𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐀𝐅𝐅𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍

𝒇𝒊𝒗𝒆

 When you finally awoke, it was to the sound of Amy crying out your name.

"(Y/N), (Y/N)! Wake up! It's Christmas!"

"Christmas," you whispered to yourself with a smile ghosting over your sleepy features. Without a second thought, you sprang up out of bed and dressed as quickly as you possibly could. You were alone in the lofty bedroom and it appeared that all of your cousins had let you sleep in an extra hour or so while they descended to the sitting room.

When you finally entered, you were taken aback by the amount of decorating that had happened between that morning and the night prior. The tree was alight with thin white candles and popcorn strings were hung from the rafters and either doorway that led into the sitting room and kitchen.

Meg was sitting in front of the fire on a short stool that forced her wide skirts to pool around her like ocean waves. She was busying herself with knitting a maroon-colored cap and it looked to be nearly complete. She looked up when you entered and set her work down on her lap. "Merry Christmas, (Y/N)."

"Merry Christmas, Meg," you smiled, still astounded by the effort that went into prettying up the house. Beth was sitting cross-legged on the sofa next to Jo, whose nose was buried deep in a worn hardcover book. She didn't seem phased by your entry, but you weren't especially offended.

"(Y/N)!" Amy cried out, running out from the kitchen and into your arms. Her cheeks were stuffed with gingerbread that she'd stolen from the breakfast table and her voice was muffled by crumbs. She wrapped her arms tightly around your middle and held you there for a moment before backing away again to go fiddle with the arch of green streamers that fell in front of one of the window panes.

As she worked, you crossed the room to take a seat in the armchair beside the opening of the kitchen. You weren't completely awake yet and were just as content in watching everyone else attend to their own personal tasks.

"It's so dreadful being poor," says Amy out of the blue with her bottom lip quivering. You lifted your head to watch her step back and admire her handiwork. She had probably done all of the decorations last minute and you were silently thankful. You shook your head with a sad smile at her declaration. You and your father were somewhat well off, so you couldn't level with her completely.

Meg tutted and picked her knitting needles back up, adjusting the stance in her lap. "I wish I had piles of money and several servants so that I wouldn't have to work ever again in my life," she added with the shake of her own head.

Amy, apparently not content with sitting still, skipped around the room and tidied up the rest of the decorations as she went. "I have lots of wishes," she quipped as-a-matter-of-factly. "But my favorite one is to be an artist in Paris and do fine pictures and be the best painter in the world."

These were very high ambitions for a girl of only twelve, you thought while saying nothing. You found that it was best to nod and smile when people spoke of impossible dreams. Especially in the presence of young people. Instead of squashing her hopes, you turned to Jo on the sofa beside you and rested your hand on her shoulder, pulling her back into reality. "Is that what you want, Jo? To be a famous writer?" 

"Yes," she sighed, her gaze quickly darting back to the curled brown pages of her story. You couldn't quite see the title, printed in crumbling gold pigment, but the words you made out on the page made it seem like quite the daring adventure. After offering her curt response, she picked herself up and joined Meg by the fire.

Amy quickly took her spot and impatiently crossed one leg over the other under her wide skirts. The only member of the household who wasn't yet present was Aunt Marmee. Only once she arrived could you indulge in the beautiful, yet minimal, breakfast platter laid out on the kitchen table.