Emily was curled up on the window seat in the little library, enjoying the silence that prefaced the evening's guests enjoying the festivities. Slaughterhouse Five sat open in her lap, but she was too busy staring out the window at the slowly falling snowflakes to read.

The door creaked open to admit Ethan who was creeping about as if on a some sort of secret mission. When he spotted Emily, he seemed surprised. "Whatcha doin', Miss Emily?" he asked, climbing onto the window seat next to her.

She smiled softly at the boy. "I'm just reading," she said, "And enjoying the silence."

He nodded solemnly as if he understood. He picked up her book – losing her page in the process – and glanced at the cover before pronouncing, "Looks boring."

"What are you doing?" she asked, resisting the urge to roll her eyes.

He sighed dramatically. "I hafta write my letter to Santa." He suddenly narrowed his eyes, studying her intensely. "Did you write your letter to Santa?"

"I don't think Santa comes for grown-ups like me," she said simply.

He shot her a pointed look. "'Cause grown-ups don't write him letters," he insisted. He moved to the table in the centre of the room, setting down the sheaf of papers in his hands, then turning to fix her with a surprisingly intimidating stare. "Come write with me."

"I really don't..." she started to make excuses.

He wasn't hearing it, though. "Write!" he commanded.

And, since she rather suspected Ethan wasn't about to let her leave the library without a completed letter to Santa in her hand, she gave in.

"Can I read it?" Ethan asked, trying to peer over her shoulder.

She didn't particularly want to let him read it, so she tried to distract him by asking, "What did you ask Santa for?"

"I want the Harry Potter books, the Cranium game, a hockey stick, and a puppy," he listed with gravitas. Then, softer, he added, "And I want Mama to get married and be happy."

With a soft smile, Emily said, "That's very sweet." And, silently, she hoped it would be enough to distract him from asking about her list a second time.

No such luck, though... "Your turn!" he declared enthusiastically.

Sighing wearily, she realized there was no way she was getting out of this situation without sharing her wish list. "I asked Santa for some new mittens."

He frowned. "Boring."

"And some new Kurt Vonnegut books," she continued.

"Borrrrrring," he repeated.

"Some chocolate."

Ethan perked up at that.

"But mostly, I just want to be happy," she said with a shrug. She didn't bother to add that she wasn't going to get that wish – not because she hadn't been good that year (though, she hadn't really), but because she honestly couldn't remember the last time she'd been truly happy.

He pursed his lips in thought, mulling something over in his mind, then pronounced, "Maybe you should ask for a puppy too."

Emily just shook her head, laughing quietly. "You're so silly," she informed the boy. "How about I go put our letters in the mail?" she suggested because at least that way, no one else had to know she wrote a letter to Santa Claus.

As Emily locked the door behind the last departing guest, she felt the exhaustion of the day hit her like a two tonne truck. There was a soft laugh from behind her and when she turned, she found Alex standing there, holding two glasses of red wine. "I know that feeling," she said, passing one of the glasses to Emily. "The end-of-day bone-deep weariness... It gets easier," she promised.

"I hope so," she said on a sigh, taking the glass and tossing back a generous swallow. She moved to sit on one of the overstuffed chairs positioned around the foyer.

Alex followed her, taking a seat next to her. She sipped her own wine, then remarked, "Ethan told me you two wrote letters to Santa today."

She winced. "He kind of forced my hand on that one," she made excuses. "He's surprisingly convincing when he wants to be."

Alex laughed softly, nodding her agreement. Quietly, she added, "He said your wish was to be happy..." She didn't ask why she wished that, but was clearly curious.

Maybe it was the exhaustion or the wine or simply the fact that Alex felt like someone safe to talk to, but she proceeded to pour her heart out, "I think I've spent so much of my life chasing this vision of what my life should be like, assuming that when I finally achieved it, I could be happy...but it's just been such a moving target that I've never even stopped to ask myself what it means to be happy, you know?"

Alex nodded, but said nothing, as if Emily were a frightened deer, liable to skitter away at any sudden sound.

"Maybe nothing will ever make me happy... My work hasn't made me happy. Men certainly haven't." She gave a small humourless laugh. "Hell, London doesn't make me fucking happy. Maybe I should move here and keep the ranch because at least it makes other people happy. Maybe that's the closest I'll ever get."

Finally, Alex found her voice as she said simply, "I don't believe that."

Emily raised a brow, confused.

"I don't believe that happiness is an impossible dream for you. I think, though, that maybe you have to stop chasing it. Maybe you simply have to live your life and trust that happiness will find you when you're least expecting it. Kind of like love."

She scoffed, making it clear she didn't put any stock in that advice.

Alex reached over, squeezed Emily's knee gently. "Think about it," she insisted quietly. She downed the last of her wine, then stood from the couch. "You should get some rest," she added. "It just gets busier from here..."

With a quiet groan, Emily finished off her wine and, when she turned to say goodnight to Alex, she found her halfway up the stairs and suddenly felt guilty for reasons she couldn't quite pinpoint. "Alex?"

She stopped, turned to glance at Emily over the bannister.

"Thanks."