Marie woke too early Christmas morning. A faint noise, like the shuffle of soft boots, floated up the dark stairs.
Could it be? Marie knew she should snuggle back under the quilt and at least pretend to sleep. Instead, she slipped from the warm bed and crept to the landing.
The faint noise came again, as if something heavy was being dragged across the rug. Marie felt her way down a ste, then another and another, her bare feet silent as mice on the runner.
In the shadowy hall, lit only by the glow from outside’s gas lamp, she hesitated at the drawing room door. Her heart hammered so loudly she was sure anyone in the room must hear. She held her breath, and before she could change her mind, glanced around the partly open door.
The Christmas tree was a blaze of lit candles which cast the room in a golden haze. Or perhaps the haze came from … Marie gasped, softly. He was there, at the table set with a glass of sherry and a mince pie. The carrot was gone, doubtless stuffed into a capacious pocket for when Father Christmas returned to the roof. He didn’t appear to have heard her gasp, busy with the sherry. So Marie had a chance to see the doll house crammed against the boughs of the tree. The tall, pastel blue building looked very much like the house she lived in, and was set in a landscape of piled snow which looked so real she could sense the cold from her hiding place. A massive pink bow held a large card with Marie inscribed on it in huge silver letters.
Marie wanted to rush to the blue house, see what was inside, introduce herself to the inhabitants, if there were any yet. She held herself back, peering through the gap, eyes wide.
Father Christmas rose, stretched, collected his empty sack and stepped towards the fireplace and the dull glow of coals. As he stepped inside the grate, he turned, black eyes fixed on the doorway.
Marie drew back, not breathing.
Too late.
‘I see you, young Marie, where you most definitely should not be.’ His voice was stern, displeased.
A short pause, and Marie dared to peek again, hoping he had left. Father Christmas’s gimlet eyes were still fixed on her.
‘You like the blue house?’ The voice had warmed, a little.
‘Oh yes,’ Marie cried, daring to come into the room. ‘Thank you, Father Christmas.’
‘Humph.’ Father Christmas placed his second black boot in among the coals of the fireplace, and bent beneath the chimney. ‘Good.’
And he was gone, and there was Marie … standing by the doll house, peering in the open door … and walking into the hallway, her heat booming … Outside, the tree loomed like a glowing mountain above Marie. And her new home.
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