A/N (s):

GreatKateZonkeyMachine – Well, the cat's out of the bag. Kahlan and I have been working on this little bit of holiday misery since September, and will likely continue to be wrapped up in it through to the spring. I haven't co-authored anything before (unless you count the random little one-page comedic drabbles my friend Aline and I write in science class…Never mind. Long story.), and neither has Kahlan. Don't let this lighthearted chapter fool you, we just wanted something for you to come back to when the rest of the story gets too terrifying for you to bear (ASOUE, anyone?). MUAHAHAHAHAHA!

Hmm. I just read this chapter again, and I realized that there's kind of a Kate's-blue-eyes motif going on. Interesting, but unintentional.

Kahlan the Dream Spirit – This is the first thing I've ever co-written, and I have to say that, by the looks of the outline, it's going to be highly entertaining to do. I don't know if it'll be entertaining to read, but I have confidence... This chapter entertains me simply because it reminds me of how my family's Thanksgiving dinner went. There wasn't any snow, unfortunately, but everyone was trying to help everyone else and getting underfoot. Luckily, this year our stuffing didn't explode (it did last year, long story...).

In all seriousness, this chapter was written more carefully than you might think. We wanted to give a sense of how happy and soft their lives are; for now, Reynie concerns himself with things like the Calories in maple syrup and how funny Mr. Bane's face looks when he's angry. That's all about to change.

Disclaimer: Kahlan the Dream Spirit doesn't own anything worth noting. Great Kate Zonkey Machine, however, recently purchased the rights to MBS, Quidditch, the month of December, Queen Cleopatra, and the Smithsonian with his many billions of dollars.

Warnings: Violence, no holiday spirit, no humor, Vic Morgeroff, character death, and trochaic octameter.

-N-O-M-A-N-S-L-A-N-D-

CHAPTER – 1

"Pancakes and Poe"
or, First Snow

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Reynard Muldoon wasn't necessarily a huge fan of snow.

You couldn't accuse him of disliking it, of course. One of Reynie's most precious memories was of Christmastime with his friends in Mr. Benedict's house, throwing snowballs, eating lukewarm soup that seemed piping hot, Kate catching a cold and then infecting the rest of them... Constance had gotten so bad that Kate had played a joke one afternoon by "quarantining" her—essentially locking her in the room they shared. Mr. Benedict had laughed himself to sleep for a few minutes at the rhyming threats she'd shouted from inside, Milligan had cracked a smile, and even the stern Number Two hadn't been able to resist at least one chuckle. In fact, the only one not amused by the affair was Constance herself, which Kate had discovered the next day when she found grape jelly covering the inside of her bucket.

But about the snow.

Reynie didn't really mind it. Kate had a knack for making very secure snow forts (she'd put a roof on one once, though it had collapsed within the hour on Reynie's dismayed head) and making the best snowballs Reynie had ever seen. You always wanted to be on her team, because unless you had Rhonda (who was also a formidable opponent in snow-related warfare) you didn't stand a chance against the former acrobat. Kate had a reputation in that respect.

But snow was also cold and inconvenient, and sometimes the weather got so bad the children had to be cooped up in the house at all times. This wasn't pleasant, because they were cooped up most of the time anyway; Constance had once written a poem comparing it to the Waiting Room, the Bastille, Alcatraz, Mordor (Kate was to blame for her watching that movie), and the local dog pound. Kate had taken the poem, set it to a tune, and went around singing it non-stop until Rhonda had broken down and told her that if she didn't stop immediately, she'd wish she actually was in all of those prisons, because they'd be better than what Rhonda was capable of instituting. Reynie, for his part, had believed every word. Rhonda could be frightening when she chose, even for her height, stature, and quaint appearance.

It was snowing now, when Reynie woke up, and he decided that he was glad to see it. It gave the room a nice Christmas-y feeling, the kind that a house like Mr. Benedict's was supposed to have, and was coating the lawn in a fine white powder that would be perfect for molding snowballs. At least, he thought so—Kate insisted that there were different types of snow and the efficiency of your snowball depended entirely on the quality of the base snow.

He laid there, snug under the blankets, for a few minutes before remembering that if there was light enough to see in December then it had to be late, and someone would be making breakfast by now. If he wanted to eat, getting a move on would be a good idea.

After summoning the willpower to hoist himself out of bed, Reynie glanced out his bedroom window and grinned at what he saw. Kate should be pleased, he thought. He climbed down the bunk-bed ladder and glanced over at the boy sleeping in the bunk below: his best friend in the world—whom he liked to call Sticky—was equal only to Kate and Constance. Sticky was lying stomach-down in his bed, his right arm dangling off the side and his mouth slightly open. It was a strange position for a growing thirteen-year-old to be in, Reynie thought, and laughed quietly at the image before proceeding to his bureau. Weekend it may have been, and the holidays to boot, but he was not going to leave the room undressed.

Several articles of clothing (including a t-shirt and a sweater—you could never be sure what the temperature was) later, Reynie crossed off December the eleventh on his calendar and ran downstairs. His roommate kept snoring.

As he was walking down, he could hear voices coming in the general direction of the kitchen:

"I'm sorry, Constance, no. There will be plenty of food soon."

"But Rhonda..."

Once in the kitchen, Reynie saw Constance Contraire, who was already dressed and had begun her daily occupation of aggravating Rhonda Kazembe, who was making breakfast, scurrying around the kitchen in a busy manner. Briefly Reynie wondered what had happened to Moocho Brazos, the usual household chef, but he smiled fondly at the two of them and sat down at the table.

"There you are!" Constance said crossly to Reynie, as though he were late. She was sitting in one of the old wooden chairs at the dining table, on top of an added stack of books so she could reach the table. "Tell Rhonda to make me some pancakes!"

"Good morning, Constance," he replied. The corners of his mouth twitched. Morning routines were the same, regardless of the season.

Rhonda sighed as she continued beating egg yolks with a whisk. "Good morning, Reynie. I'm afraid I'm terribly busy this morning—making breakfast for ten, you know."

"Only ten?" Reynie frowned. "Aren't you eating?"

"Oh, yes! There's just bound to be someone who isn't—Milligan on a mission, or Mr. Benedict working with that awful Whisperer—and then if I cook for eleven there'll be an extra meal that I'll end up having to give to Constance. And then she won't eat more than a bite and it'll get thrown away."

Constance scowled in agreement. It was her normal, everyday scowl, so Reynie knew she was in a good mood. And who wouldn't be, with Christmas on the way and snow falling outside? And Rhonda cooking... Since Moocho had come along, Rhonda never cooked anymore. It was a nice change.

Reynie gave her a sympathetic look. "Would you like me to help?" he asked, considering just how many people ten people were.

"No, I'm fine. I just can't make pancakes for Constance." Rhonda was shifting to the stove-top now, where she already had something sizzling in a pan. Several somethings, actually.

Reynie stood and walked over to the counter, beginning to pull out ingredients and sorting them on the island in the middle of the room. "Here, I'll do it—unless you don't want her to have them, that is."

Rhonda looked at the mutinous expression on Constance's face. She decided that she was in too good a mood to have to deal with the toddler at the moment, and it wasn't an unknown fact that she would have plenty on her hands once Kate got here. Kate was always hungry. "That would be quite helpful. Thank you." She caught a piece of toast with one hand, while flipping an omelet in a skillet with the other. Reynie was impressed with her prowess in the kitchen; she never seemed to stop moving. There was something of a rhythm to the whole business.

He pulled out a mixing bowl and poured the powdered mix into it; normally he would have made the batter from scratch, but because of Constance's glare and the pencil and paper she'd gotten out, he decided speed was more important than artistry. He mixed in a few cups of water and then went searching in the refrigerator for some eggs. They were always short on those. He hoped that Miss Perumal had remembered to buy extra at the store...

Rhonda, meanwhile, was busy trying to set the table while flipping more omelets and keeping the rest of the toast from burning. It was a feat worthy of Heracles, Reynie thought with a grin as she pulled out a stack of plates and began to set the table. Everything the people in this house did was a feat worthy of Heracles. Everything from defeating Curtain to handling Constance to feeding a dozen people give or take.

"It's too bad Kate isn't here to help," he said to Rhonda, wondering after he did if she was too encumbered to speak.

Apparently she wasn't. "That it is," she replied briskly. She completed a circuit of the table by ending with Constance's seat. The tiny girl lifted her pencil and paper without emotion as Rhonda set a plate down. The plate was immediately shoved over in favor of the insulting rhyme she was likely composing. "Kate could have set the table," Rhonda continued.

"Not the way you like it set."

Rhonda shrugged—or maybe it just seemed that way, since she was lifting plates of food from the counter and bringing them to the table. "It would have been set, and that would have been helpful, regardless of the style it was done in." Reynie wondered if Rhonda had ever seen Kate set the table before he himself had had access to it and rearranged the entire setting. Kate was a very tidy person in most respects—except that, when setting the table, she more often than not forgot where things went and left things behind or other such instances. Most times she forgot the napkins. Sometimes the cups. Once she'd forgotten the plates—though that was on a particularly distracting occasion involving a turkey that had nearly set the house on fire.

"I'll make sure to get in a line or two about Kate," said Constance, who was scribbling intently on the paper now. She had uncommonly surprisingly good handwriting, thanks to her career as a poet, belied by her stubby arms and pudgy hands.

"What's the poem about?" asked Reynie as he cracked the eggs into the bowl.

"How slow everyone is when it comes to food," Constance said proudly, "in trochaic octameter, after the style of Edgar Allen Poe." She frowned. "Do you think 'bugger' rhymes with 'sugar'?"

Soon, Kate Wetherall herself came walking down the stairs on her hands. Reynie smiled at the way she quickly and expertly maneuvered around the table. She passed by Constance—shoving the chair when the tiny girl muttered "Show off"—and came beaming into the kitchen. "Morning, Rhonda," she said cheerfully. Reynie was now stirring the batter and nearly had it ready as she walked over to where he was. Then she punched the back of his leg by way of a morning greeting, causing his knees to buckle. Consequently, he ended up falling painfully and dumped all the pancake batter on Kate.

"What was that for?" they both yelled, Reynie rubbing his knee in pain and Kate wiping the batter off her face. Then they both yelled their earnest apologies before bursting out laughing. Rhonda stood over them, making tsking noises and shaking her head for a split second before continuing with her business. "Please clean it up, you two," she called. Kate, still laughing, took the mixing bowl off of her head while Reynie began to search for the towels.

"Hello?" Constance grouched from the dining room. "I'm not seeing what's so hilarious. What about my food?"

Sighing in unison, Reynie started making some more batter and Kate went off to get a mop—right-side-up this time.

The next person downstairs was Mr. Benedict himself, dressed in his usual green plaid suit. He greeted everyone cheerfully ("Constance, my dear! A new poem have we? In trochaic octameter, no less" - Constance beamed) but kept walking down, toward the basement.

"Oh, don't tell me you have to go bury yourself away with that infernal machine again," said Rhonda, slightly upset. Rhonda didn't like the Whisperer. Nor did anyone else. It had been invented by Mr. Benedict's brother, Mr. Curtain, and had terrible powers, but in Mr. Benedict's care, it had revealed potential to do good as well. Never the less, no one in the house was at ease with it, especially with Curtain still at large.

Mr. Benedict shrugged and kissed his adopted daughter on the cheek, smiling sadly. "I'm afraid so; my apologies, Rhonda." And he disappeared into the basement. Over the months of harboring the Whisperer, that basement had become a place that received few visits and many nervous glances. Reynie looked back at the mixing bowl and put it out of his mind.

A few minutes after Kate had finished cleaning up the pancake mess and Reynie had made a new batch—declining her help, of course—Sticky came downstairs and sat blearily at the table. Kate bounced in and took her seat next to him, grinned, then said, "Missing something?"

Sticky blinked in groggy confusion before his naked eyes widened and he replied, "Oh! That's why I can barely see." And he hustled away again, off to retrieve his spectacles. Kate disappeared as well, but Reynie didn't see where she'd gone; he was too busy making Constance's pancakes. When they were sufficiently browned on both sides (he actually thought they looked quite pretty), he stacked them onto a plate and carried it into the dining room, rather proud of himself. He wasn't reputably a good cook, after all, and making even the simplest things was cause for celebration.

But when Constance's plate was set before her, she didn't say, "Gee, thanks, Reynie!" or "Yum!" or even "It's about time!" Not that Reynie had expected her to—that would be showing too much gratitude for Constance Contraire. Even so, he did not expect her to wrinkle her nose and shout "THEY'RE NOT CHOCOLATE CHIP!" before pushing away the platter and fuming with her arms crossed over her chest.

Reynie sighed heavily, feeling Rhonda's pain. "How about I lather them in syrup for you? Would that console you a bit?" After all, syrup did have a frighteningly high sugar and Calorie ratio these days.

Constance humphed and uncrossed her arms. "Fine. I guess so," she muttered angrily, and then said a few words under her breath about things that weren't chocolate or chocolate-related, and how not receiving chocolate-related food stuffs when they were so obviously expected was very bad form indeed. Reynie dearly wanted to say, "I'm sorry, I didn't realize it was such a crime to make plain pancakes for a friend," but knew that it would not be wise.

"I heard that!" Constance yelled in outrage as he walked back into the kitchen for the syrup, which hadn't made it out to the table.

Reynie heaved yet another great sigh—something most people tended to do when Constance was around. He'd gotten used to her ways, but that didn't mean he liked or approved of them. She certainly was a strange girl in many respects. For one thing, she was only four years old. Her birthday was in a week, but five wasn't much less remarkable for someone who thought and spoke like she did. Constance had the temperament, manners and physicality of a toddler, but the intelligence of someone much older. Her gifts included a talent in poetry, and an amazing ability to speak her mind (and read others', meaning she generally heard what you had to say even if you refrained from saying it).

Reynie carried the bottle of syrup back out to the table and began to slather the already sugary pancakes with the sweet concoction. Before he was even finished Constance grabbed her fork and dug in, completely oblivious to the delicious breakfast Rhonda had made and was in the midst of putting out on the table. Reynie's adopted family, the Perumals, walked in, greeted everyone and sat down at the table. Sticky was back now, with his spectacles this time. He was followed by his parents, who earnestly made sure that Rhonda didn't feel insulted by Constance eating the pancakes. Feeling left out and a bit shameful, Miss Perumal promptly offered to help Rhonda with breakfast preparations, an offer she accepted eagerly. That left Reynie to sit down with his friends (minus Kate) and discuss whatever it was they discussed at breakfast.

Soon afterward, they heard raised voices coming from outside. One sounded very stubborn and like it would carry a red bucket; the other was recognizable as an unpleasant guard named Mr. Bane. When everyone present was staring, an irate Mr. Bane marched into the kitchen. Anyone who saw him at that point would have sworn in court that he was related to a tomato, or some other red vegetable.

"Would someone please remind Miss Wetherall that she is not to leave the house?" he said furiously, clearly aimed at Rhonda.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, I'll go and get her!" This was Number Two, who preferred to be called by her code name rather than her embarrassing given name, and who had just entered. She left, calling "Kate? Come in, child, it's freezing out!" A few seconds passed in which it was impossible to be sure what was being said, and in a minute, Number Two came wrapping her lemonade-colored shawl more tightly around her shoulders and saying "Brr!", accompanied by Kate, who was looking disappointed.

"But it's snowing outside!" the girl protested, her blue eyes extremely forlorn.

"Exactly!" snapped Number Two, helping herself to a banana from the fruit basket.

Rhonda, with a venomous glance at the retreating back of Mr. Bane, who had swiped a pastry when he'd thought that nobody was looking. Of course, she would've gladly offered a pastry to a guard passing through, but theft tends to make one feel less generous.

Reynie had seen the snow through his bedroom window. All the trees, roofs, cars, bushes and fences were covered in blankets of pure white (not to mention the driveway—he suspected that would be a job for he and his friends to shovel). It looked like a holiday card, and even more like a very fun day, albeit a cold one that would likely lead to a repeat of the Quarantine Incident. "Can't we please go outside later today, Rhonda?" he said imploringly from his seat next to Sticky, trying not to sound too pleading lest she use it against him in the future.

"Please?" added Sticky, who had no such thoughts of strategy in his head.

Rhonda bit her lip and looked away—only to find herself staring into Kate's huge, round, shining eyes.

Kate had this look that she gave you when she wanted something, this big-blue-pleading-eyes look that even the hardest heart would melt under. Reynie didn't know where she got it, but it often got her reprieves from her elders. The only ones unaffected by it were Mr. Benedict and Milligan; the Washingtons were especially susceptible.

Rhonda was not immune. "Oh...alright. Now leave me alone so I can finish making breakfast before it gets to be lunchtime," she finally said with a wry, sidelong look at them.

The puppy-dog eyes vanished. "Yes!" Kate said triumphantly, punching the air with her fist. She immediately began making plans and laying them out to the boys and Constance, her blue eyes twinkling in excitement.

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"Well, you know what?" said Kate, brushing off her gloved hands and standing back to admire her work. "I think it's a pretty good likeness."

Reynie nodded his approval, and also his amusement. "It's very realistic," he laughed.

"Who's it supposed to be?" Sticky inquired as he came over to look at the snowman. "Let's see... really skinny... dots all over its head... big round eyes... and what's that in its hand? A washcloth?"

"A polishing cloth," said Kate, giggling.

"But then who...?" His voice faded as he figured it out. He stuck his tongue in his cheek in an annoyed way, his tea-colored face going red. "It's me, isn't it?" he said flatly, rivaling even Mr. Bane's angry red face in his coloring.

Everyone but Sticky burst into laughter, rolling around on the ground despite the freezing snow. Sticky tried not to smile nervously himself, wondering what in the world he'd done in his past life to deserve this. But he had to admit, it was an excellent likeness. Though the nose was rather large...

"I had made one earlier," Kate explained through her tears, standing up and dusting off the snow, "but dutiful Mr. Bane felt obligated to destroy it. That man sure does earn his pay. I bet it's on his résumé: 'Will destroy any and all snowmen.' Anyway, I think this one's better; I didn't have a reference before."

There was a sudden angry scream—for a split second Reynie thought it was Mr. Bane. Kate looked up, grinning, and took a thick brown glove out of her bucket. An enormous and rather frightening bird was swooping down on them.

"Hiya, Madge!" said Kate happily as the peregrine falcon landed on her outstretched arm. "Good girl."

Madge screeched at them and flapped her wings (Sticky winced a little). She touched the ground lightly, and started scooping up snow into her beak.

When they had all stopped chortling at Kate's joke, Reynie bent towards the pile of snowballs that were the many Sticky-heads Kate had considered, looking (hopefully) innocent. He appeared to simply be examining them to the uneducated eye, but when he saw an opening he hurled one of the big snowballs at Kate, who had her back turned putting the perfecting touches on Snow Sticky. Unfortunately for him, Kate's reflexes were astounding and she ducked in the nick of time. The snowball lopped Snow Sticky's nose clean off.

"Ouch," said the original Sticky, his hand flying to his nose before he turned red again. Constance guffawed from her perch on the steps.

"Hey!" scolded Kate. "That's art you're defacing! Oh, you're going to get it now, Muldoon!"

In retrospect, it probably wasn't a very good idea to attack Kate with a snowball, lest she set in motion a volley of more forceful, expertly shaped snowballs. As it was, she chased Reynie around the yard—like a leopard—with just such a volley. Only when Reynie tripped over Constance, and Kate toppled on top of Reynie, did the chase cease.

"Sorry," chuckled Kate.

"'S'okay," Reynie said, trying to catch his breath and figure out if he was bruised from Kate's bucket and knees. Her blue eyes were sparkling deviously.

"You did deserve that, you know," she said.

Reynie laughed softly. She rolled off of him and they both sat up. Sticky was laughing at the two of them, and Constance was pretending to cry after Reynie had tripped over her.

Mr. Bane scowled from over at his post, undoubtedly wishing the silly children would stop throwing things and making such a racket. Kate stuck out her tongue at him.

"If only that creep were watching the back yard today," she said wistfully. "But no, we get eighteen more hours of ick in the front yard."

Madge flew back to her shoulder. They watched Sticky show Constance how to make snow angels for a while. The lesson wasn't going well, considering Constance kept doing it wrong and forcing Sticky into the snow. At one point she picked up a handful of some suspicious-looking yellow snow and put it in his face.

"You know," said Reynie, watching from the porch with Kate, "they're really making progress."

"In what?" Kate asked, looking up from her bucket (she'd been taking inventory; as she must every hour or so).

"Getting along. With each other."

"Oh. You might be right."

"Maybe."

Then Constance threw another yellow snowball into Sticky's face and Sticky pushed her down.

"See?" said Reynie.

And this was how their day ended: Constance and Sticky laughing and playing, Reynie and Kate sitting and talking and feeling slightly awkward, and Mr. Bane waiting impatiently and nervously for the night to come.

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