I didn't ask. Some things needed their own timing.
When I stepped onto the stage, the space hummed with pre-show energy—Charice running lines while adjusting her toy department apron, teenagers stretching in the wings, and Mrs. Brubaker's pencil scratching rapid notes on her clipboard.
Charlie appeared at my elbow, script clutched tight. "Santa? Can we practice the part where I ask about believing? Toast isn't helping anymore."
"Your dog's a terrible director." I knelt beside him, ignoring how my phone vibrated again in my pocket. "Let's work on making it sound real instead of memorized."
We found a quiet corner near the prop table. Charlie's eyes fixed on the script's wrinkled pages. "But what if I mess up? What if everyone laughs?"
"Hey." I caught his chin gently. "Remember what we talked about? The words aren't as important as the feeling behind them. What's your character really asking Santa?"
Charlie's forehead scrunched in thought. "If magic is real? Even when grown-ups say it isn't?"
"Exactly. Now try it again, but tell me what you actually want to know."
His next attempt was different—not performance. Instead, I heard genuine wonder. The stage lights warmed as he spoke, a sign of gentle approval from the theater.
"Perfect," I told him. "That's exactly what Marcus will see tomorrow when you perform."
Charlie's face brightened at the mention of his hospital friend. "Mom says Marcus is really excited. Ryan told him Santa's coming to visit after the show."
Something in my chest pulled taut at the words. Ryan's carefully spelled letter still rested in my coat pocket: the dragon nightlight, the glow-in-the-dark stars, and the picture of Marcus's dog. Tomorrow, I'd need to deliver on every word.
"Santa will be there," I promised. "No matter what."
The run-through flowed like water over river stones—mostly smooth but with enough rough patches to keep us honest. During the Santa's workshop scene, Sophie dropped her prop letter, but one of the teenage elves smoothly scooped it up and presented it to me as if someone had choreographed the move. I glanced at the elf and gave her a subtle nod of thanks.
During "Expecting Things," Mrs. Walker's sleeve caught on a department store display, sending plastic candy canes scattering across the stage. Without missing a beat, Charice incorporated them into her blocking, using the cleanup to emphasize her character's growing belief in Christmas magic.
"That's exactly the kind of quick thinking we need," Mrs. Brubaker called from the house. "Keep that adjustment—it works better than the original blocking."
The ensemble's "Pine Cones and Holly Berries" number had evolved from its awkward early versions into something special. When two of the youngest dancers stumbled during the bridge, the older performers instinctively tightened their circle, creating a perfect pocket of space for the girls to recover their footing.
My own rough spots surfaced during the courthouse scene. The fake beard caught in my jacket button while I rose to testify, and for a heart-stopping moment, I thought the whole thing would come off. I managed to turn the fumble into a character choice, making it seem as if Kris Kringle were thoughtfully stroking his beard as he considered his response.
Charlie stage-whispered to the other children in the scene. "Santa's beard is magic. It always knows what to do." His improvised line got a genuine laugh from our small test audience while I fixed the attachment.
The finale presented a few challenges. One of the key lights flickered, casting odd shadows across the stage—the kind I'd learned to recognize as the theater expressing itself during the Twelve Nights. The cast instinctively shifted their positions, finding better light without breaking formation.
When the last note faded, our small audience—mostly family members and a few loyal regulars—broke into enthusiastic applause. Charlie's mother wiped tears from her eyes, and even Mr. Grimwalls, the harshest critic from the local newspaper, nodded approvingly from his usual seat in row G.
The cast dispersed in twos and threes, their chatter echoing in the emptying theater. Charlie hugged my legs before racing off to his mother, still riding the high of a successful performance. I lingered on stage, letting the quiet settle.
Then my phone rang. Not a buzz this time—an actual call.
Claire's name glowed on the screen.
"Alex, thank God." Her voice crackled with a new urgency I hadn't heard before. "Everything's changed. Harrison Kent saw that regional news piece about your Santa Claus—turns out his parents live near Yuletide Valley—and he's decided he can't wait until January."
"What do you mean, can't wait?"
"He's flying to London tomorrow for six months. Some West End production." Papers rustled on her end. "He wants to audition you tonight. Virtually. Two hours from now."
The stage floor shifted under my feet. "Tonight? Claire, the show is tomorrow. I can't just—"
"You can and you will." Her voice softened slightly. "Darling, this is Harrison Kent offering you a second chance at therole that destroyed you. He specifically requested 'Music of the Night.' He wants to see you conquer that particular demon."
The words landed hard. "Music of the Night"—the song playing when my voice died in my throat, when grief and panic fused.
