Charles was singing terribly off key and both Carrie and Paul were laughing heartily at their older brother's antics. Even Eglantine had to crack a smile over the boy's behaviour. In recent days it had become clear that Emelius would not be joining them for Christmas, as he had warned them. But hope had still fluttered in her chest and she - and the children - had still been disappointed. She had tried to tell herself she was lucky to have seen him in London just a few weeks prior and that they had spoken on the phone twice since then.

It was more than most military wives could boast about.

Now it was the afternoon of Christmas Eve and they were decorating the tree, eating cookies she and Carrie had concocted (Eglantine hoped that rationing would be a blessed memory sooner rather than later*) and before long they'd be changing and going to church. Eglantine would be joining the congregation with the children to celebrate Christmas and she was looking forward to it. The singing, the sermon.

She hoped it would give her some comfort for the days to come.

Of course she was well aware she had a lot to be thankful for - her three charges were healthy and moderately happy (she did have her run-ins with Charles and even with Carrie from time to time and Paul was still suffering nightmares), she was as happy as was possible and Emelius was still in London, safely out of harm's way.

Or so she chose to believe.

She picked up her cup of cocoa and took another sip. If she had not had the children here, she would have added a drop of brandy. Or two.

Paul was now doing a silly little jig which made her laugh out loud and Carrie looked relieved to see it.

"Do you think Father Christmas will come tonight?" Paul asked, his eyes twinkling with anticipation.

"I don't know Paul. With the war on and him having to look after children who are worse off than you, he might pass us by." Eglantine answered, thinking how she had wrapped presents for all three children the evening before while they were sleeping.

"But..." He sucked in his bottom lip to keep from crying.

"On the other hand: he is magical. We all know how strong magic can be. He might just pop by." She smiled. "We'll have to wait and see. But now you all drink the last of your cocoa and we'll have something to eat. We're going to church after supper, so you all wash your hands and faces."

"Awh..." Paul and Charles grumbled.

"No complaining, please. You will wash or there will be no supper. Understood?"

Carrie was joyfully singing along with the choir and Charlie was sneaking peeks at one of the girls in the pew on the other side of the isle and Aunt Eglantine was also singing, her hands pressed together so tightly her knuckles had turned white.

Paul had counted all the orange windows and all the green ones. He had eaten his way through a bag of peppermints and he was now tapping his shoes together on the rhythm of the carol. Which was very slow. He was very glad service was nearly over. He was very bored and he wanted to go home, to bed, so he could maybe hear Father Christmas coming and putting his presents in his stocking or under the tree.

He had tried to be a good boy, especially after they had run off to find the Professor, but it wasn't always easy with Charlie for a brother and having friends at school who were always up for an adventure. He often thought about how they had gone to Namoombu and the Professor had played referee and he often thought about the way he had hopped about Portobello Road.

Charlie had told him he should write Father Christmas and Carrie had agreed, telling him she had done it herself, so he had been working on it every morning before breakfast. He had asked Aunt Eglantine to help him with difficult words and she had spelled them out while buttering his toast and pouring tea. He was very glad he had asked her to post it. Now at least Father Christmas knew what he wanted.

He was cold and he had been jangled around in the second class coach for hours. The train had left from Waterloo in the relative daylight, but most of his travel had been conducted in the train. There had been few lights on, not enough to read his book at least. He was tired, having worked all through the night and the jostling was jarring his nerves. He hoped his presents had survived as he picked up his suitcase and the bag containing some wrapped gifts.

From Father Christmas to the children.

From Emelius to Eglantine

When he arrived at that small station where he had once seen a vision of Eglantine, he checked the clock in the station's waiting room. He'd be there in about half an hour if he walked briskly. If he was lucky enough to avoid running into anyone. He should be safe though - most people would still be in church on the other side of the village. He would be able to sneak in, maybe get a kettle going, plate up the biscuits he had managed to procure and warm through.

When they open the door, the lights are on** and for a moment Eglantine is worried they may have been robbed, but it's warm and she is certain she had killed the fire before they went into the village. She doubts very much robbers will have made themselves a fire. She takes off her hat and coat and helps Paul with his boots while the others peel off their coats and scarves.

Paul pushes open the door to the living room and he shouts:

"Father Christmas has gotten my letter! He got my letter! Look! Charlie! Aunt Eglantine! Carrie! Father Christmas came early!"

The boy is jumping up and down and pointing at the sofa, where the figure of Emelius Browne is curled up under a woolen plaid. He is fidgeting a bit and the children run to him, pouncing on him, making him sit up, startled and happy. He kisses Carrie on the cheek, ruffles Paul's hair, pats Charles on the shoulder and Paul keeps shouting 'Father Christmas read my letter' over and over until Eglantine scrapes her throat, still standing in the doorway, watching her noisy bunch celebrate their Christmas miracle.

"Good evening, Mr Browne." She then says, her voice soft but clear.

He gently pushes the children away, gets up and is with her in two strides, wrapping his arms around her and she is enveloped in tobacco, Old Spice and he kisses her.

She kisses him back.

When they withdraw - coaxed by the children's whooping and Charles' 'ehw' she sighs.

"Welcome home." She croaks.

"Merry Christmas." He says, looking around to the children who join them in a cuddle.

For the first time in a very long while, Christmas feels like something worth celebrating and the house feels like a home.

Then it strikes her:

A house is not a home until love is shared. It had been there between her and the children, but there always was something missing. A magical element.

And he is here now.

Home.

* Rationing would not be over for a very long time to come, unfortunately - even after the war, rationing was still something people had to deal with on a daily basis. The final rationing (of meat and bacon) ended in July 1954

** They would not have been able to see from the road due to the black out

A/N: Thank you everybody for reading this little story and for your kind comments and PMs! I hope you have had a very happy Christmas (or having a good winter season so far) and also that you will be following the Browne-Price-Rawlins' adventures this winter - for we all can use a bit of warmth when it's cold (in the Northern hemisphere, if you are Down Under, all I can say is: can you ever have too much fluff?)

THANK YOU EVERYBODY FOR READING, REVIEWING AND BEING GENERALLY AWESOME!