My sister sighed. “Don’t worry.” She slid into the booth, bumping her shoulder affectionately against mine. “I was very good while you were gone. She’s such a mother hen,” she said to Reeti.
“You’re lucky to have her as yourdidi,” Reeti said.
Toni grinned, suddenly looking about seven years old. “I know.”
A rowdy pack of students in Christmas sweaters and Santa hats swarmed through the door in a swirl of noise and cold.
“Uh-oh,” Reeti said. “Time to go.”
The group ordered pints and started taking off their shoes, hopping and shuffling around.
“What are they doing?” Toni asked.
“They’re Twelve Pubbers. They’re swapping shoes.”
“They’re what?”
The ugly sweater set roared and giggled, clutching one another and the bar, jostling stools and other patrons.
“The Twelve Pubs of Christmas. They hit twelve pubs in one night, with a different rule at every pub.”
“Looks like fun,” Toni said.
Someone stumbled into the microphone, which crashed to the floor. Reeti and I exchanged glances.
“Maybe another pub?”
“They’ll be everywhere this time of year,” Reeti said. “It’s a Dublin tradition.”
“I don’t want to leave,” Toni said.
I didn’t want to go home—that is, back to Glenda’s—yet, either. “Clery’s?” I suggested.
“I need to pack,” Reeti said. “I’ll text you the code for my door. My house is yours. Anytime.”
We parted on the sidewalk with hugs and thanks. Outside, the evening was alive with fairy lights and music. Toni and I wandered through a changing soundtrack spilling from pubs and playing on street corners, pop and carols, choirs and acoustic guitars. Roaming packs of Twelve Pubbers, their sweaters flashing red and green, crowded the streets. Couples bundled against the cold, their breath streaming in the air. We crossed the bridge. The river flowed under our feet, shimmering in the dark. Toni’s eyes shone like stars. Somewhere overhead, obscured by the glow of the city, real stars twinkled and throbbed. It was Christmas, after all, the season of joy and new beginnings.
The newsagents windows were bright with advertising flyers and strings of lights. Sam was behind the counter, a scarf around his neck against the draft from the door, head bent over a book. Bob Cratchit, working late on Christmas Eve.
He smiled when he saw us, and fairy lights sparkled to life inside me. “Who’s your friend?”
“My sister, Toni. She’s visiting me for Christmas.”Possibly longer. I pushed the thought away. “Toni, this is Sam.”
Fiadh came out of the back, a pair of reindeer antlers atop her blue hair. “And Sam’s sister Fiadh.”
“Fee.”
“I love your hair,” Toni said.
Fiadh smiled. “Ta.”
“You’re working late,” I said. To her? To Sam?
“It’s the holidays, isn’t it? Everybody wants a Christmas cake and no one wants to make it.”
“What kind of cake?” Toni asked.
“Come see, if you like.”
