? Percy seriously thought he was doing me a favor by taking the job. He spent ten years of his life working for me because– God, how pathetic does he think I am? He’s the desperate one here, still clinging to the hope I’ll, what, change? Do what he did and run away with nothing to my name? Ridiculous . He can quit all he wants. I don’t need him. I don’t owe him. I’ll be fine without him, I always have been –
“Henry,” Jeanne’s startled voice pulls me from my thoughts.
I look up, and realize I’m clenching my utensils. I’ve been cutting up a piece of turkey so far that I’ve scraped the ornamental roses off the plate. I drop my knife and fork, standing up. “I’m done,” I say, then pace out.
Sleep won’t come at night. It’s perfectly quiet in my room, freezing cold even underneath the sheets. Snow has piled up thick on the windowsills, the chill creeping in from between the floorboards and between the crevices in the walls. I roll over onto my side, hugging the blankets close, thinking about Percy, Percy, Percy and getting angrier by the minute. Who does he think he is? What right does he have to criticize me? To criticize how I run my business, how I treat my family, how I–
“Ugh!” I bury my face in my pillow. I need a drink. That’s it. Something to soothe me. Then I’ll be able to sleep. I sit up, briefly disoriented by the darkness in the room. God, it really is freezing . I pull my blankets with me as I stand up, wrapping them around my shoulders. I cross over and start rummaging through the sideboard where I keep my alcohol. The bottles I find are almost all empty. That only gets me more worked up. I sit down on my knees, reaching all the way to the back and I swear to God if I have to go through the trouble of waking up a servant at this point–
“Henry.”
I start, my shoulder colliding with the sideboard’s ceiling. I turn around, scrambling, and look around wildly. My heart is beating like mad.
The room is empty.
I wait perhaps a full minute, pulling in panicked breaths. Finally, I calm down. Jesus. I’m imagining voices in the middle of the night. I drank some wine at dinner, but it wasn’t that much .
I take a final deep breath, then sit up on my knees again. I pull up the blankets over my shoulders and go back to searching the cupboard. Empty, empty, goddamn empty, all of them. I put in my head to see in the back–
“Henry. I’m right here.”
I knock my head this time, letting out a yelp. I fly to my feet, blankets huddled close, examining the room, but it’s still empty . It was a woman’s voice, and she sounded close by, so where–
The air in front of me ripples, and a figure appears. I cry out, putting a step back and slipping on one of the empty bottles I’ve thrown out of the cabinet. I land on my backside. I scramble further back as the form materializes.
It’s a woman, wearing a modest black dress and a veil, like she’s in mourning. Her clothes imply that she’s wealthy. Around her waist, arms, legs and necks hang heavy chains, dragging her down, even as she hovers a few inches above the floor. She seems to be emitted a faint glow. Her face is turned away.
I’m so terrified I lose my voice for a few moments. When I finally start regaining my wits, I grab one of the bottles, and point it at her. “ Who are you ?” I demand. “How did you get in my room?”
“Don’t you recognize me?” the woman asks, still turned away. “Fitting, I suppose, for my memory to fade so quickly when all I ever did was blend into the background.”
I frown. Slowly, clutching the bottle neck with one hand and my blankets with the other, I rise up again. In the faint moonlight reflecting off the snow, the woman lifts her veil.
I gasp. “ Mother ?”
I catch an absent smile on her profile. “You do remember. I wouldn’t have blamed you for forgetting, as I seemed to forget about you my entire life.”
“You’re dead ,” is all I can manage. I’m speechless. A woman looking exactly like my mother has manifested in my bedroom on Christmas Eve, which is simply impossible. “You can’t be here.”
“I wish I didn’t have to be,” she sighs. “But my ghost is bound to this plane of existence. I carry regrets with me, heavy as chains, and cannot move on.”
I almost laugh out of pure madness. “Don’t be ridiculous. This is some sort of trick. Who are you? Who paid you to do this?”
She doesn’t answer, and I circle around her. She keeps turning away. Hesitantly, I reach out a hand, but it goes straight through her shoulder. I gasp.
“I am dead, Henry,” Mother says sadly.
“There’s no such thing as ghosts ,” I say, albeit less convinced. I’ve walked a full circle around her, and she still refuses to show me her face. “Mother, look at me.”
“I can’t, don’t you see? I’ve looked away my entire life. Now this is my punishment.”
That stops me. I put the bottle down on the sideboard and hug my blankets closer. “Why are you here?”
“To atone, in any way I can.” She reaches out a hand, and I instinctively, I step back. But she waits, arm raised, so I hesitantly step closer again. She places her hand to my cheek, suddenly solid, and her skin so cold . I shiver. “You’re not doing well, Henry. I know I share the blame for this.”
I scoff, then push away her arm. “What do you mean? I’m doing excellent. I’m running the bank. Was that not what you wanted for me?”
“It was what your father wanted,” she says. “And what I allowed.”
“I don’t understand.”
She ignores me. “You shut out Percy today.”
I huff at the sudden topic change. “What does that have to do with anything?” When she doesn’t reply, I add on, “And I didn’t, by the way. He shut me out.”
“And what reasons did he have for that?”
“I–” I cut myself off. “What kind of a question is that?”
“Why did he leave?”
“Because!” I flail my hands, then quickly grab onto the blanket starting to slide off my shoulders. “Because he’s a selfish bastard and he doesn’t care about me. He should’ve left sooner.”
Her shoulders wilt. “You genuinely believe that, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“He used to be your best friend.”
“Things change.”
“ You’ve changed, Monty. And not for the better.”
That makes my temper flare. “If you’re just here to insult me, you can leave.”
“I will, but not by choice.” She sighs. “I’m sending three spirits to visit you tonight. The Spirit of Christmas Past, Christmas Present, and Christmas Yet to Come. I hope it’s not too late.”
“Too late for what?”
She lifts a hand to my face again, and then, finally, she turns her face toward me. She’s exactly the way I remember her, younger than she was when she died, and it shocks me. She has tears running down her cheeks. “I’m sorry, my dear. I’m sorry I didn’t do anything.”
I’ve no clue what to reply to that. I don’t have to—the next moment, she’s fading, eyes closed and head turning away again. Her touch becomes intangible and the next moment she’s disappeared, wisps into the night.