Coming down the stairs, my face heating, I brush by Michael. He inhales, eyes crinkling, but he doesn't look at me, instead, suppressing a smile as he heads up.
In the dining room, I find Charlotte and Mitch. Charlotte sits by the fire in an armchair, humming to herself, cradling Cara as though she'll never let go.
Mitch has brush and twigs laid out on the table, knotted and intertwined into a tightly woven whole, six or eight feet long. She winds in sprigs of pine, ivy, and holly, glossy and green, and brightly berried. Then she loops in ribbons of red and gold and tartan, twisting and knotting them with a practiced hand into coils and bows. She looks up, eyes brightening. "Ah, Kirstie. Good timing. Can help me with the swags, please."
"You look as though you're almost done."
"I am..
