Have Yourself a Merry Little Witness - Dakota Cassidy
Chapter 1
The Christmas Song
Written by Mel Tormé and Robert Wells during a blistering-hot summer in 1945
“There’s a light out on the strand of bulbs above the kitchen cabinets, Halliday. Do handle it, would you, please? It throws the entire balance of the greenery and ornaments off and looks positively dreadful,” said Atticus, of the deep voice and even deeper disapproval, as we finished up the last of our Christmas decorating.
I rolled my eyes at my hummingbird, who hovered in my sightline, his wings buzzing. “Yes, Drama Queen. I’ll get to it as soon as I’m sure these pictures are straight.”
Taking a step back from the batch of vintage Santa pictures I’d just hung along each side of the fireplace, I sighed with disgust. “I have zero sense of symmetry.”
“Not if you angle your head at four o’ clock,” Atticus reassured. “Maybe five after.”
I cocked my head. “I don’t think I can ask everyone to hold their heads at four o’clock, Atti.”
“I told you to measure, Halliday.”
“And I told you I never measure.”
“And I told you it would be crooked.”
I planted my hands on my hips and ignored him as I assessed. We were almost done with decorating the house (it only took an entire week, starting the day after Thanksgiving), and my fondest wish at this point was to be able to sit and enjoy it all. I couldn’t enjoy it if the pictures were crooked.
Knowing Atti would scold me for using my magic instead of manually adjusting the frame didn’t stop me from lifting my index finger in the air, moving the frame a bit to the right and straightening the picture of Santa riding a moonbeam.
“Halliday…” Atti warned.
He didn’t like me to use my magic for something I could do with good old-fashioned manual labor. He was forever worried I’d forget and use it in front of someone I shouldn’t, and I’d be discovered for the witch I am.
Then they’d burn me at the stake in the town square, blah, blah, blah.
I grinned at him as the picture leveled out. “What? I’m just getting my fingers warmed up for Uncle Darling’s arrival. You know he’ll want to do at least one ritual altar to honor mom before he moves on to his next stop.”
Uncle Darling is actually my godfather, and my mother’s best friend she met while in college in Boston. His real name is Andrew Darkling, and on the drag queen circuit he’s known as Tia Fortew (get it?). He’s quite famous—or maybe it’s infamous—in the world of hip pads and glitter.
My first real memory of Uncle Darling is of him in a blonde wig teased to the heavens, long red nails, and a beautiful sparkly red dress, with eyelashes the size of hand fans glued to his eyelids.
Apparently, his last name, Darkling, stuck, but I couldn’t pronounce it properly and instead dubbed him Aunt Darling. At that age, I didn’t know he was a man dressing as a woman as part of his profession.
He was simply someone I adored who showed up from time to time and played trucks and dress-up with me, and took me on long walks to the beach to gather seashells and into town for double scoops of my favorite ice cream.
Anyway, he’s retired from the drag queen circuit now, but he’s been a constant in my life for as far back as I can remember and I love him as much as if he were blood related.
He and my mother were as close as two best friends can be, and now that she’s left the mortal realm, he’s made it a point to come visit me every couple of months so we’ll never lose touch.
This month, he’s doing what he calls his Christmas tour—in and out in seventy-two hours or less. The one where he drops in on friends and family for a few days during the holidays (his motto is, stay any longer and, like fish, a houseguest begins to smell), lavishes them with love and gifts and whisks off to the next place, leaving behind his biting sense of humor and the memory of nonstop belly laughs over wine.
Atti grated a sigh. “You don’t need your fingers for that, Halliday, and you know that quite well. Speaking of Andrew, when is he supposed to arrive?”
I looked at my phone. “In about an hour. He’s driving in from New Hampshire, where they just left Monty’s sister’s house. So it shouldn’t be long before they arrive.”
Monty is Montwell Danvers, Uncle Darling’s husband,