Before The Snow Falls | Holiday Novella

The Letters

"Oh my god. It's a demonic Santa."

The porcelain statue depicting jolly old saint nick stared up at me with painted red eyes as I popped the top off the storage tote. Carefully removing the startling decoration from the box, I set it on my kitchen table. And after a quick assessment of the two-foot-tall Santa, I decided to twist it around so that it wasn't facing me—or more accurately, looking at me.

Turning back toward the rest of the contents in the tote, I was thankful to find that it all looked a lot less frightening. There was a jumbled pile of Christmas lights that I was confident didn't work, a little bit of metallic tinsel, a floppy felt snowman, and a lone box of ornaments.

After visiting my parents in upstate New York this weekend, my mom insisted that I take some of our holiday heirlooms with me to my new apartment in Ithaca. She'd acted like she was giving up extraordinary pieces of the past when, in reality, I think she was just eager to get rid of some old shit.

Digging a little deeper into the box, I pulled out my quilted Christmas stocking—the one thing that I was surprised my mom parted with. My grandma had given it to me when I was five. She made one for both me and my sister that year, and the stockings had hung above our fireplace every holiday season since.

I sighed, running my fingers over the patchwork and the emerald stitching that spelled my name. L-A-N-A. All four of the letters were crooked, but it had never mattered. Honestly, I almost wished that my mom hadn't given it to me. It would look so lonely hung above my fireplace with no other stockings hanging near it. 

Setting it down, I picked up the box of ornaments instead and peeked inside. Expecting to see  vibrantly colored bulbs, I was pleasantly surprised, and intrigued, to catch a glimpse at faded pastels. Opening the lid to the box wider, I revealed a collection of little figurines, painted and worn. They were bundled in winter clothes, with scarves thrown over shoulders and bonnets over curls, looking like something out of a Jane Austen novel.

Not that I'd ever read a Jane Austen novel.

Lifting one of the ornaments out of the box by its attached string, I gave it a gentle spin with the tip of my finger. Though the colors were dull, it was still mesmerizing. It danced through the air, twirling so quickly that something shot out of the bottom of it, making me jump. 

Okay, fine. I didn't just jump. I might have screamed, too.

A box of ornaments that had been in my parents' garage for God only knows how long? Obviously my first thought was that a spindly-legged, crawling creature had come to attack me. 

But no. Once I had gotten my crap together, I glanced to the floor, relieved to find it was actually a folded piece of paper. Well, as I picked it up, I realized that paper was a relatively loose term for the flimsy, torn material. The fibers were being held together by single threads in some places, and so I spread it out on the table by using just my fingertips, afraid it would tear if I wasn't careful.

When I saw what was inside, I gasped. I mean, I gasped. 

It was a letter. And not just any letter, but a letter from—I squinted at the smudged year—1867. If it was real, anyway. But it looked very real. Real like Jane Austen herself could have written this shit. 

My eyes hastily scanned the words, trying to make out the scrawling script that I was unaccustomed to reading. 

Nora,

I am not sure if this will reach you in America intact, but I had to try. I know it has been nearly two months now since you've left, but I have to know. I have to know why you left. Are you aware of how it felt when my mother had told me you'd gone back to America without even bothering to say goodbye?

And for what reason? Shall I ever know?

The weather turns bitter here in London as I write this. I know how you have always enjoyed the holiday season, Nora, though I've never had the opportunity to spend it with you. I, likewise, generally rejoice at the spirit in the air. But now I find it is rife with thoughts of you.

After all, you spend almost every summer wishing away the heat and longing for the magic of snowy days. How I should like to see your smile when it finally falls. I admit I've never thought of it in years past when you have returned to America. But now something is different, Nora. And yet, you left early. Over a month early.

I do not know if this ornament will make the crossing, but I have paid a pretty pence so that it might hopefully stay intact. May it bring you joy this holiday season.

Your childhood friend,

Felix

"It's a freaking nineteenth-century love note," I breathed excitedly.

Or was 1867 in the eighteenth-century? 

Whatever. 

I could never keep that straight. I flipped the paper over, hoping that there would be something else on the back, but there was nothing. No other names or places, no other details divulged.

"Damn it."

There were so many questions left unanswered. Why had the woman left him? Did she ever receive the letter? Did she return to London? I needed to know.

Also...why on earth did my parents have this? When my mom mentioned that the Christmas decorations had been a little dated, I didn't think she meant this dated.

Snatching up my phone, I typed a short text to Hale.

Hale Evans-Cornell University librarian, history-buff extraordinaire, owner of swoon-worthy dimples, and my very best friend. 

Throwing my phone back down, I returned to inspecting the ornament. Where the hell had the note fallen from? I turned it over gently. The bottom was open, the inside hollow. No wonder the ornament was so light. I set the delicate decoration down on the table, placing it on a soft towel. Once I'd determined the relic to be safe, I eagerly opened the box of decorations again. There'd better be another letter somewhere in here, or I was going to have to high-tail it back to my parents to search for more paper treasures.  

Plucking up another ornament, I gave it a controlled, little shake. And to my delight, a note came fluttering out, falling to my feet.

Feeling a little breathless, I repeated the same process with the rest of the contents of the box. Seven letters ended up floating to the floor. But the handwriting on some of them was different, and I crossed my fingers. That must mean they were from the woman in the letter, Nora.

Anxiously, I picked the letters up and scurried to the armchair in my living room. I sank into it, enjoying the comfort of well-made furniture that I only just recently started being able to afford. And by afford, I mean that I was making monthly payments on the goddamn thing. The rest of my apartment wasn't anything special. Though it did have a fireplace, and the hearth was already glowing and crackling.

Admittedly, it was my favorite part of my little living area. It made it feel a semblance like home.

Ping!

Hale: Are you serious? I'm on my way.

I smiled. Of course he was coming. Hale would never pass up the opportunity to see letters like this at the first possible chance. But that didn't mean I was going to wait for him to keep reading--hell, no. An odd sort of giddiness spread through my body as I looked down at the letters in my lap. I still had a grin on my face as I tucked my feet beneath me and dragged a light blanket across my lap. 

And then I carefully opened Nora's reply.