"You? Unreceptive? I'm shocked."
"I know, it's hard to imagine."
"What did she try to teach you?"
Alaric thought back to those December days at Hollingford Hall, his mother's determined cheerfulness in the face of his father's absence. "She said Christmas wasn't about the decorations or the presents or even the food. She said it was about choosing to believe that people could be better than they were the rest of the year."
"And you didn't believe that?"
"I was nine. I believed what I saw. And what I saw was that people were exactly the same at Christmas, they just hid it better under festive wrapping."
"That's a very cynical view for a nine-year-old."
"I was a very cynical nine-year-old."
"What happened to make a child that cynical?"
My father happened, Alaric thought but didn't say. Instead, he shrugged. "Life, I suppose. Observation. Reality."
"Those are all just words for disappointment."
"Perhaps."
"Your mother would be sad to know you'd given up on Christmas magic."
"My mother was sad about many things. My lack of Christmas spirit was probably the least of them."
Marianne stopped walking and turned to face him fully. "Mr. Fletcher, that's the saddest thing I've ever heard."
"It's not sad, it's honest. Like your winter forest."
"No, it's heartbreaking. A little boy who stopped believing in magic because the world showed him its bones too early."
"That's very poetic, Mrs. Whitby, but I assure you I'm perfectly content with my rational worldview."
"Content isn't the same as happy."
"Happy is overrated."
"Said no happy person ever."
"Oi!" Mr. Ironwell's voice carried back through the trees. "Are you two coming or are you going to stand about having philosophical discussions all day?"
"We're coming!" Marianne called back, but she didn't move immediately. Instead, she reached out and touched Alaric's arm lightly. "Your mother was right, you know. About people being better at Christmas. Maybe not everyone, maybe not always, but some people, sometimes. And sometimes is better than never."
"Is it?"
"Yes, Mr. Fletcher. It is. Now come on, we have pine boughs to liberate from their arboreal bondage."
They caught up with the others in a grove of particularly impressive pines. The trees towered overhead, their branches heavy with snow and perfect green needles. Thomas had already scrambled up one of the smaller trees and was calling down suggestions about which branches would be best.
"That one there, Dad! The one that looks like it's reaching for heaven!"
"They're all reaching for heaven, Thomas. That's what trees do."
"But that one's reaching with particular enthusiasm!"
"Trees don't have enthusiasm."
