The Stocking

The Photograph

Fawn slowed her gait, straying toward the shaft of light that dipped through the crack in the fireplace wall. Leaning her head against the crumbling brick, she gazed out upon the room in wonder. It was her favourite hour. The sun was just beginning to set, bathing the wide, glass windows in December's fiery gold and infusing the dark, mahogany furniture with a rich warmth. Outside, the distant, snowy hills of Wiltshire were blushing with the evening's deepening hues.

In moments like these, she liked to imagine that time itself had stopped, the whole world suspended in amber like the strange, fossilized creatures she'd once glimpsed in the darkness of the study: the house silent, the hearth silent, only the muted sound of a nib scratching on paper breaking the illusion of perfect stillness.

She knew she shouldn't linger. It was soon to be dark, which meant the master of the house would take to stalking the rooms with his forlorn and brooding air, pausing occasionally and unpredictably to stare off vacantly into the shadows. The first time that gaze had fallen over her, Fawn thought her heart would stop, her body rooted where she stood by the almost tangible weight of her terror. But the expression on his face never faltered, his eyes restless as the churning sea and fixed far beyond her on some formless memory.

Each winter he blew in with the first of the frosts, dusting the fine powder from the mantlepieces and unfurling the white sheets from the antique furniture. From the safety of the inner walls, she would welcome him home, noting to herself the small changes that time had wrought: the cut of his cloth, the length of his hair, the stubble that darkened his angled jaw. She liked to watch him from a distance, admiring his imposing features as he paced, as he read, as he lovingly catalogued his botanical collections. Sometimes, when the loneliness got too deep, Fawn would pretend that they had simply grown comfortable in each other's silence, two friends sitting amiably together as the hours stretched on. From afar, it was almost possible to forget that they were so different.

Almost.

For the master of the house did not know she existed, and at the first stirrings of spring, he would depart again, sentencing Fawn to another long year of solitude.

The brass bell of the manor clanged heavily, followed closely by the scraping of the master's chair against the floorboards. Peering forth from her hide, Fawn watched as the doorway to the study ached open, revealing the towering form of the man. His appearance sent Fawn staggering backward instinctively, despite the familiarity of his presence. Recovering herself, she gazed up at him with careful study, her pensive face titling into a quiet frown. He looked sorrowful again, the fading light caressing the dark circles that bloomed beneath his ocean-grey eyes.

Angling her head out past the corner of the fireplace, she watched as his long, lean legs disappeared down the hallway toward the door, her tiny pulse thrumming with curiosity. Was he expecting visitors?

We wish you a Merry Christmas!

We wish you a merry Christmas!

A blast of frigid wind swept through the house, carrying with it a rousing chorus of melodic voices raised in song. Fawn's heart leapt in excitement as the dreary, empty rooms swelled with the buoyant air of yuletide carols.

"I'm afraid it's not a good time," a deep voice rumbled through the din. "I'm quite busy with my studies -"

We wish you a merry Christmas and a happy new year!

"If you could kindly just -"

Good tidings to you, and all of your kin!

"I said enough!" he thundered.

Fawn's body jolted as the singing abruptly ceased, the door slamming on the startled carolers with the force of a gale. She swallowed a whimper as he turned on his heel and stalked back toward the parlour, the terrible booming of his steps mingling with her own quiet trembling. Though every instinct begged her to retreat, she dared not stir, lest the smallest movement send the force of his fury down upon her. Pacing to and fro in agitation, his eyes came to rest upon the mantlepiece, the storm of his large movements gradually calming into stillness. Running a hand haggardly through the waves of his honey-brown hair, he laced his fingers behind his back and strode slowly toward the fireplace.