It was icy on the eve of Christmas Eve. The Lustgarten, normally wide open in front of the Old Museum, was packed variously with stalls selling steaming sweet treats, magnificent and wondrous toys, and ornate decorations depicting the infant Christ-Child, the Madonna, or that strange blend of the historical Saint Nicholas and Odin Allfather, whose mode of transportation was not a team of reindeer, but a horse possessing twice the legs of any reindeer. I am of course talking about Father Christmas, from whom Major Amadeus Prauer's only child had never before received a present.

The tall one-eyed major, a fox clad in the field grey coat and peaked cap of a Reichsheer officer, led his twin-tailed, half-Chinese son by the hand through the crowds. The older fox had gotten most of his Christmas shopping done two weeks prior; today, he was looking for a fruit stand.

Amadeus stopped at one end of the market stalls, which were protected from the snow and wind by red and green canvas. He knelt to eye level with Miles. "Getting cold, son?"

The boy pushed back his top hat–borrowed from his father–and drew his heavy blue coat tighter around him. "Uh-huh."

"There's hot cider in some of these stalls. Would you like a cup?"

Miles, nearly seven years old and looking at once scared and fascinated by these unfamiliar surroundings, asked in halting German: "I don't know what 'cider' is. What is it?"

Not for the first time, the major felt a stab of guilt for not bringing the boy home sooner. The taste of hot cider, all apples and cinnamon, nutmeg and cardamom, and graced with a hint of clove, was one of his earliest conscious memories, and each Christmas season kept it fresh.

He related all this information to Miles, who instantly brightened and assented to his father's proposal. Finding a sweets stall that carried it, they watched the vendor–a skunk, Polish by his accent–ladle out two steaming mugs of the heavenly beverage. "Bring those back when you're done," the skunk said gruffly.

"Of course," Amadeus answered, before noticing a tray piled with small, spherical confections, which appeared to be coated with a combination of chopped nuts, toasted coconut, and cocoa powder. "Can I get ten of those?" he asked the skunk. Miles looked curious as the skunk filled a paper bag with the treats.

The ghost of a smile tugged at Amadeus's lips as he reached into the bag and produced two of the strange, sweet-smelling spheres. He handed one to Miles. "Try this." He popped one into his mouth and chewed with relish.

Miles mirrored his father. "It's…" He defaulted to Mandarin, having lost the German words needed to express himself. "It's very weird, Father. It feels like cheese, but it's sweet and nutty and kind of bitter, too." He chewed more thoughtfully. "It's okay, I guess."

"It's marzipan," Amadeus answered in German. Both foxes lifted hot cider to their lips to wash down the sweet. Amadeus was pleased by the smile that blossomed on Miles's face. "Better?"

Miles sucked down half his mug before he answered. "A lot better!"

So, Miles was one of those rare children who preferred the taste of fruit over candy. That will save him a few trips to the dentist, the older fox thought. He scanned the stalls as he sipped, searching for a likely fruit stand. Mentally, he went down the day's shopping list:

Eight red apples, three green apples, one pound dates, half a pound figs, quarter-pound raisins, and…oh yes, four large oranges.

One for him, one for Miles, and one for each of his parents when they'd plowing through Christmas dinner. Not one for Rosemary?

Rosemary hadn't answered his dinner invitation. Though their divorce process had been quiet and amicable as divorces went, he still remembered the revulsion in her eyes at the thought of raising his bastard as their son. Amadeus hadn't wanted to invite her in the first place, but his own father had insisted, saying: "Boys need mothers as much as their fathers, and he's as handsome as a little chap can come: she'll warm to him, you'll see."

Amadeus didn't want Rosemary anymore. He was sure of it. But he also knew that she had desperately wanted to be a mother. With that in mind, he'd supposed his father's assessment might be correct: it was one thing to learn your husband had been unfaithful, and that he had a son who, in principle, was simply another dirty secret on top of that. To encounter the flesh-and-blood boy, to see him smile, to hear him badger you with questions about how the world around him worked, to read to him and hear his vocabulary's exponential growth, was quite another.

Amadeus himself had gone to Tiantsin with a heavy heart, expecting to feel little as he soberly, dutifully raised the boy himself; he'd left that ancient port city with Miles laughing on his shoulders, and a joyous vigor he hadn't felt since the end of the war with France. Augmenting that joy was the fact that Christmas was mere weeks away when father and son finally arrived in Germany.

They finished their cider and went on weaving through the crowd. After some time, they found their quarry: Kleinenfeld, a middle-aged squirrel with a heavy Viennese drawl. Remarkably, the tubby greengrocer carried everything they needed, apples, dates, figs, even the oranges–the oranges. There were five left. He pointed them out. "Four, please."

"Danke, danke," replied the grocer.

As he began to count out the marks to make his purchase, Amadeus's eye lingered on the last orange on display. The grocer followed his gaze, then gave him a questioning look. After what felt like a long moment, the major nodded. Five oranges, it was.

At five o'clock, it was already dark outside. The wind had died down, but the snow had only gotten heavier. The smell of hot bread and mozzarella wafted over father and son as Miles opened the door for his father. Amadeus kicked the snow off his boots before he stepped into the warm confines of his home, his long arms filled with large paper bags containing the haul of fruit. "Oma, Opa, we're back!" he called out.

Miles was considerate enough to shut the door behind his father before bolting toward the kitchen. His grandfather–a lanky, broad-shouldered, active old fox, with age-greyed fur and thick white facial hair that protruded like the bristles of a prawn–appeared in the kitchen entrance and scooped the boy up with a booming laugh. "Elevator! Elevator!" He stepped into the living room to raise the boy above his head and spin around with him.

"Schatzi?" Miles's grandmother came out of the kitchen and removed two of the bags from her son's arms. She was a small fox, standing five feet to Amadeus's six and a half. She had allowed herself to age gracefully, sporting gentle patches of white in her formerly black-and-red fur. Like her husband, son, and grandson, her eyes were a beautiful sky blue.

She peeked into one of the bags. "I see you came through."

"The last five on the stand," Amadeus confessed.

Mother and son entered the kitchen. The smell of celery, carrot, bacon, and lentils greeted them from the pot on the stove. The old woman took out one orange and gave it an appraising sniff. "And a good find, too." She placed the bag on the kitchen table and embraced her son. "How was Miles?"

Amadeus kissed the top of her head. "He behaved himself. Turns out that he has a real taste for cider, too."

She grinned, and dropped the embrace to pull on some mitts and open the oven. "Let's see if he has a taste for käsebröchten." The bread-and-mozzarella smell rolled out and wrapped around the two foxes. "Miles, Johann! Supper's ready!"

"Perle, those rolls smell heavenly!" The old fox came in with his squirming grandson tucked under one arm. He gave the kit a noogie before setting him down.

After they'd finished eating, grandparents, son, and grandson retired to Amadeus's small parlor, with cocoa in their hands and a fire in the hearth. Before sitting down, Amadeus removed a book from the shelf beside the parlor entrance. "Miles, time to read."

Miles beamed. "Three Musketeers? Peter Pan?"

"Something a bit different, I think," Amadeus replied as he sat. Miles scrambled onto his father's lap, his head cocking curiously at the strange title on the hard red cover. "A Christmas Carol", Amadeus read aloud. "Opa used to read this one to me when I was your age."

Johann inclined his head in acknowledgement, before taking out his pipe. Perle looked a little apprehensive. "Are you sure you want to read that to him now?"

"What's it about?" Miles asked eagerly.

"It's about a man who learned to do the right thing," Amadeus explained, "with the help of some ghosts, of course."

Miles demurred. "Is this a scary story? Like that one with the heartbeat under the floorboards?"

Johann cackled good-naturedly, but Perle was plainly appalled that her grandson had been introduced to Edgar Allen Poe at the tender age of six. Truthfully, it was Miles who had first insisted on that book of Poe's stories, and only because his father had exhausted the ten other novels he'd bought for the return trip. After finishing "The Tell-Tale Heart", Amadeus had asked Miles if he still wanted to read more; the kit had refused, and asked if they could read Three Musketeers again.

"It's much scarier for grown-ups," Amadeus assured the boy, "but it might be a little scary to you. This one does have a happy ending."

Miles wondered how something could be scarier for a grown-up like his father, than for himself: in his mind, Amadeus wasn't scared of anything. His curiosity piqued by this strange concept, the young fox said: "I'll listen."

Amadeus opened on the first page, and cleared his throat. He read aloud:

Marley was dead, to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Scrooge signed it. And Scrooge's name was good upon 'Change, for anything he chose to put his hand to. Old Marley was as dead as a…

For the next two and a half hours, Amadeus read. As a younger fox, he'd written poetry in his spare time; after the courts had closed for the day, he and his colleagues in the Kammergericht would all find the nearest café, and read their respective poems aloud over brown tobacco, black coffee, and yellow beer, well into the wee hours of the morning. While his actual verses were comparatively simple, it was Amadeus that people loved to listen to most. He'd keep this talent sharpened during his marriage to Rosemary–who loved Goethe and Shakespeare–and now he used it to bond with his only son.

When Amadeus came to the last line, the clock read 9:30. Miles and Perle were fast asleep, and Johann looked well on his way to Dreamland himself.

Amadeus slowly closed the book, looking first to Perle and then to Miles. His mother had snuggled up to Johann, resting her head on the old fox's heart and snoring softly. Miles was in more or less the same position, and his snores sounded almost exactly like hers. My beautiful boy, he thought.

At that moment, the bell at the front door tinkled rapidly, then stopped. Damned carolers, Amadeus thought. Even as his father stirred, he said softly: "I'll get it." Taking care to not wake Miles, the major got up and went to the door.

He'd expected to be greeted by the fifth alcohol-fueled rendition of "Silent Night" he'd heard that week. Instead, when he opened the door, he saw her.

Backlit by the high lamp across the street, Rosemary stood there, clad in layers of dark maroon cloth and a matching bonnet. The rapidly-thickening snowfall bathed the street, and her, in a ghostly orange light. "Good evening, Herr Major."

Amadeus stiffened, and unconsciously his face morphed the one he wore during maneuvers: complete stone. "Rosemary." Quickly, he stepped through the door and shut it behind himself. "I want to make one thing absolutely clear."

Rosemary's eyes, blue and dark as the open ocean, regarded him coolly. "Yes?"

"You will not be anything less than courteous to Miles. If you cannot do that, I will hail you a coach. I will even walk you home. Is that understood?"

Silence hung in the icy orange air for three heartbeats. Absurdly, perhaps because Poe was already in the back of his mind, perhaps because of the combination of that, the light, and the coloration of her attire, the line "And the Red Death held sway over all" popped into his head, then vanished.Two more heartbeats. Then she nodded, and he quietly opened the door for her. The estranged lovers stepped inside.

She undid her bonnet, allowing her long braid of luxuriant brown hair to access the warmth of the house. "When did you get back?" she asked as he took her coat.

Amadeus's mouth felt dry. "A month ago."

She looked around. "Is everyone asleep?"

"Yes, in the parlor."

Miles's voice, softened by sleep. "Vati?"

Amadeus turned. Miles was in the parlor entrance, rubbing one eye and yawning. The major dropped the stony expression as he went over to pick up his son. "It's time for bed, Miles."

"Yes, Va–" He saw Rosemary.

She saw him, too. To Amadeus's surprise, she gave him a gesture that Amadeus had taught her during his deployment to China; a short, polite bow. "Wǎnshàng hǎo."

Miles, polite to the last, bowed back, assured by the familiar gesture as Amadeus scooped him up. Having heard spoken Mandarin from a German besides his father, he felt more comfortable defaulting to that language. He asked: "Father, who's that? She talks like me, but she doesn't look like me."

He carried Miles up the single flight of stairs to the boy's room, which had formerly been his at-home office. In the final years of their marriage, it had become Rosemary's room. "That's Miss Rosemary, my…" Wife? Not anymore, Herr Major. You made your decision. "She was my wife."

"But not now?" Miles asked innocently.

"Not now." The father gently placed his son on the bed, and Miles dutifully went under the cool sheets. It struck Amadeus that Miles might actually be familiar with the idea of divorce, or at least separation: God knew how many other well-to-do men had visited the brothel that was the boy's home, and God knew what perversions the boy might have heard and seen during those lonely, loveless formative years. Amadeus knew he would answer for that, along with his many other sins, when he stood before Christ's judgment seat. "Miles?"

The kit yawned as the Sandman dusted his half-dreaming eyes. "Yes, Vati?"

"I…I hurt her. Badly. And sometimes, grown-ups, when they're hurt, they'll say things they don't mean, but it hurts as if they did mean it. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Vati."

"If she says anything…" He embraced Miles, his voice becoming a gentle whisper. "If she says something like that to you, tell me. Understood?"

Miles yawned again, only half-hearing as he nodded assent. "Yes, Vati." His small arms returned the hug.

They held the embrace for a long time. Miles's arms soon slackened, and his breath turned back to those little snores. "Merry Christmas," Amadeus whispered, before kissing Miles on the forehead. Just as he turned off the ceiling light, he saw the end of Rosemary's tail slip out of the doorway.

By the time the sun peeked over the horizon, three feet of snow had blanketed the neighborhood. Amadeus was clearing the porch and his section of sidewalk with a snow shovel, cursing under his breath, when he heard footsteps on the slush behind him. So, she does want to talk.

In the past, he and Rosemary had found broaching difficult topics, well…difficult. He remembered when, after the doctor had told them that she couldn't have any children, she'd come out to shovel the walk with him exactly as she was doing now. Amadeus had asked her about adoption; the discussion quickly turned into the worst fight they'd ever had. He hoped Rosemary had enough decorum not to pick a fight on Christmas Eve.

Clad in her maroon, she began to attack the snow beside him. She didn't look at him; she didn't say anything. Her eyes were on the snow. When it became clear that she would say nothing anytime soon, Amadeus concentrated on the snow too.

Their shovels beat a steady, crunching cadence in the wet snow. They advanced a foot, a yard, two yards down the sidewalk to the street, when Rosemary paused to catch her breath. Amadeus kept shoveling. Then after a foot, he stopped as well.

The front door opened. Miles stepped out, followed by Johann. Miles began to walk toward his father, but Johann stopped him, saying: "Let's go around back. Come on, have you ever built a snowman before?"

Amadeus turned to her, only slightly winded: he prided himself on his fitness, so much that he could run circles around most men of his rank. Their eyes met. Has she been crying? he thought.

Rosemary brushed away a drop of frozen snot with a handkerchief. Her breath fogged heavily as she finally said: "He looks like you."

"What is a 'snowman'?" Miles asked as he followed his grandfather into the small backyard. The garden–formerly Rosemary's sanctum, which had taken up half the yard–stood empty, but for a low fence and a pair of small plum trees that had been planted two years before. They reminded Miles of a pair of thin hands, with dozens of splayed, twiggy fingers reaching for the sky.

"Well, it's a man made of snow," Johann replied cheerfully. "You start with a snowball, like this." He scooped two handfuls of snow together and packed them into a tight ball. "Now you try."

Miles understood the principle immediately, though his first attempt made something more like a snow egg than a snowball. Johann hefted the object in his hand, and was about to say something when he spotted a familiar figure on the back porch of the adjacent house: Dr. Charles von Igel, a professor of paleontology at Berlin University. He was a stocky, steel-blue hedgehog, with–though only two year's Amadeus's senior–a thick handlebar mustache gone completely white. He was talking casually with a younger hedgehog, a glum boy of about thirteen, with more vibrant blue quills.

"Charles! I didn't know you had a son!"

Charles turned and grinned. "Ah, Herr Prauer!" he called back, "This is my nephew."

Johann looked genuinely surprised. "Aleena moved back in with you?"

Charles looked regretful. "No, she sent him here for a while. She's picking him up after New Year's."

"Shame, that. How is she?"

Rosemary had his full attention now. But Amadeus remained silent.

"He…I thought he would look more…" she shook her head.

"Like his mother."

"...Yes."

"Was that why you wanted nothing to do with him?"

She held his gaze. "Yes." Then she broke it. "I…I'm sorry."

The two boys went further out in the yard to build a snowman–per Charles's instruction, anyway. As the older men talked, Miles knelt in the snow and began packing a handful of snow together. The older boy, who'd introduced himself as "Sonic", watched him for a few moments, then asked: "Where're you from, kid? I've never seen someone with two tails before."

"Tiantsin," Miles answered.

"Where's that?"

"China."

"China?" Sonic whistled. "You're a long way from home, aren't you?"

Miles took a moment to mentally translate Sonic's question, before replying with the answer his father had drilled into him for the last few months. "Berlin is my home. I was just born there."

"Is that old guy your father?"

"No. My father is talking with Miss Rosemary, out front."

Sonic knelt to help the young fox roll the snowball. It was the size of a rugby ball now. "Why do you talk like that?"

Miles hadn't had much occasion to test his German with someone other than family, or with Charles, who'd volunteered to watch him while Amadeus was at the office. He was beginning to feel proud of himself, for holding a conversation in his father's language this long, and with a complete stranger. "I am learning German."

"Oh. So you actually are Chinese, by blood?"

Miles nodded. The ball was about a foot in diameter now, and he needed Sonic's help to roll it.

"Is your father Chinese?"

Miles grinned, his chest proudly puffing out as he said: "No. He is a major in the Reichsheer."

Sonic looked curious. "Is Miss Rosemary your mother?"

Miles blushed. "I-I'm not supposed to talk about my mother."

Amadeus stuck the shovel in the snow. "I'm sorry, too." He took her hands, and sighed. "I was unnecessarily sharp with you last night."

"He's your son," she said quietly, her eyes still on the slush at her feet.

Amadeus paused. "Rosa. I won't ask you to be my wife again. I haven't earned that right. But perhaps..."

She slowly met his eye.

Amadeus felt his mouth moving before he could stop it. "Boys need mothers. Will you be his mother, if not for my sake, then for his?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Didn't you take him from his mother?"

"Miles didn't have a mother, she gave him up."

"'Gave him up?'"

"Her boss fed him and kept him warm, but nothing more. He doesn't know what it's like to have a real mother, but he could."

Rosemary looked down the street, but said nothing. Her silence attenuated as she picked up her shovel and resumed clearing the snow.

Silence was not the answer Amadeus wanted. "Rosa."

She stopped. "I..I don't know."

In the face of Sonic's further questions, Miles remained anxiously silent. Sonic gave up, and for a few minutes they continued to roll the ball until its diameter reached two feet. Sonic gave the giant snowball one last roll before signaling Miles to stop. "Two more."

As they began gathering snow for the second ball, Miles finally asked: "What does your father do?"

"Smoke, drink, and wench around," Sonic answered dryly, "and he occasionally runs the garrison in Neu-Moschi."

"Where is that?"

"Africa."

Miles brightened as the second ball took shape. "Is that where you're from?"

Sonic gave a short laugh. "Like you said, kid: Berlin's home. I was just born there."

"Are you not supposed to talk about your father?"

Another laugh, this one longer and brighter. "Probably not."

Once the ball reached a foot in diameter, the boys hefted it up and placed it on the bigger ball. "Maybe half that big?" Miles guessed, referring to the size of the snowman's head.

"A little bigger, but close."

"How do you make the face and arms?"

Amadeus and Rosemary soon reached the street. The displaced snow formed a low wall on each side of the path, which reminded the major of a shallow trench. "Will you at least think about it?"

Rosemary slowly inhaled. "I will."

Amadeus sensed that was as good an answer as he was going to get. Nonetheless, it eased his mind. Sure, she may be hesitant, but if she was willing to consider it, all she'd need now is time with Miles. He was sure of it.

It was then that he heard Johann's booming laughter, and Charles's normally distinguished, academic voice yell: "You little shits!"

The boys had gotten the idea to build a snow fox, packing snow over a dead branch from one of the plum trees to make the tail. Two more branches–which turned out to be alive–made the arms and eyebrows. To make the ears and snout, Miles made a few snow eggs like the one he'd made for Johann, and Sonic shaped them to the right proportions.

Sonic gave one of the remaining snow eggs a thoughtful toss, catching it as it fell. A mischievous grin split his lips, but his voice came out low and conspiratorial: "Have you ever been in a snowball fight, kid?"

Miles shook his head.

"You are now." He then called out: "Duck!" To Miles's amazement, the older boy's arm whipped forward, and the snow egg whizzed forty feet through the air.

Charles was too slow: the point of the snow egg caught him on the temple, sending his brown bowler hat flying. Sputtering snow, he dropped to one knee to gather a fistful of snow himself. A second snow egg caught him on the forehead. "You little shits!"

Miles was terrified, yet…simultaneously delighted. His heart pounded with excitement, and the grin all boys wear when they know they're going to get in trouble that night bloomed across his face. Rapidly, he made three more snow eggs. A gust of wind sent the paleontologist's return fire wide, knocking an arm off the snow fox.

Johann ducked behind a chair beside Charles, and was scraping together his own arsenal when he saw Amadeus and Rosemary jogging into the yard in his peripheral vision.

Amadeus pulled up short when he saw Miles and Sonic take cover behind the snow fox. The kit poked his head out and shouted: "Vati, look out!"

A snowball spattered on the major's shoulder. As her ex-husband was promptly sucked into the chaos, Rosemary quietly retreated to the garden to watch.

Despite their superior numbers, it became clear that major and the boys were at a distinct tactical disadvantage: lacking depth perception, Amadeus's snowballs were little more than close suppressing fire, and Miles's inexpert arms saw several snowballs falling short of their intended targets.

Johann and Charles, veterans and instigators of many snowball fights in their respective youths–and in Charles's case, recent weeks–were warmed up now. As Amadeus was the largest target of their three opponents, the two gentlemen focused fire on him, much to Rosemary's amusement.

Contrary to the American tradition of opening presents on Christmas Day, and contrary to the English custom of opening them on Boxing Day, Germans open their gifts on Christmas Eve. The Prauers preferred to do this at night, to give Perle's two-by-one-foot fruitcake the opportunity to soak up an appropriate amount of her homemade liqueur–that is to say, an entire bottle of brandy, infused with ginger and orange peel.

The candles that dotted the Christmas tree weren't yet lit; but the generous coating of silver tinsel made up for it. Doubly so, because the tree was strategically placed opposite the hearth, allowing the tinsel to shimmer and dance like the scales of a fish in the firelight. The sight fascinated all five of the foxes, and Miles most of all, even as Amadeus sent him to pick out the first round of gifts.

Bashfully, the boy unwrapped his present, labeled "From Oma and Opa." It was a foot on each side, and three inches in height. "A xiangqi board?" He beamed.

Rosemary glanced at Amadeus in question. "Chinese chess," the major answered, "he's quite good at it."

Johann unwrapped one that said "From Perle": a shaving kit, with several brushes of varying sizes, a brilliantly polished cream pot, scissors, tweezers, and even a small can of scented bear grease for styling. He made a point of filling Perle's face with his mass of facial bristles, then thanked her warmly.

Rosemary was quite surprised that she'd gotten a gift at all, and it was labeled "From Father Christmas". She unwrapped it: a thick volume titled The Complete Works of William Shakespeare. Flipping through it, she discovered that it not only contained each of The Bard's written works, but also an appendix filled with prints of beautiful, elaborate woodcuttings that depicted iconic scenes from different plays. Stunned, she looked again to Amadeus. "Where did you get this?"

"A colonel in Yutebourg," the major replied, leaving out the fact that he'd bought it for her birthday last year, before she'd found out about Miles.

Perle unwrapped a gift labeled "From Amadeus". It was a rather heavy box, though not conspicuously large. Her eyes widened. "That's not what I think it is?"

Johann slapped his son on the back. "An electric mixer!"

Perle began to laugh. "Are you saying I'm getting too old to do it the right way?"

It was now Amadeus's turn. The box–labeled "From Vati and Mutti"–was about three feet in length, and possessed a familiar, but odd heft. As he unwrapped it, Amadeus realized what was inside: a heavy, large-bore firearm, perhaps a shotgun. Opening the box, his jaw dropped.

It looked like a double-barrelled shotgun, but the fine construction, the hand-carved "Holland and Holland" on the stock, and the crisp rifling within the barrels told him that this was a far more devastating–and expensive–weapon. "A .577 Black Powder Express?" He looked reproachfully at his father. "How much of your pension went into this? The ammunition alone–"

Johann made a placating gesture. "I talked Charles into giving me a discount."

Amadeus didn't realize it, but he was sporting the same grin that Miles wore. He had a small gun collection–three pistols, a skeet gun, a pair of Mauser hunting rifles–and now this, an actual Holland and Holland elephant gun! He could imagine how his colleagues at the firing range would react when he brought this beauty out. "Thank you." He set the rifle reverently back in the box.

Christmas dinner the following day was a triumph, crowned by the largest smoked ham Miles had ever seen. While actually cooked at the shop Perle had ordered it from, Perle had glazed the ham herself, and the bark created in the oven filled the house with the smell of cloves, honey, and nutmeg. Nothing, neither in China nor Germany, had ever smelled so delicious to the boy.

The five foxes joined hands with the two hedgehogs, whom Johann had invited after the snowball fight. Charles, Perle, Rosemary, and Sonic shut their eyes. Amadeus and Johann glanced at each other in silent question: Should you say grace, or should I?

Johann cleared his throat. Amadeus, and then Miles dutifully shut their eyes as well. "Vater im Himmel," the old fox began, "We thank You for all that You do for us. We thank You for this beautiful meal, and we ask that you bless every pair of hands involved in its creation." He paused. Though shut, his eyes pointed in Amadeus's direction. "Thank You for seeing my son home safely, and his son with him. I can't imagine how dismal this Christmas would be without them."

Rosemary's eyes scrunched in pain. She swallowed the lump that was forming in her throat.

"And thank You," the old fox continued, "for the son You sent to us on this very night, eighteen hundred and eighty-six years ago, to give our souls the reprieve we did not deserve, but for which we are eternally grateful. Would that we could host Him in person tonight, in all His glory." He smiled. "In His name we pray, amen."

"Amen," the others chorused, before they tucked into the feast.

Despite the ham, sauerkraut, cheese rolls, and other dishes, it was the brandy-soaked fruitcake that finally did the Prauers in. Miles was the first: though only allowed a single small piece, it had nonetheless worked rapidly. Perle, the architect of the fruitcake, had two pieces, and was shortly snoring on the parlor couch with Miles, followed closely by her son.

Sonic and Charles thanked Johann for the invitation, and they left with roughly half the remaining cake, wrapping it in cheesecloth. Then Johann sat beside the hearth in a high-backed chair, deciding to open his Luther Bible. Before he could think to get out his pipe, the fruitcake sent him to Dreamland as well.

Rosemary, who had a strangely high tolerance despite not drinking more than a glass of wine a week, was fully conscious. She sat in front of the tree to look into the hearth, slowly chipping away at her second piece and savoring each bite. Perle, I've followed the exact same recipe for years, how does it always taste so much better when you're the one who makes it? Unlike Perle, Rosemary enjoyed true cooking more than baking. Perhaps that's what made all the difference: enthusiasm.

She watched the flames dance across the blackening log for a long time. Johann began to snore loudly.

A small, groggy voice from the couch. "Miss Rosemary?"

She turned. "Yes, Miles?"

He slowly slid off the couch and rubbed his eyes. "When are we–" He yawned. "Are we eating the oranges?"

The oranges. She'd almost forgotten: every year, after Christmas dinner had concluded, the Prauers capped the evening with a single, deliciously ripe sweet orange for each of them. How much brandy is in that cake? She looked around the parlor. "Not now," she said, "they're all too sleepy." Miles looked glum, then mumbled something that Rosemary knew was Mandarin, but she didn't catch its meaning. She got up. "You too, I think. Are you ready to go to bed?"

Miles yawned, then nodded. She led him upstairs to his room. My old room. She set him on the bed–the one she'd slept in, on the last night of her marriage. It was big for her, and huge for a six-year-old boy. The same floral sheets. The same goosedown pillows. Why didn't I take those with me when I moved out? It made her feel odd. To her relief, Miles needed no bedtime story nor lullaby; as soon as his head hit the pillow, he was out cold. Quietly, Rosemary shut the door.

The house was silent, but for the dying crackle of the fire in the hearth. She wondered whether to fully put it out now. Ashes. Dump the ashes over it and close the flue. There would still be warmth from the stove, and no risk of a stray spark. After doing so, she decided to go for a walk.

Donning her black boots, maroon coat, and bonnet, she stepped outside. Flurries danced on the icy breeze. Such delicate things, flurries; that was why she liked them. They passed you by like tiny crystalline ballerinas, instead of pelting and piling up on you the way true snowfall did.

Soon she was on the sidewalk. She chose to go right, past Charles's house. Unconsciously, she picked up her pace in the darkness between the streetlamps. Their orange glow comforted her as she thought.

Miles was an intelligent boy, polite, obedient, yet also adventurous in his way. She sensed no ill will from him. Amadeus hadn't verbally savaged her to his son, then. But still…

A recurring, unpleasant image loomed large in her mind. Amadeus, wrapped in the arms of a strange woman, looking down at her the way he once did for Rosemary, looking down into her eyes with that masculine sweetness that said I'm here. You're beautiful. You're mine. Then he kissed her.

It's not Miles's fault. Her mittens numbly, half-consciously went to her belly, where four children had perished. It was my fault. For years, she couldn't stand for Amadeus to touch her, however badly she wanted him. Knowing that she would never give him a child, it…it had killed something in her. Of course he would look elsewhere. Learning that another woman had borne him a son had killed it further. What now?

Seeing Miles, this handsome little boy, had paradoxically killed and resurrected something else inside her. Perhaps it was the same thing, but damned if she could name it. All she knew was that it hurt. It hurt. And she didn't know what to do about it. She couldn't just refuse Miles, but she couldn't look at him and just not see the deed that had brought him into existence. It was like trying to lift a piano by herself.

The cold deepened as the wind picked up. Her eyes felt hot. She stopped, for the wind was blowing directly into her face. After a moment, she turned around: the wind wasn't worth the walk. Even through her thick maroon cloth, she was freezing.

"Rosa?" Amadeus's voice. She saw him beneath one of the streetlamps. He'd followed her outside.

Boys need mothers. Will you be his mother, if not for my sake, then for his?

Her boots crunched on the pavement, and the wind propelled her along. Her eyes burned.

"What's wrong?" He went to meet her.

No. I'm sorry. I can't.

She was crying when the wind drove her into his arms. "Rosa, what happened?"

I can't. I can't. I can't.