The Dollhouse

Chapter 23

CHRISTMAS arrived with a sense of trepidation.

I had never seen the holiday season done so glamorously.

Snow was falling thick over the gardens, blanketing the posh houses. When you gazed outside, you would often glimpse a swirl of it in the wind. At the Dollhouse, Arabella had snapped back into her strict mode now that guests were arriving - the real fir tree had its own coordinated silver-and-gold decorations, dusted with glitter. The fancy crackers were sheathed in the same shade.

Old English and rigidly traditional, the house did have a contemporary sophistication to it. Eagle-eyed, I did notice Arabella displaying a bible on the coffee table. A few night later, a crossed appeared on the kitchen wall, swapped with the wedding photograph.

An elaborate candelabra sat in the center of the white-clothed table, swapped from the ordinary lace, with gleaming silverware and plates so fine you could probably earn a small fortune if you sold them off.

Woven wreaths made home on the door. With the comforting heat of the crackling fire and the smell of freshly baked cookies, I felt guilty for enjoying myself so much.

Back at home, we donned our plastic tree with the same wonky handmade decorations each year, and hardly ever had company. Mom didn't bother that much with festivities. She was excellent with gifts - and by the lack of the parcels here, Arabella didn't fret over silly things like that.

Violet hardly disguised her jaunts about anymore. I warned her to watch herself around Christmas time - apparently, Arabella's mother was elderly and uptight, and her younger brother a member of the clergy.

She would come through the door with a gust of wind, cheeks glowing, flecks of snow in her dark hair.

"What's the worse she could do to me?" she had scoffed, shaking off her coat.

Arabella wouldn't stop turning her pearls the afternoon her family were due to arrive. I was a little rigid myself, hiding in my bedroom and tensely re-reading The Great Gatsby. When I heard the sure sign of a car door slamming and the doorbell, I bolted down the stairs, a pleasant smile already plastered on my face.

Father Edgar favored a high-collared shirt even out of religious garb. His neat haircut was chestnut brown, the family cheekbones enhancing his long face. First, he embraced his sister, then his blue-grey eyes fell on us.

"Nice to meet you," he said formally, extending a hand towards me.

Arabella's mother, Irene, first acknowledged her grandson. Making her way through the door using a thick black cane, she limped at a surprising speed; "Merry Christmas, my dear." I clocked that Rudy had changed into a woolen jumper before her arrival, patterned with an ugly snowflake design.

Her facial muscles contorted when she was finally forced to greet us. She was a dumpy elderly woman roughly in her seventies, with severe grey hair and a aristocratic fashion sense rival to a monarchy.

"Nice to meet you, Mrs. Benedict." I outstretched my hand.

"Arabella, I will simply die from withdrawal if I don't have tea immediately." Her voice pierced the air. She spoke in such a way that made it unclear whether she was joking - she then bustled past, shaking my hand curtly without looking me in the eye.

"Irene to you!" she flung over her shoulder.

Violet and I watched her exit in disbelief. The priest dithered, a thin smile stretched on his face.

"Nice to meet you," he said again, then followed his mother.

Wringing my hands, I don't know why I had expected anything more. As the legitimate children from a former spouse, we probably weren't the most favorable people in either of their books.