The people laughed too. Everyone got sap on their skin and clothing, needles in their hair, tiny scratches on their hands and faces. The youngest kids were supposed to be searching for fir cones, which turned into a competition to see who could find the biggest. Inevitably, one cousin lobbed a reject at another cousin’s head, the victim retaliated, and a small battle ensued until someone tripped over a root and ended up crying. Miles grinned at the children’s unrepentant expressions. As a kid, he’d had excellent aim.
Mom and Dad eventually felled the tree, and everyone helped bundle it into the cart. They loaded some of the extra boughs alongside it, but almost everyone ended up carrying an armful out of the woods and down to the Castle.
Getting the tree onto the porch, then through the front door and foyer, and finally into the parlor was a whole other adventure. People jostled and tripped and swore cheerfully. They left a trail of fallen needles and muddy footprints on the wooden floors. Then there was the additional struggle of getting the fir into its stand near the bow windows in the parlor turret. Ah, but the results were worth it. Even unadorned, the tree was spectacular. Everyone stood around, oohing and aahing, congratulating Dad on his discerning eye.
Then came Miles’s turn to be in charge. He directed his relatives on the precise trimming and stringing of boughs across mantels, down banisters, over doorways, and along porch railings. The scent of fir hung heavily throughout the house, making him feel lightheaded and almost giddy. Kids snacked on popcorn as they strung it into garlands dotted with cranberries. A contingent of family members on ladders decorated the tree with gingerbread cookies, braided straw wreaths and stars, and simple glass ornaments. The candles clipped to the branches might be a fire hazard, but nobody seemed worried.
By then it was well past noon and everyone was famished, stolen popcorn notwithstanding. The doorbell rang, and a minute later a rousing cheer went up as one of the uncles staggered into the parlor, hidden behind a tower of pizza boxes. Thorsens set upon the food like a pack of starving wolves, heedless of sap and dirt and whatever else still stuck to their fingers. Miles followed suit; the pizza was delicious.
After the detritus was cleared away and the floors swept clean, some people returned to decorating. Miles was informally appointed director of the younger kids, who made paper chains and drawings of Santa Claus and julenisser. It was surprisingly fun to confer with young cousins about the appropriate height of a julenisse’s pointed red cap or the proper color and shape of the creature’s boots. A couple of kids made a wonderful mess sticking silver and blue glitter on fir cones. One little girl of six or seven—Miles wasn’t sure whose daughter she was—steadily and with tongue-pointed concentration cut an entire blizzard’s worth of paper snowflakes. Miles helped the children hang their creations, and eventually it was hard to move anywhere downstairs without knocking against something festive.
The scents of the forest were slowly overlaid by delicious smells wafting from the kitchen: simmering meats and baking breads and myriad spices. Even though Miles had overeaten on pizza, his stomach growled. Tomorrow’s Feast would be delicious.
Tonight, everyone was on their own for dinner. Most people grabbed sandwiches or leftover pizza. Then they gathered in the large room downstairs—now transformed into a holiday wonderland—to watch TV, read, do puzzles, or chat. It was very much like a usual evening, except tonight everything had an edge of excitement and expectation, a sense that something important was going to happen very soon. Miles sat on a couch between his parents, his brain pleasantly fuzzy with exhaustion and calories. A black-and-white movie was onscreen in front of them, but he didn’t bother to follow the plot.
It was a good evening. A great one. Almost perfect, really. Except that Remy’s absence was as obvious as a gaping wound, and Miles felt guilty for forcing him to miss the night’s festivities. When Miles had been in high school and college, Remy would sit close to him the night before the Feast, reminiscing quietly about les réveillons he’d experienced. It was one of the rare occasions when he’d talk about his past, and his dark eyes would go hazy and soft.
Make yourself scarce.
“I’m beat.” Miles rose abruptly, startling a fluffy gray cat who’d settled in his father’s lap.
Mom smiled up at him. “Get some sleep. You’ll need it for tomorrow.”
He said good-nights to everyone, including his grandmother who was knitting by the fire, and made his way up to his room.
But he didn’t go to sleep.
9
The light in his tower was far too dim for painting, but he did it anyway. He could see the colors perfectly in his mind’s eye. After all, hadn’t he spent the day among the forest’s layers of greens and browns? Hadn’t he spent a good part of his childhood there?
At some point the tower began to feel overwarm. He turned off the space heater, and when that wasn’t enough, he pried open the windows. They tilted inward from the tops, sending small showers of dust and old paint onto the floor. And when he still found himself mopping his brow, he removed his sweatshirt and socks, leaving on nothing but his favorite pair of color-speckled jeans.
He felt Remy—a cool breeze wafting over from the stairway—before he saw him. Miles didn’t look up from his painting. “You can come in.”
“You said I should make—”
“Come in, Remy.” He heard the whisper of feet on the floorboards and the little rustle of fabric as Remy arranged himself in the armchair. Then Miles sighed and spoke, his back to Remy. “I’m sorry I made you miss tonight. That was cruel of me.”
“I was just down to see the tree and the decorations. They’re beautiful.”
“I swear, every year I think Dad has chosen a tree that’s too big, but every year it manages to fit. I’m glad that hasn’t changed.”
“Traditions can be very dear things.”
Now Miles did throw a glance over his shoulder, but he couldn’t make out Remy’s expression, which lay deep in shadow. “You’ll be at the Feast tomorrow?”
Remy answered after a long pause. “If you don’t mind.”
“I’m not in charge of you! You should do whatever you want to do.” Miles was silent for a moment before adding, sotto voce, “I don’t mind.”
“You don’t hate me?”
“Of course not.”
Remy sighed. “I almost wish you did.”
“Why?”
“Because hatred isn’t the opposite of love—indifference is. I don’t want you indifferent toward me.”
Miles didn’t know how to answer that. After a moment, with a small sound that could have meant anything, Remy settled more deeply into the chair. He didn’t say anything more and neither did Miles. The only noises were the creaking of the floor when Miles shifted his stance and the faraway call of an owl. Miles applied paint in tiny, precise strokes as cool air bathed his bare back.
“May I tell you a story?” Remy asked after what might have been hours.
A story. The idea was unexpectedly appealing. “Yes.”
“It’s one my papa told me when I was a boy. He was a voyageur.”
“A… traveler?” Miles guessed. He’d never studied French.