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But well-stocked didn’t mean prepared for Christmas, did it? Christmas was about so much more than food.
It was at times like this she wished magic were real. Christmas was supposed to come with its own magic, but her house had been bare of that for a while.
Poor Elsie and Poppy. Of all the houses they could have crashed into, they’d landed in hers. No fir trees or festivities.
“Is there anything I can do?” Izzy had appeared in the kitchen without Jason. “We’re quite an invasion and you were obviously planning on having a quiet Christmas.”
She probably thought a quiet Christmas was Mabel’s choice.
Briefly she thought about the past. About all the Christmases that had involved fir trees and festivities. Those Christmases had been as close to perfect as it was possible to be and occasionally, she let her mind drift there, back to happier times. The warmth of the past was a buffer against the chill of the present. Back then, she hadn’t anticipated that her life would look like this. That she’d be here alone without the will to even switch on a string of fairy lights.
“Mabel?” Izzy’s voice cut through her thoughts and Mabel pushed the past back where it belonged.
“I suppose we should think about food.” She managed a smile. “Everyone will be hungry soon.”
“I’m hungry now.” Elsie appeared by Mabel’s side. “Do you have any cookies? Like the ones in the book?”
“Book?”
Izzy grinned. “You mean Tripalot and the Cake Catastrophe? I love that one. But my favourite is the one about the Thanks-giving turkey. Have you read that one?”
Elsie nodded. “I’ve read them all.”
“When I was little I had most of my books from the library, but my mother bought me that one and I used to sleep with it under my pillow.”
It was strange, Mabel thought, hearing them talk about the books. Hearing the impact they’d had on people.
“I don’t have cookies,” she said, “but perhaps you could ask everyone if they have any food allergies, Izzy, so we can plan a menu.”
“Good plan.” Izzy left the kitchen but Elsie stayed close to Mabel.
“We could make cookies,” she said helpfully. “We always make them at Christmas when we’re at home. They have cinnamon and spice and they taste like Christmas. We can make them here. It would be fun. Poppy can help if she wakes up from her nap in time. She likes to cut out the shapes. She makes a mess but I can help clear it up.”
Mabel thought back to the last time she’d made cookies.
Baking at Christmas had been a routine of hers, something she’d looked forward to. It had been a soothing ritual that was part of the season. She’d loved the smells and the warmth and the sense of comfort and satisfaction that came from watching rows of freshly baked gingerbread men cooling on the rack on the table.
She’d enjoyed turning the house into a cosy Christmas wonderland, stringing fairy lights around every room and arranging greenery from the garden and forest.
If she hadn’t been such a fool, she could still be doing that.
Regret swelled inside her, its tentacles wrapping around every part of her and squeezing so tightly she could hardly breathe.
“I think—” She reached out and clutched a shelf for support. “Where’s Crumpet?”
“Crumpet? Oh, you mean Not-A-Cat.” The little girl turned her head. “He was here a moment ago. Are you feeling all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine.”
“Grown-ups say that even when they’re not fine. I know that.”
Mabel wished the child were less observant. “You’re very perceptive.”
“What’s perceptive?”
“It means you see things. Notice things.”
“I’m not that wise yet, but I want to be. I want to be as wise as Tripalot.” Elsie stepped closer. “Are you sad?”
