The Twelve Days of Christmas

Two

Two

Three Years Later

I let out a sigh of frustration and re-shelved yet another book. I stood still in the library for a moment, wracking my brain for where I could locate the information to prove Gavin wrong. The other day we’d gotten into a disagreement that had degenerated into an argument about whether or not blue and red made purple. But where could I find some passage that would show Gavin how wrong he’d been?

The encyclopedia. How could I have been so dim-witted? I hurried to the row of shelves that housed our twenty-six-volume encyclopedia and ran my finger down the spines of the thick, green books in reverse order until I came to the third. There. But there was a space. The second was in its place, and then the fourth, but the third volume was missing.

I rolled my eyes and left the library to find Aunt Colette and ask her. She kept track of everything else in this manor; she would know. The only real problem was finding her, since she was giving a dinner party the next night and the manor was abuzz with preparations. Some count and his wife were coming, and Aunt Colette was more frazzled over this party than I’d seen her in a long time.

“Aaaaaunt Coleeeeee-eeeette!” I jogged through the corridors of my aunt and uncle’s manor as I searched for my aunt.

“Aunt Colette!” I hollered again as I came upon a corner and nearly tripped on a rug. “Oof!” I misjudged my distance from a wall and clipped it as I turned the corner, but then set off again, rubbing my shoulder. “Aunt Col—”

I ran into her.

She steadied herself, looking positively scandalized. “Adelaide Erimentha Hibbard, what on earth are you doing?”

I smiled sheepishly, still rubbing my shoulder. “Um, looking for you?”

Her countenance didn’t crack. “Then you should have sent someone. Honestly, telling you to slow down is like talking to a suit of armor!”

I bit my lip to keep from laughing. Our suits of armor were so old that the joints probably wouldn’t bend without snapping.

My aunt was still looking at my sternly. I fidgeted where I stood as my fingers twisted the front of my gown. Aunt Colette let out a sigh. “All right, what did you need?” I stopped playing with the front of my gown. I knew how much she hated that. “I was looking for a volume from the encyclopedia in the library.”

“Which?”

“The third.”

“Try your uncle’s study,” Aunt Colette said absentmindedly before she rushed off.

I rolled my eyes. That woman wasn’t any help. You’d think that she’d invited the king himself to the stupid dinner she was giving tonight.

I paused in the hallway for a moment, hands on my hips, as I watched my aunt bustle away. Aunt Colette had once borne a striking resemblance to my mother, but with time, her beauty had faded, and I couldn’t even see my mother in her anymore. I shook my head to clear it and directed my feet toward my uncle’s study. Never mind that it had been off-limits since I was eight; if Aunt Colette said I could go in, then by gracious I was going to!

As I approached the somewhat formidable door, my curiosity surged. What could possibly be contained in this room that Uncle Winston would order I never cross its threshold? I turned the knob and stepped in, blinking as my eyes adjusted to the dim interior.

There was a window on the opposite side of the room, and the drapes were drawn so tightly that only a single bar of sunlight shone on the thick maroon carpet. I wrinkled up my nose. It was just like Uncle Winston to have such hideous flooring. Aunt Colette must have overlooked this room when she was having the manor renovated, because there was no way the carpet would have survived.

I shook my head, returning my thoughts to my mission. On my right was a row of tall bookshelves. As I drew closer I realized that there were several books I’d been missing for months now. I almost laughed aloud at the thought of Uncle Winston hoarding a book of sonnets; the image of my stern uncle sitting by the fireplace and reading the flowery poetry aloud in his stiff, gruff voice was absurdly laughable.

Regardless, I had not come to imagine whatever it was Uncle Winston did when no one was watching, but to find the twelfth volume of our encyclopedia. I was imagining the look on Gavin’s face when he realized how wrong he’d been when I accidentally knocked a book off the shelf.

It sent dust flying throughout the room and I let out a sneeze so monstrous that it sent me stumbling backward a few steps. I bumped into my uncle’s desk and one of my hands sent a wooden box and some papers crashing to the floor. After sneezing about three more times (I never could sneeze just once), I sniffled and surveyed the damage my allergies had done.

I groaned. I’d never be able to put everything back the way it was. Resigned, I sighed and knelt to retrieve the first book I’d knocked off the shelf. That was easy enough to replace; it was the only thing missing. The papers and box from Uncle Winston’s desk were another story.

I shuffled through the papers, trying to determine what order they had been in before. One was a notice that some money was owed, another was a notice that my uncle would soon be receiving some money, two were invitations to fancy parties, and the other six were business papers that didn’t make any sense to me.

Biting my lip, I took a wild guess and placed them neatly on the corner of the desk, in the most likely angle they would have been from my uncle sitting in his chair. Now for the box.

I studied it for a moment, frowning as I did. It was about twice the length of my hand, so I had been glad for the carpet to muffle the sound when it fell. It wasn’t very deep, and even covered in a thin layer of dust the craftsmanship was striking. I ran my finger over the lid, taking some of the dust with me as I did. There was an engraving I hadn’t noticed, so I ran my entire hand over the box to clear the topmost layer of dust. Squinting in the dark of the office and tilting the box toward the fire, I managed to discern that it said, “For my sweet,” but the rest was impossible to read.

It was hard to imagine anyone sending my uncle anything engraved “for my sweet” so I stepped closer to the fireplace for more light, and nearly dropped the box when I read the rest of the inscription: “For my sweet Addie Bell.” I sank into the nearest chair and let out a long, slow breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. There had to be some kind of mistake.

I set the box in my lap and ran my fingers around the edges tentatively before lifting the lid slowly. I half-expected it to creak, since it looked like it hadn’t been opened in months, but the only noise in the room was the pop of the fire and the ragged sound of my breathing. There was a small gold plate on the inside of the lid that read, “On your thirteenth Christmas may you always pursue the stars and know you will someday fly. All my love, Daddy.”

My throat burned and the unshed tears stung. [i]No.

There had to be a reason for this… some kind of explanation. Why would this have been kept from me? My eyes finally drifted from the gold plate to the contents of the box. Inside was a pile of letters, some more yellowed with age than the others. I almost didn’t want to read them, afraid of confirming what I was already certain of.

The letter on top was dated for last Christmas, when I had not received a letter from my father, and the gift didn’t seem at all like Daddy. Unfolding the letter, I read,

Dear Addie,

I can hardly believe this is your fifteenth Christmas. I apologize that there is no gift with this letter, but I’m afraid what I really wanted to send you could not be packaged, so it will have to wait for when I see you next. I realize that you might not want to see me again after all these years, but it is my hope that you can find it within you to give your foolish father another chance—

I set it aside. The next letter down, slightly less yellowed, was from my fourteenth Christmas. It was shorter, and explained why there had not been a gift that year either. What my father obviously didn’t know was that there had been a gift, just not from him. The thirteenth and twelfth letters were much the same; though he included his remarks that he hoped I enjoyed the box and volumes of poetry.

I skimmed the letters from my eleventh Christmas back to my seventh and at the bottom of the box was the letter from my first Christmas with Aunt Colette and Uncle Winston, when I was six. It was the shortest letter of all, yellow and brittle with age.

My dearest Addie Bell,

I miss you. The house is not the same without you running in and out of the rooms, your sweet laugh echoing off the walls. It’s too quiet here, and I am moving out next week. The house will remain unoccupied, though I cannot guarantee what its condition will be if I ever return. I shall first travel to Eberly, not too far from you in Obelin, where I will seek an old friend and learn a new trade.

I’m sorry for the way things worked out, my Addie—you will never know how I longed to keep you with me always. Your aunt and uncle can care for you far better than I will ever be able to, and you will always be in my heart and on my mind. I know you will grow into a strong and beautiful young woman just like your mother, and I shall always be proud of you.

I pray that someday you will forgive me. I love you.

Daddy


A choked sob escaped my throat as I folded the letter and slapped it back into the box and threw the others on top of it. Why had he left me here? I had never really given it much thought as to why Daddy had sent me here after my mother’s death, but now I didn’t see how I’d ever understand. Didn’t he know I would have given up everything to stay with him? I didn’t need books or finery, fancy clothes or feather beds—I needed my father, not an aunt and uncle whom I’d never met.

But with the knowledge my uncle kept these things from me so many years and then forged the letters given to me each Christmas, I began to wonder if he even cared about me. I saw now he couldn’t possibly love me. Was Aunt Colette involved?

I noticed I’d dropped a letter on the floor, and snatched it quickly, swallowing hard to keep the tears at bay. It was addressed to my uncle, dated a few months before my twelfth Christmas, the first year I did not receive a letter from my father.

Winston,

Thank you for replying so promptly. I understand why Addie would not want to write, and I do appreciate you and Colette talking through it with her. If it is not an inconvenience to you, I shall continue to send my annual gifts and letters, just so Addie will know I have not forgotten her should she change her mind about wanting to have some contact with me. Thank you for your time.

Richard

I heard footsteps outside the office and I wondered how long I had been inside. It didn’t even seem to matter now. I replaced the box on my uncle’s desk and left the forbidden room without a backward glance.

He hadn’t known; the last letter had proven that. But the fact that Uncle Winston had gone behind my back and lied all those years stung of betrayal like I had never known. The Christmas letters and gifts were the only connection I had to my father, and he kept them from me.

Rage. Unadulterated fury welled up in my chest as I fought the urge to scream. I walked stiffly back to my room, careful to avoid the corridors where I could possibly encounter my aunt or uncle. Chest heaving with unspent anger, I finally reached the door to my room. I flung it open and then slammed it so hard the wood splintered.

Deceit. I stood still for a moment, adrenaline surging from inside and throughout my limbs. My fingers itched to destroy—to butcher something just as my trust in my uncle had been annihilated. I crossed the room and knocked over the first thing I encountered, which happened to be a wooden chair by the fireplace. A swift kick sent it clattering across the floor as I swept some papers into the fireplace and watched them flare up, a sick sense of pleasure coursing through me as my heart pounded in my ears. I had never felt such fury in all my life, such deception and disillusionment, and I didn’t know what to do with myself.

Lies. I heaved a pillow across the room and let out a low cry of feral pain.

I couldn’t breathe.

The pain constricting in my chest became almost unbearable before I realized it was because of the sobs wracking my body. I sank to the ground and pulled my knees to my chest, feeling the tears on my knees through the fabric of my gown. I couldn’t face them, not without anger and accusations.

Still weeping, I curled up on the cold floor, the sharp throbbing in my heart began slowing to a dull ache.

Daddy.