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The hinges squeak as the screen door slams against the wooden frame of the cabin. Lucy resists the urge to shout, instead just grumbling to herself as she stacks the wood into the fire pit, picking each log up gingerly to avoid getting splinters. Her daughter has no sense of restraint, but Lucy can hardly blame her. She comes by her dramatic entrances honestly.
“You could just put on gloves,” teases George, as he sets another armful of logs down carefully next to the pit.
“Too much trouble,” Lucy says, sweeping her hair out of her face. It’s grown long, now, and most days she wears it in a bun or braid to keep it out of the way. Noah loves to watch her braid it, sitting next to her solemnly as she weaves the thick strands together, then insists that she unravel it so he can watch her do it all over again. Noah’s hair is dark and curly, like his father’s, though George has a few streaks of gray rioting through his curls these days. Noah is growing his out so that it can be braided, too, with all the serious intention of a four year old. Lucy’s not sure she can manage it; with six sisters, she never did her own hair and can barely manage a single plait.
She thinks Lockwood might be good at it, yet another skill to hone. He still keeps up with his rapier practice, though he goes to a local gym now, the basement having long been converted into a playspace for the children. Lucy thinks they probably would have enjoyed swinging wooden training rapiers at the steam jets, and Lockwood had agreed, but they’d been overruled, loudly, by George. George didn’t often get loud about things, so Lucy and Lockwood had merely grinned at each other and quietly let it go. Lockwood had dropped a kiss onto his head and Lucy had snuck him an extra biscuit, leaving George very confused.
“Why are you both being so reasonable?” he’d said suspiciously, but after he’d eaten the biscuit, Lucy noticed.
Lucy had shrugged, smile tilting her lips, and Lockwood hadn’t been able to keep the besotted expression off his face. “You’re a good father,” she’d said, and Lockwood had nodded. George had turned bright red. They’d gone to bed early, that night.
This is their second Christmas at the cabin. A grateful client had given it to them, after clearing the last vestiges of Visitors from the larger property, years ago. It’s small, only two bedrooms, so the kids have to share, but the novelty hasn’t worn off and they’re not bickering yet. Their client hardly ever frequents the estate further down the lane, so when they’re up here, it really feels like they’re alone in the countryside.
Lucy still can’t believe it’s safe, that they get to have this. She watches the sun set with the knowledge that her children will never have to be afraid of the dark, not the way she was. She can tell Noah honestly that monsters aren’t real and his dreams can’t hurt him. She swallows the lump in her throat, the consuming disbelief that they’ve done it, they’ve made it. Some days it still doesn’t feel real.
They haven’t even gotten the children tested, though she’s almost certain Riley’s got something. Noah is still too young, but Riley pauses, sometimes, on the threshold of new places, her mouth pursed thoughtfully. If Talent is at all hereditary, Lucy won’t be surprised. George lost his Talent when he turned twenty-two, fairly average, but Lockwood’s Sight had only dropped a few years ago. Lucy is approaching thirty and she can still Listen, if she tries.
She doesn’t try, anymore.
The screen door slams again, and Lucy swings around, her mouth open to scold, but it’s Lockwood this time. He bounds down the steps, his breath puffing clouds into the slanting orange dusk. The shadows are gathering, and soon it will be too cold to be outdoors, but George had wanted them to see the stars.
“Are we ready?” Lockwood asks, almost as giddy as the children.
“Just about,” George says, bracing his hands on his knees and standing up. “I’ll get the kids. You want to do the honors?”
Lockwood bounces on his toes. He’d been in Scouts or something, when he was younger, and so he likes to light the fires, show the kids, the few times they’ve done this. George heads inside to gather their wayward offspring. He doesn’t let the screen door slam, Lucy notices.
Riley flies down the steps, while Noah and George follow at a more sedate pace. “Can I help, Dad?” she asks eagerly, joining her father and poking at the pyramid of logs Lucy had set up.
Lockwood beams at her. “Of course,” he says. His face is somehow even more handsome, starting to show the barest lines of age. He shows her where to set the little crinkled balls of newspaper they use for kindling, how to light each bundle and shield it from the wind, while still making sure it gets enough air to breathe, to catch. Riley mirrors him with grave precision. Their faces are nearly identical pictures of delight, cast in the warm orange light as the fire catches and grows.
Lockwood stands, wrapping an arm around Lucy and resting his chin on top of her head. He reaches for George’s hand, linking them together. Riley makes a face, and Noah runs over, arms lifted over his head, hating to be left out. George swings him up in his arms, and Lucy gathers her grumbling daughter into her own, still shocked that her little girl is too big to pick up, these days.
The kids tolerate the group hug for a minute, then break away. They busy themselves with finding the perfect toasting sticks for marshmallows, while their parents settle into chairs, talking idly.
“I swear, your family sent up a whole truckload of gifts this time,” Lucy teases, and George smirks in response. He knows how much Lucy and Lockwood have loved having his parents in their life, plus a huge extended family for their children. The Karims have been equally delighted, doting on Riley and Noah with extravagant devotion, though it was obvious that Riley did not share any genes with George. They hadn’t batted an eye when George had changed his last name, either. With three siblings, there were going to be plenty of little Karims in the world, and Lucy suspects George had explained it to them privately - how much it meant to Lockwood, to have their whole little family share his name.
Eventually, the fire starts to die down. Noah curls up in Lockwood’s lap, his curly head resting against Lockwood’s chest. Riley sits next to George, his arm pointed out at an angle, showing her the winter constellations. “It doesn’t look like an archer to me, Papa,” she says doubtfully, and George tips his glasses back onto his face, firelight reflecting off of them, as he traces Orion’s belt and bow in the sky for her patiently. She crows with excitement when she finally sees it.
The tip of Lucy’s nose is cold, so she buries it against Lockwood’s throat. He yelps, but quietly, mindful of the sleeping child in his lap, and tugs her closer. It’s getting colder, and they’ll need to go inside soon, get the kids into baths and surrender to the chaos of the bedtime routine. Lucy holds the warmth and brightness of the moment close, tucking it into her heart. Things change, things will always change, but for now, everything is safe and warm and right.