My apologies if you received multiple new chapter notices about this; FF was being decidedly weird last night.


The very weather itself told Ichabod to turn back. You are a danger, the wind whispered. You are a traitor, the snow snickered. But despite the elements, he refused to bow his shoulders or slow his steps. He had spent time enough listening to those voices, and tonight was a night for miracles, a night for hope.

The red doors of Christ Episcopal Church were thrown open despite the weather, and warm light spilled onto the snow. With its crenelated tower and vaulted windows, it looked uncannily like the parish church of his childhood home. But the familiarity was not what made him break into a run, the flimsy plastic bag in his hand flapping in the wind.

"Miss Mills!"

She stopped, just on the edge of the halo of light which surrounded the church. He had fretted over this moment—among hundreds of other things he had fretted over—on his long walk here. Would she be vexed with him? Would she turn him away? Certainly she would be right to do so. He had failed her, had let his fear of losing her overcome his duty to her.

But when she saw him, her face was illuminated, her smile so bright, it was as if she had indeed seen an angel hovering o'er a humble stable. Despite his worry, the same transformation overtook him as he drew to a halt before her. "Good evening."

"Hey. How'd you know I'd be here?" Snowflakes caught in her dark eyelashes; she blinked them away.

"After your...discussion of your faith, I found it likely you would seek a spiritual home on this eve," he said. "Miss Millie, of the diner, was able to inform me of your church of choice."

"Small towns, no secrets. Well, c'mon."

She turned toward the church, but he took hold of her sleeve, holding it lightly between his thumb and forefinger. "Momentarily. Miss Mills, I feel I must explain-"

"Nope."

This was not at all how he had envisioned this conversation. He had imagined more anger, more disappointment, more recrimination. "But I deserted you."

She rolled her eyes with clear disdain—though if disdain could be fond, hers assuredly was. "Crane. You're back now. You gonna freak out on me like that again?"

"I do not hold such intentions, no, but I must make it clear-"

"You gonna fight along with me?"

"Yes of course, that is why I am here, but Miss Mills, you keep interrupting-"

Another smile of pure light. "Now you know how it feels, huh?" Crane winced, thinking how scandalized his dear mother would be to hear of him interrupting a lady. But such thoughts evaporated as the woman before him wrapped her arms around him in a fierce hug. On instinct, he returned the gesture, as ever startled that someone so small could be so very strong. "You're here now," she said into his coat. "Try not to be a fucking idiot again, okay? No more listening to demons."

Despite the insult, he laughed. It was still difficult for him laugh, after learning about the life of misery his Jeremy had led, but he knew he must re-learn the skill, for Jeremy's sake as much as anyone's. His son had known too little laughter. "I shall do my utmost."

"Good. Now let's go get churched."

The church was full nearly to bursting; families chattered in English and oddly accented Spanish. "Grab some candles," she instructed, and he selected two cheap white tapers with clever paper skirts from a box. When he turned back toward her, she was filling a silver drinking flask with blessed water from the font. "Never hurts," she said with a shrug, tucking it into her jacket pocket.

They squeezed into the end of a hard wooden pew and together with what felt like the entire combined population of Sleepy Hollow and Tarrytown, celebrated the holiday. They sang songs which were achingly familiar yet exhilarating new: At some point, "Adeste Fideles" had been anglicized to "O Come All Ye Faithful"; "Hark! The Herald Angels Sing" had been transformed into a dull dirge into a soaring testament of joy. He did his best to sing with all his voice, to seek solace in the joined communion of souls, stumbling along with the words projected on massive screens. Beside him, Miss Mills proved to be a capable and enthusiastic mezzosoprano.

They sat so the vicar could tell the story of the Christ child, and Ichabod's thoughts could not but wander to another child born in humble circumstances and trying, desperate times. It was Jeremy who had drawn him back to his destiny beside the lieutenant. Because of his absence, his child had suffered. Because he had not been there to protect him, Jeremy's only friend had been a murderous monster, his only solace in running and escape. Ichabod could not condemn his friend to the same fate. Perhaps he could not avert whatever was coming. But if he was not beside her, he could not even attempt to do so.

At the climax of the service, the electric lights were doused. A single candle was lit from the large advent candles near the altar. As the light was passed from hand to hand, they sang softly a song which he had never heard before, a song of silent nights, holy infants, and quaking shepherds. The gentleman beside him lit his candle; Ichabod shared the flame with Miss Mills, and they both shared a smile.

By unspoken but mutual consent, they traveled to her home. The plainness of the little apartment had been transformed for the holiday: a wreath on the door which was a twin of his own, a small tree bedecked with lights and with a few parcels underneath. On the wall, a familiar sock hung, though this one was emblazoned with "Abbie." Beside it was a tack, as if another sock had once hung there.

"You place them on the wall?" he asked, pulling his own hosiery from the little bag he carried.

"Should be over the mantle, but I don't have a fireplace. Why'd you bring yours?" she asked as she returned from the kitchen with two bottles of beer. Ichabod shuddered, not looking forward to choking down the thin and vile swill. But he would, and without complaint. Not tonight.

"I was unsure of the exact function of the sock. I did not know if perhaps it was worn this night, or if it had some other use or meaning."

"Sure it does. Santa puts presents in it. Here." She traded his stocking for a bottle and pinned it in the empty spot.

"Whose sock hung there before?" he asked quietly. He noticed that there were no folded bedclothes on the couch.

"Jenny's. But she hasn't really been here much. Or at all. Don't tell anyone what a bad conservator I am."

"I do wish she were here. This is a night when you should be with family." They both seated themselves on the couch, their knees quite close together. He knew he should move, pull away and give her an appropriate distance, but...

When he had returned from the hellish land beyond the mirror, Miss Mills had raced to his side and taken his hand. He had replayed that moment again and again during his sequestration in the cabin. Even in that instant of intense fear, he had felt...something. Something which was not at all proper for a man who had just sworn to rescue his beloved wife (and mother of his child). Katrina was beloved, but much was changing. He wondered how many other half-truths and omissions she had made. And Miss Mills was simply...

Simply not his wife, he concluded.

"Hey, I'm just glad I didn't have to work tonight. Any family at all is a bonus." She drank deeply. "So did you guys open presents Christmas Eve or Christmas morning? Everybody does it differently."

"Gifts were not terribly important," he said. "It was more about parties and pageantry. A great deal of dancing; an obscene amount of eating. Mummery, pantomimes, music...even during Valley Forge, we found ways to make music." Unfortunately, some of their best players had lost fingers to frostbite, but they had found a way to create a small patch of joy in the unremitting cold. "But I understand gifts are essential today, and to that end, I have a small item." He paused as he reached into his sack. "A trifle, really, you understand."

"You didn't need to do that, but thank you." She placed her beer on a small table, and he produced a small bundle, about the size of her hand, wrapped clumsily in a scrap of fabric.

"Dish towel wrapping paper. That's new," she said as she untied the twine which held it closed. Inside was a small and admittedly clumsy carving. She slid her fingers across the smooth planes of the wood. "Did you make this?"

"Yes, and I do apologize for its lack of artistic merit. But for reasons I cannot explain, it reminded me of you." During his long, lonely vigil in the cabin, he had found his eyes unable to focus on another word or cry another tear for all that was lost. So he had found a hunk of basswood among his kindling, and his hands had created this without a great deal of input from his mind. He was no artist, but it did look passably like a lioness rampant, with sleek lines and a ferocious, though sly, snarl.

"It's awesome," she said, with apparent feeling. "I love it."

"It's not much," he demurred, though he could not keep his smile at bay.

"You kidding? You made me something. I had to buy your Christmas present." She carefully set the lioness aside and reached under the tree. She selected a parcel wrapped in shiny silver paper emblazoned with snowflakes. The paper slipped oddly between his fingers as he prised it open. Inside was a book.

"Washington: A Life," he read aloud. The general was astride a white horse on the cover, looking distinctly older and more drawn than Crane remembered him. But the painting captured his magnetism, the manner that was at once imperious and soldierly. Unable to contain his excitement, Ichabod slid the book open, savoring the familiar scent of the paper. "This is quite remarkable."

"There are about a billion biographies, but Amazon said this was the best. I hope you like it." She was holding her lioness again, her nose almost pressed against its carved one.

Ichabod closed the book, a sudden wave of concern washing over him. "Before I read this—tell me, did Washington...have a Sally Hemings?"

She just laughed.

He spent the night, curled on her sofa in the faint glow of the Christmas lights. The night was as silent as the carol had suggested, and while the sofa was perhaps too short to make his sleep heavenly, Ichabod was glad to be where he belonged once more.


Merry Christmas, blessed Solstice, happy (late) Hanukkah, or simply enjoy a nice, quiet December 25. :)