Miles remained at the edge of the gathering at first, simply watching. Everyone looked so happy. It slowly dawned on him that he knew nearly everyone and that they knew him. That no matter where he’d come from or how far he’d strayed, no matter where he went in the future, he was permanently and irrevocably one of them.
He blinked back tears. Why hadn’t he seen this before? Why hadn’t he understood how rich and fortunate he was?
Instead of crying, Miles set out in search of his parents. But he found Clara Dahl first, along with her husband, Ushi, and son, Liam. She gave Miles a warm hug before performing introductions. Ushi was very handsome and talkative, the kind of person who felt like a friend almost as soon as you’d met him. He said he’d heard a lot about Miles—there was no sign of disapproval there—and was thrilled to finally meet him.
Liam was shy at first, peeking out from behind his parents’ legs. But when Miles was in the middle of sharing one of Clara’s high school accomplishments—a senior skip day that had turned into a rousing party at the beach—Liam finally spoke up. “You’re s’posed to wear a coat,” he informed Miles solemnly. “Cuz it’s cold.”
Suppressing laughter, his parents looked ready to distract him. But Miles crouched down and smiled. “You’re right. Coats in winter are a good idea. But tonight I’m a wild beast, and beasts don’t need coats, do they?” He didn’t know why he’d said that, ruffling Liam’s hair with his fingertips as he spoke.
“What kind of beast?” Liam was wide-eyed.
“What kind do you think?”
Liam tilted his head, considering. Then, as if reaching a conclusion, he nodded. “You’re a reindeer. Like Santa’s. No red nose, though.”
“You’re absolutely right!”
Liam glowed with pleasure.
Miles stood up straight and met Clara’s laughing eyes. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said.
She grinned and shook her head. “Tonight’s the best night for stories like that.”
The adults spoke for a few more minutes, and although Miles truly enjoyed it, he had to force himself to not scan the crowd. “I need to find my parents. But do you guys have a little free time in the next couple of days? We could have coffee or something.”
“We’d love that,” said Clara, and Ushi nodded in agreement.
After a few more pleasantries, Miles dove back into the horde. A lot of people greeted him as he moved through, shaking his hand, clapping his shoulder, or giving him quick hugs. They didn’t rebuke him for being gone so long or for suddenly reappearing in their midst. They didn’t comment on his unkempt appearance. They simply seemed happy that he was there.
He found his parents close to the bonfire, their arms around each other and his grandmother beside them. She was wrapped in an ankle-length cloak the color of old bricks, with intricately embroidered floral motifs around the edges. With her long white hair loose and her back straight, she looked like a fairy-tale queen—until she caught sight of Miles and smiled, making her Grandma again. “You look like a person who’s been hit by inspiration,” she said.
“I am. I’ll show you the painting tomorrow, if you want.”
“I’d like that very much.”
“It’s sort of a strange piece. I don’t know why I made it.”
“It’s the solstice. A threshold, a time of change. And artists like you have the gift for seeing hidden things.”
Miles had no idea what to make of that declaration but figured it might have something to do with the oversize stein she held in one hand. Grandma was very fond of spiced ale, some of which she brewed herself from a secret recipe handed down by her mother.
Even though it made Miles feel even warmer, it was nice just to stand near the fire, watching the flames, hearing the logs pop, and enjoying the aroma of woodsmoke. Deadwood had been gathered from the forest for this communal purpose, and he had the odd conviction that the trees were honored to be used in this way, giving the last of themselves in brightness and sparks on this special night.
“Jesus, you need some sleep,” he muttered.
“What was that, honey?” Mom continued to gaze at the bonfire.
“Nothing. Talking to myself.”
“Did you know that talking to yourself is a sign of high cognitive function? And that it assists in problem solving?” She laughed. “Sorry. I’ve been reading journal articles again. But seriously, it’s something we see in some of our students when they’re concentrating on doing their best work.”
“I’m not working right now, Mom.”
She looked at him sidelong. “Oh?”
He loved his mother, but God, she still knew him better than he knew himself. And the fact that she probably always would was damned annoying. In a fit of pique—more at himself than her—he tore off his T-shirt and tossed it into the flames.
His parents gave each other a long, meaningful look that Miles couldn’t interpret, but they didn’t say anything. Grandma, though, had another cryptic nugget of wisdom. “Change can be painful. But the most beautiful destinations never have easy paths.”
Was she trying to hint that he should return to the Castle for good? Or that he should scurry far away? He was far too tired and headachy to figure that out. In fact, he was just tired, period. He’d made his appearance at the Feast. Now he could go inside and get some sleep.
But before he could make his way back through the crowd, the songs began.
Aside from the food and the excuse to stay up late, he’d always found the singing to be one of the best parts of the Feast: hundreds of voices joined together in celebration. Nobody cared whether you were a tenor with the Vancouver Opera, like his cousin Will, or had a voice like a braying donkey, like Uncle Victor. The collective effort was the point. His dad’s younger sister, Aunt Liv, was in charge of selecting the music, and she always chose wisely. There would be Christmas carols in several languages, along with koleda songs, the solstice music from Slavic countries. Aunt Liv would throw in some popular favorites too—Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody had been a huge hit during the last Feast Miles attended—along with selections from winter holidays around the globe.
Aunt Liv’s wife, Aunt Atzi, always printed out the words to that year’s songs and brought enough stapled photocopies for sharing. When Miles was in college, there had been some rumblings among the younger Thorsens that it was hard to read the improvised songbooks by firelight and that the family ought to conserve trees by joining the technological revolution: Aunt Atzi should just email the words for everyone to read off their phones. Tonight it was clear that this attempted revolution had been unsuccessful, and Miles found that this pleased him.
Forgetting his plans to turn in, Miles started to sing. He didn’t have one of Aunt Atzi’s pamphlets, but that didn’t seem to matter. Tonight he knew all the words. Or maybe he was hallucinating and bellowing nonsense, and the people nearby were merely humoring him. Didn’t really matter—he lost himself in the melodies and rhythms, and although he didn’t speak any language other than English, he grasped the meaning of every song.
His exhaustion drained away and his nerves thrummed with energy. He could have climbed a mountain or run a marathon. And he was now emitting so much heat that the people closest to him unzipped their coats, loosened their scarves, and tucked their hats and gloves into pockets.