Here we are, back for part four! It's time to finally continue this story from where I left off, two years ago.

CW: This chapter contains grief stemming from the loss of a sibling, and some family drama. (There's also a mild swear word or two.)

The word count only goes down slightly between last chapter and this one, but it drastically declines from here.

Second ghost, here we go!

Part Four: The Present

In his youth, Jack had often been an easy-going gentleman, of the sort with a wide capacity for any kind of exploration or adventure. Before being called to the business world, he had planned many a westward trip, with itineraries far outside his financial and realistic capabilities. He had always assured his traveling companions that he would be ready, no matter what obstacles crossed his path. Jack was the sort of man who thought himself prepared for the strange and unexpected; his artist's mind being able to concoct a good, broad field of unusual occurrences, I venture that nothing between a swarm of flies and a baby-riding rhinoceros would have caught him off guard.

Now, prepared as he was for anything, Jack faltered, consequently, at the appearance of nothing. Five minutes had passed from the stroke of two, but the light in his room did not fade, did not take any solid shape, and his hands– no longer occupied with the metal cap, for it had disappeared– began to shake. Ten minutes passed, then fifteen, and he groped his way onto his bed; the familiar squeak of bedsprings provided his only comfort in this moment of terror.

This light, an all-encompassing nothingness, alarmed him more than a dozen ghosts would have, and it was not until twenty minutes past the hour that he began to slow his mind down. He thought, then, to begin a search for the source of the light; after all, if its creator was not directly in his room, perhaps it had set up in the adjoining parlor. As the clock ticked from twenty to twenty-five, he got up slowly, shuffling his feet over to the side door.

The moment Jack's hand was on the knob, whoever was in the room beyond sensed his presence, and bade him enter in a deep, cheerful voice. "Come in!"

Jack obeyed, thankful he would have to speculate no longer.

The walls were hung so thickly with green– holly, mistletoe, pine, and spruce– that at first he could not spot a smidge of the usual gray paint. But it was there, confirming this room as his own parlor. He had not stepped into a forest.

A rather odd forest it would have been, anyhow, for a meal worthy of the president seemed to have sprouted out of the ground. Roast hams, chicken, and legs of lamb were displayed on golden serving dishes. The corners of the room were piled with fresh vegetables– whole carrots, snap peas, golden onions, heads of lettuce, and more. Apples, oranges, and pears were balanced in pyramids; bunches of grapes hung from the ceiling. Sandwiches, entire towers of them, were stacked in such a way as to form the seat and back of a great throne, for which two barrels of oysters provided the arms. Upon this sat a giant, clad in a crown of holly berries and a sparkling green robe, trimmed with white fur– the pelt so soft it could have been made of clouds. The spirit's feet, resting squarely upon a line of pickle jars, were oddly donned: one in a massive, sturdy work boot, and the other in only a sock, striped red and gold to match the belt around the giant's waist.

"Welcome!" exclaimed the spirit jovially, the lenses of its glasses reflecting the mighty blaze in the hearth. From an oyster barrel, it picked up a shining, silver tray, which was laden with a copper pot and two mugs of steaming coffee. It offered one to Jack. "Come in, and know me better, man!"

Jack approached timidly, at a loss for his typical bravado. The giant's brown eyes were kind, a bit wrinkled in the corners behind his round glasses, but Jack did not like to meet them. He took stock of the feast-covered floor again.

Something about this spirit, the way the firelight barely reddened his dark brown cheeks, and the studious shine to his eyes that made him look old and wise– although he could not have been a day over thirty– was all oddly familiar.

"I am the Ghost of Christmas Present," the spirit said again, indicating the mugs. This time, Jack accepted one. "You feel you know me."

"I don't–" Jack took a hearty sip, rather embarrassed to have his mind read. "I'm not sure."

"Perhaps you have met one of my brothers. I do, after all, have more than eighteen of them. Most still living."

"Ya mean, you were a real person, like Davey? Didja live here in the city too?"

Rather than answer, the spirit cast a glance toward the clock on the mantelpiece, which had just ticked half past two. "I'm afraid your questions will have to wait, Mr. Kelly. No time like the present." He snatched the mug from Jack's hands and replaced it on the tray, then swished a fold of his robe as he rose. "Grab on."

Jack did as he was told, holding fast to the thick cloth.

In an instant, the feast, fire, and greenery all vanished, as did the room around them. The night's darkness fell away, trading places with a soft light peeking through the clouds, and heavy snow falling through the air. Despite the severe weather, New Yorkers met the morning with brisk enthusiasm: bundling head to toe in as many layers as they had and venturing out to shovel sidewalks, dust off awnings, and clear paths in anticipation of later parties.

It was, after all, Christmas morning. To be sure it was a white Christmas was putting it lightly; ice and snow lay upon every surface, so thick that no one could find the cobblestones beneath. Slush of unfortunate yellow and gritty brown hues had been run through over and over by carriages and wagons, as well as little boys and girls with no regard for their best dresses and jackets, who weaved between shoppers to lob snowballs at one another. The adults looking after them– also dressed in their best things– simply laughed, for there was to be no scolding upon this holiday. The sky was gray, but shops were open, lit on the inside by twinkling bulbs. The warmth of chattering people inside sent a cheerful air out onto the streets.

The spirit led Jack off the main road and onto the more rundown side streets. The snow was dirtier here, and the tenement housing was cramped, but still full of pleasant attitudes. Children in patched clothes darted over tightly packed snowdrifts, playing the same games as the richer children of the other streets, while adults lent each other shovels and pooled dinner ingredients.

With each step he took through the piled flakes, Jack worried for the spirit's missing shoe, but it seemed to be no bother. The ghost led him to one old, teetering building and shrunk to a normal man's size before the door. In they went, then up and around one flight of creaking stairs, and stopped at the first door in the hall, where a pair of gangly people were scuffing snow off their boots.

Jack could not see their faces and could tell nothing of these people from the backs of their coats and hats, so did not discern why he had been brought to this particular apartment. But when the door opened, he and the spirit followed the guests inside, and the sight of the short young woman provided some answer. She looked unusual in a dress, but her brown hair was cut just above her chin; the way she had always preferred.

His little sister had grown up in all but stature; her curves had filled out in all the proper places, making her nearly unrecognizable from the young girl who had spent her childhood dressed as a boy. And yet, Jack knew it was her, even before one of the guests released her black hair from a woolen cap and greeted "Smalls!" as she enveloped the hostess in a hug.

They held each other for just a moment longer than was customary, and their kisses of greeting landed just short of each other's lips, but no one present commented on it. Smalls and Sniper had gone on like this since they were young adults.

As easily as the name of Smalls' lover had come, the names of the other newsies in the apartment rushed to the front of Jack's mind, free from their corner of rejection. He let them stay, and did not bother to conceal his smile from his ghostly companion. Long term memory did have a purpose, after all.

At the door, Albert removed his coat to reveal a shabby brown suit and faded orange bowtie, which clashed horribly with his red hair. "Race and Crutchie ain't back yet, then?"

"Still at church wit Buttons an' El," said Smalls, leading the newcomers to the dining table. "Knowin' Crutchie, he prob'ly roped 'em into helpin' da nuns give out coffee and such."

"Generous fella."

"Sure, to a degree!" Jojo called from the adjoining kitchen area, where they were helping Henry chop potatoes. They wiped their hands on their apron as they continued, "He told me jus' yesterday, the nuns keep makin' 'im help out because, an' I quote: 'it's good for the churchgoers to see 'im, 'specially on Christmas, to remember who made lame beggars walk an' blind men see.'"

"An' this is why I don' go ta church," Albert remarked, and Sniper stifled a snort with one hand.

"Crutchie'd stop if it really bothered him," Smalls said. "He goes because he likes seein' the newsies, helpin' them. We all remember what that was like."

"Stalest doughnuts of my life," remembered Sniper with a smirk.

"I neva' seen food wit more mold," Henry said, moving the vegetables aside so he would have room to ready a serving tray on the counter.

"'Least we was gettin' fed, though, an' not havin' ta pay for it," said Smalls. "Made life easia'."

"Crutchie's been rubbing off on you." Albert settled sideways in his chair, ducking as Smalls tried to swat him. "If ya ask me, no free breakfast is eva' gonna beat Jacobi's face that first time I paid fer my own seltzer."

"Must be nice, gettin' hired."

"Hey, it ain't my fault you's stuck at home, Mrs. Higgins."

Smalls reddened slightly at that, and successfully hit Albert this time.

Sniper got in the middle of the two before more violence could ensue. "Will you ever stop pickin' fights?"

"I'm jus' pointin' out that Smalls sounds like an old lady with six children, that's all," Albert said.

"Laugh all ya want, I did what I had ta to survive. An' Race was more than willin', after what happened to–" Smalls let the end of the sentence drop and forged ahead. "No one was gonna help us, so we helped ourselves. Any one a' youse would a' done da same." She looked pointedly from Albert to Sniper.

Albert had a rebuttal prepared. "See, but the thing is, I'm recognizin' that Snipes is like my sister, an' I ain't marryin' her."

"Yeah, 'cause Finchy already did that," Sniper muttered.

"Uh-huh, he's takin' great care a' you, isn't he? Tradin' stolen goods, livin' on pennies."

Sniper took her turn swatting Albert. "You ain't exactly high-falutin' yerself. All ya did was marry rich."

Albert grinned, adjusting his bow tie. "Her name's Nancy. An' it took me two years of workin' fer her father first."

"Ah, the old Jack Kelly method," Smalls mused, rolling her eyes.

"'Cept I made it work!"

"Speaking of," Jojo walked over, bearing a stack of chipped, mismatched plates, which they set on the table. "I hear Jack still ain't offered Crutchie a job?"

"No, Mr. Kelly is still–" Before Smalls could finish answering, the door opened, bringing in Race, Crutchie, Buttons, Elmer, and a flurry of snowflakes.

"Did I hear my boss' name?" Race asked, shedding his soaked comforter, spreading it across the sofa, and taking his seat at the head of the table. He shivered as usual, but his blue eyes sparkled in the candlelight.

"You did," Smalls said bitterly. "We were just talkin' about how he's a cheap prick who won't hire a guy in need."

"Like me," Crutchie came to the conclusion before Race could, using the arm that was not occupied with his crutch to pull a free chair. Albert rose to let him by. "Is there nothin' better to talk about than my unemployment?"

"We jus' know it's difficult for ya," Henry said, making room for Crutchie in the corner nearest the stove. "So Jo was sayin', Jack ought a' give you a job, since he–"

"Didja eva' think maybe I don't want Jack ta jus' hand me a job, like I'm some bum who can't take care a' himself?"

"No one said you're a bum," Elmer said as he and Buttons took the two remaining seats at the table.

Crutchie opened his mouth as if to retort, then closed it, exhaling loudly through his nose. "I know." He leaned his crutch against the table. "I'm just a lousy crip."

Smalls sat straight, immediately defensive. "Who da hell said that?"

"The founder of da feast," Race answered, and the spirit gave Jack a serious, judgmental stare. Jack shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and stuffed his hands in his pockets. Founder of the feast indeed.

"Does he want me ta kill 'im? 'Cause I will. I'll go down ta that office an' beat da livin' daylights outta him."

Sniper set a hand on her shoulder. "Easy."

"It ain't nothin' more'n words," Buttons reasoned, smiling comfortingly at Crutchie. "You can't let 'im get to ya."

"I don't!" Crutchie snapped, earning himself wide, concerned eyes from everyone else present. "Nothin' eva' gets to me. I keep smilin', don't I? Neva' get angry, neva' complain– I make the most of this leg, though it ain't done me a shred a' good– and still, all anyone's got for me is pity. No one eva' thinks I can look afta' myself. Makes me think Jack's got a point."

"Like hell 'e does," Smalls said.

"He wants me ta find work for myself, without takin' charity. I hear The World's hirin'."

"So what?" Henry asked. "Pulitzer ain't givin' you a job, neither."

"He died two months ago," Crutchie said, his green eyes glinting optimistically. His outburst had fully passed. "Katherine's in charge now. Thought I'd see if she needs an assistant."

Around the table, concern turned into smiles.

"That's pretty clever, Crutch," Sniper praised.

"I know. And it'd really stick it ta Jack." Crutchie turned to Race. "Not that I'm tryin' to jeopardize your position."

"Nah," Race swiped a hand through the air, as if clearing away the possibility. "He wasn't gonna give me a raise anyway."

"Aw man, really?" Albert raised his eyebrows in mock disbelief. "I hear he's so generous, 'specially on Christmas."

"Are we gonna have dinner, or jus' keep moanin' about Jack?" Jojo asked, and a flurry of movement followed.

Race stoked the fire in the stove, while Elmer and Jojo arranged chipped mugs and tarnished silverware in place settings around the table. Upon their announcement of being finished, Henry directed an assembly line system to bring out the food. A whole bowl of mashed potatoes went down first, followed by a basket of bread and a small saucepan's worth of gravy. There was a small dish of green beans too, and a plate of stray apples, procured from Buttons' coat pocket. Crowning it all in the table's center was the smallest turkey Jack had ever seen– he wondered, for a moment, if it was a pigeon.

All guests returned to their seats as Henry took up the task of carving the bird. As the satisfying hiss of steam and the scrumptious smell of stuffing filled the air, Albert readied a fork, preparing to attack the meat full-force, but he dropped that pretense when Crutchie cleared his throat.

Smiling at his friends, Crutchie began, "I know we're all starvin', so I'll make this quick."

"You better," Sniper muttered, eliciting a giggle from Smalls.

"I just wanna say how grateful I am to have all of you here. Youse are my family, and as much as I believe I'd be fine on my own… I don't wanna be alone. And you guys have neva' left or let me down. You stuck by me, even when I've done nothin' to make it worth yer while."

Smalls gave him a playful punch to the shoulder. "Hush up, you don't owe us nothin'."

"An' don't you even think a' strikin' out on yer own," Race said, grinning with all his teeth. "We'd miss ya too much."

"'Course ya would." Crutchie stuck his tongue out, then regained composure. "What I'm sayin' is, I'm thankful for youse, and I'm lookin' forward to havin' ya by my side in the new year, no matter what happens." He raised his mug in a toast. "Merry Christmas."

The others joined their cups to his in the air, and the sound of ceramic clinking filled the room. "Merry Christmas!"

Jack and the spirit observed this happy scene, admiring the glow of each smiling face as turkey slices and side dishes were passed around the table.

It took Jack several attempts to clear the mysterious blockage in his throat, but once he succeeded, he demanded of the ghost, "Is Crutchie– will he be alright?"

"What do you care?" retorted the spirit, who seemed just as affected by the speech, if the shine in his eyes was any indication. "He's not anything to you."

"That don't mean I want him to–" saying the word in full was the only surefire way to prove he meant it– "die."

"If he's going to die, then he'd better do it, and 'decrease the surplus population'."

"Ain't that a bit harsh?"

"You didn't think so."

Jack hung his head, protesting to the floorboards, "I didn't mean him."

"It's all the same."

"Never mind," Jack said, striding away from the ghost. He brought himself closer to the party, taking a deeper inhale of the feast scents. He watched Crutchie dig into his meager portion, his white cheeks tinged a rosy pink. "He's fine. Anyone can see that."

"I see an empty seat at the table." Glancing over his shoulder, Jack found the spirit staring, unfocused, at the festivities. "A crutch without an owner sitting beside the door. Shadows which, if unchanged, will cast darkness upon this house forever."

"Right." Jack brushed off the remark, choosing not to give it another moment's consideration. "Y'know, I expected you to be jollier?"

Crutchie was healthier than a dozen horses, and Race and Smalls were content and happy. Even their guests were joyous, despite their circumstances. No shadows could haunt this unconventional family. Such logic simply did not hold.

Alongside the spirit, Jack departed the tenement for the outdoors. Snow had finally stopped falling, and the streets were mostly empty; everyone– save a few charity collectors– had been safely sheparded to their mother's or brother's or great-aunt's house. Peering into windows as he passed, Jack found smiling faces above a platter of goose; young and old gathered round a piano singing carols; old men and women with children in their laps, telling stories. As the streets grew wider and the buildings shorter, more curtains were drawn, so that passersby could glimpse only shadows of the merry-making inside. Still, music was audible– off-key voices mingling with well-trained ones in perfect, chaotic harmony– and laughter, such as was never heard outside of Christmas Day; the kind of sound that dispelled any thought of fear or injustice in the world.

And so, Jack found himself– and the spirit, who had led him there– in the midst of a parlor, and the party within. A squat Christmas tree was tucked in one corner, decorated with candles and silver tinsel, with a great array of brown paper packages beneath, covered in a substantial layer of pine needles. Pine had also been strung in garland about the walls, along with holly, and the sharp scents of both delighted the senses. On the mantelpiece sat a polished, silver menorah, its eight candles unlit, for that holiday had just passed.

Les stood before the fire, leading his guests in a game of questions. In his navy suit, expertly tailored to his gangly frame, he was the spitting image of his older brother, except for the freckles on his face and the curls in his hair. "Not a snake," he said to the last guesser.

"What other animal rattles when it's scared?" the white man protested, tugging at his scruffy, brown beard.

"It's not your turn anymore, Tommy," teased the woman nestled beside him on the sofa; Les' sister, Sarah. She tucked a fallen strand of dark hair back into the braided knot at the crown of her head, then turned to the woman on her other side. "I forfeit my guess. You go, Katherine."

Jack's heart turned to a thick chunk of ice as he watched Katherine turn determined brown eyes to Les, asking, "Is it my father?"

"That it is," Les said, and peals of laughter crossed his gathered friends. "If it's not too much of an insult to him."

"Trust me, he heard worse."

"Worse than being called a snake?" asked a yellow-suited man in a chair next to Katherine, adjusting his glasses.

"He'd find that one humorous, I think," Katherine said.

"Sure, he was a comedy-loving guy, Joseph Pulitzer." Les sat beside a young woman in a luxurious purple dress. A simple gold wedding band gleamed on her ring finger, contrasting beautifully with her dark brown skin. This must be Sally.

"Pulitzsnake," she quipped, sending her husband into a fit of laughter.

"Careful," teased another man, blue eyes glittering as much as his golden hair, "He can still sue you for defamation from beyond the grave."

"Just let him try," Sally said, adjusting the strands of tinsel in her dark braids. "Les is friends with a lawyer."

Sarah snorted. "Right. Friends."

Les' laughter died as abruptly as it had started. "Sare, why don't you start the next round?"

"Only if Newspaper Row is ready to table their discussion and return to the party," she said, her stare quieting Katherine and the two men, who had still been discussing Pulitzer.

"Bill started it," Katherine said, pointing the finger at the blond man.

"I did not!" he objected, passing the blame to the man with glasses. "It was Darcy."

"Ladies and gentlemen, the son of the man who invented yellow journalism."

"You should talk, Miss Pulitzsnake."

"That's Mrs. Reid to you," Katherine said haughtily, tilting her chin up. Darcy– her husband– gave her an approving smile, and a jealous pang shot through Jack's middle.

Sarah cleared her throat loudly. "Are you finished?"

Kathleen shot Bill a satisfied smile. "I am."

He leaned his elbows on the back of the sofa behind her and said nothing more.

"Go on," Tommy Boy nudged Sarah, who rose with a swish of her blue, plaid dress. "Think of somethin' good."

Sarah crossed to the center of the room, pacing slowly and tapping a pale finger to her chin, until a grin turned up the corners of her lips. She stopped short of her final lap and announced, "I've got one. Les, you take the first guess."

"Is it an animal, vegetable, or mineral?" he began, as was customary.

"An animal, naturally."

The guessing passed to Sally. "Is it a fierce animal?"

"Very often, yes."

Tommy Boy went next. "A lion?"

"No."

"Is it found in the city?" This was Katherine's guess.

"Raised there its whole life," Sarah said.

Darcy asked, "Was it bred in captivity?"

"I'd say it holds that opinion."

"So it would be a country animal if it could?" Bill wondered.

"Without a doubt."

"A horse!" Tommy Boy said.

"Ain't your turn yet," Les reminded him, then, at a loss for better questions, urged, "Well, is it a horse?"

"Only by association," Sarah said with a laugh.

Sally's lips pulled into a double-dimpled smile. "A donkey, then."

"It's an ass, but not that kind."

"A goat," Tommy Boy proposed.

"No, but might have the stomach of one."

"I suppose it's an unwanted creature?" asked Darcy, taking his turn early.

Sarah smirked. "It is."

"A rat," Katherine guessed.

"Not quite."

"Is it a large animal?" asked Bill.

"Reasonably sized."

While the others thought this through, Darcy leaned forward, looking serious, and posed the question, "Does it walk on two legs?"

Sarah sighed, as if she did not want to divulge the answer. "Yes."

Katherine pursed her lips, her nose scrunching in thought, as it always did when she was trying to pen a particularly difficult lead. "Did I ever have a special affinity for this animal?"

"You did."

"Oh…" At this, she smiled, and hid it behind her hand.

"Well, Katherine might as well go again," Sally said. "I think she's got it, and we shouldn't waste any more guesses."

Katherine waved her off. "I might be wrong, go on."

"Oh, I don't know…" Sally spun one of her braids around her finger. "A bear?"

"Very close," said Sarah. "Les?"

The young man's humor had changed significantly within the last several rounds of guessing; his face was tight and serious, like his older brother's had often looked. "Where is this going?"

"That's a wasted question."

Bill went for it. "Is it locked up?"

"In a way, yes, and I'm afraid it chooses to stay that way."

With a concerned glance at Les, Tommy Boy asked, "Was it invited to this party?"

"It was."

"Will it be joining us?" Sally wanted to know.

"Unless hell freezes over, I wouldn't say it's likely. Darcy, would you like to take the final guess?"

"Hmm…" he screwed up his entire face, as if hard-pressed for the answer. "Tricky, this one…" he sat up, leaned back, crossed one leg atop the other, and said casually, "It wouldn't happen to be Jack Kelly, would it?"

"How ever did you know?" Sarah gasped, overdoing the drama, and received gales of laughter from Newspaper Row.

Tommy Boy chuckled a little, but his smile was forced.

Sally squeezed Les' hand, speaking up as the laughter died down. "You know, Sare, I don't think calling Mr. Kelly 'unwanted' is a fair assessment. We'd be happy to host him, if he'd bother to turn up. Les even bought him a gift."

"A gift?" Sarah spat, giving her brother a scathing look. "Are you ever going to give up?"

"No." Firelight flickered in Les' brown eyes. "He was my friend once, and somewhere, deep down, I think–"

"He wants nothing to do with you! When are you going to stop wasting time, and energy, and money on–"

"Why d'you hate him so much?" Les rose, putting himself on even ground with his sister. "You met him once. He never did anything to you, but you still take pleasure in mocking him."

"My round wasn't any different from yours."

"Except Katherine knew I meant no harm! None of my hints were meant to be mean. Davey's the one who came up with the snake thing."

Sarah's expression stiffened and soured. The two Jacobs siblings locked eyes for several minutes– enough time for Bill to suggest that maybe they had better do gifts. But no one moved.

"Davey would have wanted Jack here," Les said, in a hollow voice. "I'm only trying to honor him."

"Honor what?" Sarah asked, her words thick with constrained grief. "Stop making him out to be a saint."

"He was our brother."

"Some brother!"

"I get it, you were mad at him before he died!" Les strode closer to his sister, straightening his back to take full advantage of his extra inches in height. "I'm sorry you never got to forgive him, but that doesn't give you the right to villainize him, or to sabotage my happy memories."

"I was never going to forgive him," Sarah said, having apparently not listened to the latter half of Les' statement. "Not after the way he left us."

"I'm not saying Dave was perfect, but he's–" he struggled for more words for a moment; it took Sally's hand on his arm for his mouth to begin moving again. "Resenting him– and hating Jack– doesn't make you miss him any less."

"I don't miss him."

"Yes, you do. And it makes you angry–"

"I'm not angry!"

"Stop lying!"

"One year married, and you're still a child."

"Hey!" This shout belonged to Sally, stepping forward to defend Les. "Knock it off. You don't come into my house and talk to my husband like that."

"This is a family discussion," Sarah enunciated each word clearly. "It doesn't concern you."

"The way you treat Les is my concern. And don't try to tell me I'm not family, when I've been by Les' side for ten years."

"You didn't know Dave."

"No. But I believe Les when he says he wasn't all bad."

Sarah crossed her arms. "You can hold that opinion, and I'll hold mine."

"Then be quiet about it, at least." Les glared daggers at Sarah, splotches of red coloring the skin beneath his freckles. "I was fourteen when Davey died. Remember that? And I missed him. But whenever I tried to talk to you, you shut it down- acted like I was crazy for caring. You still do."

Sarah exhaled, softening some of the shock on her face. "I'm sorry. But I can't let you entertain the idea–"

"That he was a better sibling than you?"

"Stop," Tommy Boy's voice was sandpaper. "That's enough." His eyes flicked from Les' eyes to Sarah's, warning them both to proceed with caution. "Say anymore, an' you'll regret it."

"It's Christmas," Bill said, as if that absolved everything. "Let's open presents."

"I'll make some tea," Katherine said, and disappeared into the kitchen.

While Darcy went to the tree to organize parcels, Sarah sank back onto the sofa, keeping her eyes fixed on her lap. Her face had turned a shade paler than usual. Tommy Boy sat beside her and tucked an arm around her slumped shoulders, but took care to leave more space between them than there had previously been. Les stared at them all for a moment, before running from the room and stomping up the stairs. Sally was quick to follow.

Jack and the spirit were on her heels in an instant. Upstairs, in the main bedroom, they found Les curled on a mattress– his bed had no frame– with Sally sitting beside him, rubbing circles into his back.

"I'm proud of you for calling her out," Sally praised softly. "A year ago, you would've sat there and let her have her say, but you stood your ground."

"Yeah, she liked that." Les sat up; the room's lamplight highlighted the red around his eyelids straight away. "Now it's on me for upsetting things and ruining the holidays. I'm an awful brother."

"No, you're not." Sally took Les' hands in hers. "It's a difficult day for both of you. And everyone fights with family. That's what Christmas is all about."

He returned her half-hearted smile. "I think I finally get what Jack means when he calls it a humbug." Les' gaze drifted to a thin, rectangular parcel on the bedside table. He picked it up and turned it over in his hands.

"He might still show up. Maybe he wasn't interested in dinner or games, but–"

"Sarah's right. Jack doesn't care about me. The sooner I accept that, the easier it'll be to move on."

"Is that what you want? To stop trying?"

"He's never tried for me." He passed the gift to Sally. "Give this to somebody. Katherine, Bill, whoever. It doesn't matter."

Sally nodded, slipped the box beneath her arm, and adjusted her skirts as she stood. "Are you coming back down?"

"You can all start without me. I… need a minute."

"Alright. I'll save your presents for you." She planted a kiss on top of his forehead, and swished out of the room.

Les fell back against the mattress, and a few tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. A pit opened deep in Jack's gut: a longing, and desperation to help ease the young man's aching sadness. He hated to watch Les struggle. For years, he had kept his distance, convincing himself it was because he could not bear to see Davey's face in the young man's, when in reality, it was more than that.

Les reminded Jack of his younger self: battered by grief and hurt, but still trying to push forward, to live each day with a bright outlook. Jack had known that eventually, Les would not be able to keep up the facade anymore, and had not wanted to bear witness to the downfall.

And all this time, his avoidance had only made the pain worse.

Someone else knocked on the bedroom door.

"Come in," said Les, sitting up and wiping his eyes.

Katherine carried in two mugs, asking, "Are you alright?"

"Never better," Les gave her a lopsided smile. "You?"

"You can be honest." Katherine perched on the edge of the bed, right where Sally had been. She handed one mug to Les. "With Sarah, down there, that was–"

"Impressive, right? We know who's winning family of the year."

"I've never seen her be so hard on you."

"Well…" Les loosened the tension in his shoulders and took a sip of tea. "We lost Davey, we lost our parents– she's been taking care of me for years. She's had to hold a lot, and sometimes… it boils over."

"That doesn't give her a pass."

"No. But she's all I have."

"You have Sally. And Tommy Boy–"

"Thank goodness for him, or Sare would be unbearable."

Katherine set her mug on the bedside table, then pulled Les into a hug. "Sounds like you need some time away from her."

He smiled into her shoulder. "You have something in mind?"

She let him go, and a cheeky grin came onto her face; the signature look of a woman with a plan. "I was recently invited to cover an exclusive for The World: Life aboard the first unsinkable ship. And I'm allowed to bring guests."

"Sal and I have been saving for a honeymoon…"

"Exactly. Why not spend those savings in England, this April?" Katherine put out her hand, to indicate a business deal.

Les beamed and shook. "Sold."

"Unsinkable," Jack scoffed, as he and the ghost left the house and returned to the street. "Sounds like an accident waitin' to happen."

When the spirit did not answer him, he turned to it and stumbled backward, gaping like a fish in the desert. Its robe was ablaze, the emerald green becoming ashen tatters that still hung about its person. Both its hair and holly headpiece were smoldering too; great, gray curls of smoke rose into the snowy air.

On instinct, Jack bent and scooped up a handful of snow, which he lobbed at the spirit. This did not do any good, but he continued trying, until the ghost shook its head.

"It's no use," it said.

"Maybe if you laid down an' started makin' a snow angel–"

"My time is up. Do not worry about me."

"Your head is on fire!" Jack said, incredulous. "I'm gonna be a little worried."

The spirit pursed its lips. "Hmm. Maybe there's hope for you, after all."

"Great," Jack rolled his eyes and bent to create another snowball.

But when he rose again to meet the ghost, he found it not there. In its place was nothing but a charred pair of glasses, which fell to ash when Jack touched it.

"Merry Christmas ta you, too," he said bitterly, then fell silent as his eyes locked on something new. Davey had said three spirits.

In the distance was a short, hooded figure, drifting slowly toward him.

Yes, my angst muscles were at work in this chapter too. Sorry not sorry.

And yes, I threw real-life, historical events in here (fifteen-year-old me had an idea when she first planned this story, and I'm rolling with it).

If you have any thoughts at all to share, I would love to see them in a review. I'll see you tomorrow for the next chapter!