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Beneath the heavy winter boots, snow crunched and compacted against the dense layers of fallen leaves and twigs. Hecate shivered, tugging her cloak closer around her shoulders even as snowflakes stung against her skin. It was a bitterly cold day, with the last of the sun’s rays barely finding her through the canopy of barren-limbed trees. She looked back; to anyone else, there were merely footprints in the snow—but to Hecate, it was a dotted line that traced the boundary of her prison.
Should she have sent the letter? Years of estrangement could not be expected to evaporate in the space of a week. Yet now—Pippa wanted to meet her. If there were a worse time of year to be rejected by the one she secretly still held a candle for in her heart, the darkest point of winter would have to number among them. At the very least, the letter had only detailed the long-overdue explanation of why she had cut herself off from her, and not mentioned any remnants of affection.
The bridge over the river was ahead as she approached the path again; there was no sign of Pippa, however. This location was more than a mere meeting point—it was the path leading to Pentangle’s that Hecate had never been able to take.
Along with her own footprints marking the snow, the tiny forked indentations of a bird’s feet interrupted the crisp white blanket settled on the balustrade of the bridge. Another soul had briefly been here. She found a reserve of warmth somewhere deep inside.
The snow lessened to delicate flakes in the air, and then stopped entirely, before a form appeared between branches of the trees, enfolded in a deep pink cloak with a plush white collar. It must have been Pippa, but how different she looked—and she recognised her own confusion reflected on Pippa’s face. Hecate supposed the years of confinement must have altered her own features quite dramatically—yet beautiful though she was, Pippa too had gravity and grief ghosting behind her eyes as she looked upon Hecate.
“Hecate,” Pippa broke the silence first, a breathless joy to her voice that was not quite reflected on her face. “It’s so good—”
Hecate understood. Pippa had meant to express pleasure at seeing her, but something had given her pause. Perhaps it was the way she had aged, or the letter—it must have been emotional to discover the crimes of an old childhood sweetheart. She looked up to see Pippa’s eyes filling with tears.
“Oh, Hecate.” She dusted the snow peppering Hecate’s cloak. “Did you walk all this way? How cold you must be! Let’s head up to the castle. It’ll be so nice to see it again.”
It had all been a mistake; Pippa’s reaction spoke volumes. Already they were walking awkwardly side-by-side, Hecate knowing the distance between them had grown too wide to surmount. She ought to have suggested transferring in order to not prolong the experience—but it was too late now. It would look impolite. Damp crept through the leather of Hecate’s boots as they made their way up the winding, snow-laden path.
“There it is,” Pippa whispered, eyes widening as she gazed up at the castle cresting the hill. It was curious seeing Pippa’s reaction to the place that was so much a part of Hecate that she felt it was her. “It feels almost as though I never left. It’s so breathtaking.”
“Even when one has not left, it is impossible not to find it so.”
“Oh—” Pippa raised a gloved hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think—”
“No need for apology,” Hecate cut her off. “Perhaps you would like a hot drink and a tour? I daresay little has changed.”
“That sounds marvellous.”
The castle was quiet as they entered. It was late in December, and the students had their brief few days of holiday to mark the Yuletide. Hecate led her through the entrance hall, bracing herself for the abundance of decorations—a vast tree decked in silver, glass, and star-like lights—garlands of evergreen branches and crimson poinsettias on the staircase banister, festoons upon each gilded picture frame, and the fragrance of warm spices. Pippa’s face transformed before her eyes as Hecate looked; the more mature woman suddenly acquired traces of the Pippa she had loved in her youth, until she no longer looked such a stranger.
“Christmas at Cackle’s—it’s even better than I remember it,” Pippa sighed lightly, marvelling at the lights.
Hecate looked towards the window where snow had piled up on the arched mullions; the years had settled in much the same way—quiet, gradual, and more abundant than she had thought. “Ada is fond of Christmas, and ensures the halls of Cackle’s are fully decked. She adds to the school’s decorations each year.”
“So none of this is your handiwork?”
“No,” Hecate replied, feeling even more as though this were a mistake. “The other members of staff have their own decorating day. I fear I would only be in the way.”
The joy on Pippa’s face faded. “Are you not— not really a Christmas person?”
Hecate’s throat stuck. It was immediately apparent by Pippa’s hesitation that she was very much a devotee of the season. “I have not had much cause for celebration. My confinement leaves me with precious little nostalgia for this time of year.” It was the first time either of them had acknowledged the confinement since the letter, and the silence that followed made her regret saying anything.
“I understand. Many people find it a difficult time of year.” Pippa’s redirection surprised her; the teenage girl from long ago had most definitely found her maturity. “We don’t have to do the tour, if you’d rather have a quiet talk instead?”
“No, I am prepared,” Hecate assured her. “We may talk later, if you wish.” Writing a letter was one thing; the thought of talking twisted her stomach into a knot of anxiety. “I believe our first port of call should be the kitchens?”
The tour eased some of the tension between them as Hecate showed Pippa some of her old haunts—the chanting practice room her coven had adopted as ‘theirs’, her old dormitory, the classrooms that still had the same layouts as when they were schoolgirls. It was mercifully peaceful without the sounds of children making a racket in the corridors. Hecate doubted that they would have been able to progress far on their tour without an interruption from the students seeing the celebrity headmistress Miss Pentangle. Yet, the only movement in the halls was the steam rising from their cups of tea in swirling eddies into the cold air.
Pippa told her of her own school, the differences in the curriculum, and how each room looked—and although she did not state it, Hecate could tell she was attempting to do her a kindness. She knew Hecate couldn’t visit, and that was one of the ways Pippa could share that aspect of her life with her.
Eventually, Hecate led the way up to the teachers’ wing. She had never imagined Pippa would ever see the inside of her chambers. Had the visit been less successful, she would have omitted this part of the castle entirely—but Pippa’s presence had felt compassionate. Perhaps it was time to let her a little closer in.
“These are the staff accommodations. My chambers are through here,” said Hecate, indicating the door, and unlocking it with a gesture of her fingers.
In reverent silence, Pippa followed. At once, Hecate noted how stark her chambers must seem without the addition of evergreen garlands sparkling with lights or an ornament-laden tree. The sitting room was not without comfort, however; the armchairs by the empty fireplace welcomed them over to take a seat beside a sleeping Morgana curled up on the rug.
“You have beautiful furniture—antique?” Pippa remarked.
Hecate glanced around, her voice quite small now that Pippa was in her private space. “Indeed.”
She could tell at once that Pippa was uncomfortable, letting the one-word reply hang in the air too long, until— “How do you cope?”
The clumsy question came as no surprise. Seeing Pippa’s apologetic fleeting smile, Hecate unstuck her throat. “The hardest parts—seeing so many students from our class, up to the youngest students when we were in fifth form, leave Cackle’s and proceed to do extraordinary things with their lives—are mostly long gone by now. It took me a long time to come to terms with the fact that teaching would be my career. However, it has fulfilling moments, and the range I can travel is reasonable.”
“Forgive me for asking,” asked Pippa, with the gentlest touch to Hecate’s wrist, “but how far exactly can you go from the castle?”
The touch electrified through Hecate, but she did not flinch away. “The magical barrier begins upon the bridge where I met you only a few hours ago.”
“What? That’s not reasonable at all.”
“It is what the Magic Council decreed in retribution for my criminal actions,” Hecate stated with a grim neutrality.
“You’ve never asked for a re-trial? Surely the Council would reconsider now, given your services to the school and impeccable track record?”
Hecate lowered her eyes to her mug. How could she explain to Pippa that she hardly felt worthy of her punishment ending? “I was barely saved from Wormwood,” she whispered. The grief felt easier to handle if she, like the victim of her childish longing, had no future beyond these walls. “No. I must remain here.”
Pippa’s mouth twisted. “Well, you’re not alone any more. These walls may keep you in, but they’re not going to keep me out.”
The words tingled through Hecate like a warming spell. She could not find a response—instead, her eyes swam with unshed tears.
Hecate slipped into her velvet dressing gown, once more in the solitude of her chambers, tea cups scoured and put away. Could the visit have changed anything between them, truly, given that she was still at the mercy of the confinement spell? Yet Pippa had not seemed perturbed at all by her crime nor her punishment.
Moreover, Pippa had promised a return. “Would you mind awfully if on Saturday afternoon I came around again?”
Not wishing to be rude, Hecate had agreed—but now wondered if she ought to have refused. Was it not cruel to give her hope when there was none?
True to her word, Pippa returned. Just as the clock ticking inexorably upon the wall begun to wear at Hecate’s nerves, she materialised in the Entrance Hall a little before her declared arrival time, accompanied, to Hecate’s surprise, by what looked like a large doll’s house. But it was not at all a house—it was far too grand, carved with columns to one side and a vast arched window front on the other.
A bewildered Hecate found herself enveloped in a hug. “What have you brought with you?”
“Well,” Pippa replied in a mysterious tone, “that is a little Christmas Eve surprise.”
It had not occurred to Hecate that that was in fact the day. She had only thought of it as a Saturday, and now became horribly aware that she had prepared nothing for Pippa for the occasion. “Oh.”
“I know Christmas isn’t your thing, and I’m not trying to force anything on you. It’s just some entertainment,” Pippa replied hastily.
The trappings of Christmas were already plentiful around the castle, Hecate mused to herself. There was precious little one could do to escape it. Her fingers folded together. “I am not opposed to a modicum of entertainment.”
“I never did quite get used to how cold this castle is,” Pippa remarked as she shivered and huddled her hands around one of the warm cups of cocoa that Hecate had prepared for them both, taking a seat in an armchair by the fireplace.
The entertainment apparently required an amount of space, so Hecate had assisted her in bringing some chairs from the staff room into the Great Hall. Looming over them was a decorated fir tree that Hecate could have sworn was larger than last year’s. Oh, Ada, she sighed internally. The doll’s house was positioned beside it, and Hecate quashed her sense of dread.
“It will warm up soon,” Hecate assured Pippa, sending sparks flying from her fingers to light the hearth with a merry, crackling flame. A moment’s transfer also brought a crocheted blanket into her hand—one of Gwendolyn’s—and Hecate handed it to Pippa before taking the armchair beside her. “You may begin.”
At a gesture from Pippa, the hinges of miniature building swung out, unfolding the building out several times into what appeared to be a surprisingly large doll-scale theatrical stage before them, four feet high and six feet across. It even had its own red curtain trimmed with gold, and an orchestra pit complete with wooden figures, light catching on the instruments in the brass section.
When the string section started an airy and spirited introduction, Hecate startled. She had not expected the dolls to be capable of producing sound—and not to the level of accuracy that they managed. Yet she was to be further astounded as an entire ballet began before her eyes. Figures in beautiful miniature costumes reeled across the stage in perfect pirouettes and arabesques.
“It’s a famous ballet called The Nutcracker,” Pippa explained in a hushed voice, even though they were the only audience. “I would’ve taken you to the Royal Opera House, but this is the best I could do.”
Hecate blinked back tears. “Thank you, Pippa. It’s wonderful.”
Hecate could not remember a night she had enjoyed more. At the ballet’s close, Pippa rose first, offering a hand to help Hecate from her chair. Though she had no need of it, she allowed her cold hand to be taken by warmth. “I’m afraid I have no gift for you.”
The hearth-light played across Pippa’s face as she looked earnestly at Hecate. “May I stay tonight?”
Hesitation held Hecate’s tongue. “There are guest rooms in the teachers’ wing—”
“—No, Hecate,” Pippa murmured, fixing her with dark eyes. “I meant with you. That would be the greatest gift—to spend Christmas with you, Hecate.”
“But why?” Pippa couldn’t have understood the implications.
“Hecate, you can be quite oblivious. I’m— still in love with you.”
Tears forced Hecate to close her eyes, but Pippa embraced her.
“My confinement—”
“As I said,” Pippa murmured, “if you’ll have me, these walls won’t keep me out.”
It once would have been easy to refuse, but now with Pippa holding her after so many decades—Hecate had only one wish.
“Please—stay.”
The Christmas lights gleamed softly around them; Pippa drew nearer, and sensations cascaded through Hecate as they met in a sweet kiss.
“Of course, Hecate.”
Hecate returned a trembling smile. She would never again shield herself from the warmth of Yuletide.