O' Artful Death - By Sarah Stewart Taylor Page 0,82
fires and hot coals at the bottom of the bed. And for the colonists who stayed year round, and those who came north for Christmas, it was a time of celebration.
There was ritual to the season, as there was to most things at the colony. A giant tree was felled in the woods and brought to Birch Lane and decorated by the servants. Shortly before the children were allowed to come in, it was lit. Then their parents summoned them and they waited in the dark for the doors to the parlor to be opened. There was eggnog and hot cocoa and all kinds of sweets. When she was older, Violet Gilmartin remembered Morgan’s annual turn as St. Nick for the Gilmartin’s holiday parties. “He would put on a red coat and trousers and big black boots and a fake beard of white wool. Then, while the children were being given hot cocoa and cookies after their sleigh rides, he would sneak in the back door and surprise them. Handing out presents from the giant bag over his shoulder, he would ask each child if they had been naughty or nice. Of course they all said nice and got a present.
“There was one concession to his character that Morgan was not willing to make and that was to wear a hat. He hated hats and so until I saw a picture of St. Nicholas in a book, I assumed that he had red hair, no hat, and a long white beard.”
—Muse of the Hills: The Byzantium Colony, 1860–1956,
BY BENNETT DAMMERS
IT WAS THE NEXT NIGHT, the night of the Christmas party, and Sweeney stood against a wall of the living room, feeling decidedly antisocial and overdressed in the vintage red cocktail dress and spike heels she’d brought from home. Someone had told her once that redheads should never wear red. Usually it was a rule she liked to break, but tonight she was wishing she’d stuck to something a little more modest. “Who’s the flashy broad in the red dress?” she pictured the guests whispering to each other.
What must have been half the evergreens in Vermont had been sacrificed to transform Birch Lane into an approximation of the outdoors in winter. Little Christmas trees decorated with red and purple velvet bows sat on every surface and the giant tree in the foyer was hung with strings of silvery ornaments. Feathery boughs decorated mantels and shelves and tables, sending off a pleasant piney scent.
It was mystical, a glorious antidote to the stark, chilly world outdoors.
Sweeney asked the bartender to pour her a scotch and tried to drink it slowly. Then she took up a post in a corner of the living room, hoping no one was going to take her in hand and make sure she had a good time. She tried not to look forlorn.
It was eight now and the party was in full swing. A few couples danced over by the four-piece jazz band playing My Embraceable You, and everyone else stood around a velvet-covered buffet table laden with wonderful things—smoked meats, a whole poached salmon, little bowls of caviar with toast and lemon wedges, oysters on a bed of crushed ice.
A dessert table in the hallway held six varieties of cakes, homemade Christmas stollen studded with fruit, crystal bowls of tiny, candied oranges, nuts and about twenty kinds of Christmas cookies. The living room, with another huge tree as the centerpiece, sparkled in candlelight.
Her efforts toward not looking forlorn obviously weren’t enough. Willow, dressed almost as formally as Sweeney in a long blue velvet shift and Indian print silk shawl, glanced over at her a couple of times before excusing herself from the group she’d been talking to and coming over.
“Sweeney, you look fantastic,” she said kindly.
“Thanks. I was feeling a bit overdressed, actually.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that. I’m always overdressed up here. I refuse to let myself go just because everyone else does. I like to think of myself as a fashion voice in the wilderness, actually. Here, have one of these. Patch always buys the best.”
Sweeney traded her tumbler for a flute. They sipped their champagne and then Willow said, “Isn’t it something about Carl Thompson?”
The champagne was delicious and Sweeney drank it a little too quickly, the dry, bubbly fumes tickling her throat.
“Yeah. Everyone seems so relieved. I almost hadn’t realized how much it was weighing on all your minds.”
Willow’s eyes were artfully made up with pink and beige shadow and dark mascara. They glanced up