The Legend of Holly Claus

by Brittney Ryan

  “Where I come from—” stammered Holly, blushing a little as she tried to find words. “It’s very—very—forested, and there aren’t any opera houses.” She lifted her eyes to his and realized with surprise that he didn’t believe her and he didn’t care. His mouth was stretched into an odd smile.

  He turned his head away and said, very softly, “Oh, how I am going to enjoy this evening.”

  “And so am I,” said Holly.

  He did not answer, but lifted her hand again, expertly turning the palm upward and pressing his warm lips against her wrist. A faint shudder of revulsion buzzed through her.

  Their box, swathed in velvet of midnight blue and encrusted with gilt in every possible location, afforded Holly and Mr. Hartman an unobstructed view of the stage. It also afforded them a view of the Diamond Horseshoe, the semicircle of boxes that belonged to the aristocracy of New York, which were handed down from one generation to the next. Holly’s eyes danced as she watched the Morgans and the Vanderbilts, resplendent in diamonds and icy in manners, nod to one another from their thrones. Down in the orchestra prowled what appeared to be an army of penguins; young men with plenty of money and perfectly cut evening clothes roved through the theater, stopping to flirt with any lady, young or old, of sufficient social standing to capture their interest. Holly’s presence was having a rather strong effect upon this portion of the opera-going population; more than a dozen young men who had been cultivating their taste for ladies less decorative than wealthy found their inner economy upset by Holly’s glowing smile and capricious curls. One Mr. Law peered through his opera glass and fumed, “Know the girl from somewhere. Can’t quite put my finger on it. Who’s that fellow she’s with?”

  “Never saw him before. Doesn’t deserve her,” grumbled young Mr. Knapp.

  Holly, oblivious to the opera glasses trained upon her, was enjoying herself immensely. It was all so grand. The humming crowd, the ladies like gauzy butterflies, the lavish golden ceiling where muses wafted on gilded clouds, the whole bubbling world of it entered her blood like champagne. Catching sight of the most majestic of all the society queens, she leaned forward to touch Mr. Hartman’s arm. “Look at her! Is that a belt of diamonds?” she whispered. “She can’t possibly breathe!”

  “That’s Mrs. Astor,” he replied. He looked down at Holly. “Do you know who she is?”

  “No. Is she someone important?”

  Mr. Hartman laughed and laid his hand casually over the rail of their box, pointing a finger in the direction of Mrs. Astor. As if pulled by an invisible rope, the regal head turned, and Mrs. Astor, appearing vaguely surprised, nodded toward their box. Mr. Hartman nodded coolly back. Mechanically the grand dame turned her eyes away.

  “Do you know her?” asked Holly, impressed.

  “I’ve met her once or twice,” said Hunter Hartman.

  And then the curtain began to rise. The lights dimmed, and the crowd hushed. Holly leaned forward, eager for every note, and as she did so, a slight disturbance several boxes away caught her attention. She glanced over—and instantly dropped her eyes, for there, not more than twenty feet from her, was Mr. Carroll, taking a solitary seat in a box. Secretively she looked in his direction, distracted by the sight of him removing a pair of opera glasses from the pocket of his evening jacket. He sat back in his seat, obviously prepared to enjoy the opera. She realized with relief and regret that he had not seen her. After a short internal struggle, she lifted her head. Let him see that she was not just a plain little shopgirl, but a young lady in an evening gown! She smoothed the golden folds of her dress.

  That’s enough fussing, she scolded herself. Just listen.

  Let him see that she was not just a plain little shopgirl, but a young lady in an evening gown!

  Soon she had forgotten everything but the music. The story of Othello and Desdemona unfolded, and Holly was lost in the inexorable tide of the characters’ fates, watching with fascinated horror as the heart of Othello was dismantled by Iago for the sport of it. So intent was Holly upon the tragedy before her that the intermission, when it came, seemed a rude interruption. She looked around hazily, and Hunter Hartman, whose interest in the proceedings onstage appeared to be limited, smiled at her confusion. “Do you care to take a turn in the lobby? Or shall I bring you an ice?”

  “Oh no!” said Holly vehemently “I don’t want anything but for it to begin again! It’s wonderful! Aren’t the voices beautiful?”

  “No. You are.”

  She ignored him and stared at the dropped curtain. “I never imagined it would be so exciting,” she murmured. “It makes me shiver.” She held up a trembling hand.

  “Permit me,” said Mr. Hartman, capturing her hand in his.

  Holly slipped from his grasp. “Mr. Hartman, I believe I would like that ice you mentioned,” she said. Something cool would be helpful; the enchanted snow that glittered on her dress struggled against the pressing heat of thirty-six hundred people in evening dress.

  “At your service, Miss Claus.” He paused at the small, gilded door. “I hate to leave a young lady without protection. I do hope you won’t mind if I avail myself of the key. Many confounded young fools have been known to walk into a box without an invitation.” He did not wait for her reply but exited quickly. She heard the golden key turn in the lock.

  He really is rather strange, Holly decided. Always staring with those eyes, but he can’t be bothered to listen to me. Odd. Maybe all mortal men are that way. No, that’s not true. Not Mr. Kleiner. Not Dr. Braunfels. They listen. And Mr. Carroll?

  Shyly she stole a look at his box. He was leaning forward, scanning the seats below. He stood and peered up at the boxes above him. Frowning, he resettled himself in his seat and glared at the small program in his hands.

  Whatever can he be about? Holly wondered, watching him shred the little paper book with an abstracted air. And why doesn’t he look this way?

  Click. The sound of the key turning in the lock brought her back to the present. Mr. Hartman delivered her ice with gallant inquiries as to her comfort and general well-being. Feeling somehow guilty, she rewarded him with a smile and consumed the delicious coolness in silence. She was relieved when the lights dimmed and the curtain rose again.

  Her relief, however, was short-lived; from then on the terrible descent of Othello was almost more than she could stand. When the villain ground the fallen hero under his heel, Holly had to tear her eyes away. She glanced at her boxmate. He was more absorbed in this spectacle than in any other the opera had provided, and he seemed to know the music well, for he swayed in time to Iago’s taunts. Unnerved, Holly looked toward Carroll’s box. The lonely occupant sat still as a statue, his jaw set, his eyes lost in shadows.

  The last mournful strains of song finished, and the house erupted into crashing applause. Holly, clapping fervently, stole another look at the nearby box. It was empty.

  It was a small world, the one that glittered so brightly. The same elegant women and men who had occupied the boxes of the opera house now swept toward the cream and gold brocade seats of Delmonico’s. They stopped to chat here and there, leaning confidentially down to receive or dispense gossip, laughing in low voices, extending a well-kept hand in greeting. Holly watched, but she found she was beginning to wish for somebody—anybody—who looked just a little bit different. She felt a sharp longing for Tundra, who cared nothing for any of this kind of show and thought humans should have fur. But while she was in the most famous restaurant in New York, he was outside, sitting uncomfortably in the snow. She sighed inwardly and tried to attend to Mr. Hartman. He was telling her stories of his cosmopolitan youth in Paris and London, and though she had always longed to travel to those grand cities, she found herself strangely unmoved by his tales of balls, royal receptions, yacht races, and fox hunts.

  “—only to discover that it was the duke himself!” Mr. Hartman concluded a story she should have been listening to. Holly smiled noncommittally. He looked at her with a flash of impatience before his
face relaxed into a warm smile. “Are you tired, Miss Claus?” he asked, moving his chair closer to hers.

  “No, really, I’m not,” she said, sitting up straighter than ever. “I’m still in a daze from that sad, sad story, I think.”

  “What, the opera?” He seemed to find this amusing. “Just a tale, child. Just a story. You shouldn’t take it so to heart.”

  “How can you not?” Holly asked. “Didn’t it stir your feelings?”

  He shrugged. “The male animal is not so easily stirred as that, my dear. An opera, even one by your Maestro Verdi, cannot evoke in me even one fraction of the emotion that a moments glimpse of you can, and does.”

  “A moment’s glimpse of me?” she repeated. “I don’t think I understand the things you say, Mr. Hartman.”

  In reply, his eyes wandered slowly over her, dropping from her eyes to her mouth to the escaped tendrils of hair that curled at her neck. Holly felt a flush of embarrassment rising in her cheeks, but Mr. Hartman continued his slow perusal of her face, and she lowered her eyes to the snowy tablecloth. He reached out and gently took her chin between two fingers. “Look at me,” he demanded. She pulled away from his warm hand and met his eyes. “I think you understand me perfectly,” he continued. “I think you know that I find you bewitching, that you have not left my mind for a moment since I saw you in the park two days ago, and that I have done everything in my power to put myself in your way, and that I will not rest until I make you mine.” He drew his thumb along the edge of her jaw, watching, with a pleased smile, the bewildered alarm in her face.

  “I—I know none of this!” said Holly quickly. “And I don’t want to know it.” She battled an urge to run from the table, for that would be rude. She shook her head. “Please, Mr. Hartman, take your hand away. I don’t like it. And I never saw you in the park,” she added.

  “Mmm. But I saw you,” he said. “And I followed you to that wretched shop.”

  “So the toys you bought today … they weren’t for—anyone?”

  “They were for me,” he said. “They gave me a way to be with you. Wasn’t I clever?” He pulled a thin blue box from his coat pocket and set it on the tablecloth. “Look, I bought you a toy too.” He flicked the catch and the box sprang open. There, on a bed of velvet, lay a magnificent collar of diamonds and pearls.

  “It’s very beautiful,” said Holly politely, “but I could never accept such a gift.”

  “Nonsense,” he said, picking it up and looking closely at the diamonds. “It will look splendid on you. You really have quite an elegant neck, my dear. You will be an ornament to society, I guarantee it.” He stood up and moved behind her chair. She felt his warm hands fumbling on her locket’s chain. “How do you take this ridiculous thing off?” he muttered. “There’s no clasp.”

  “Sit down,” said Holly tensely. “Sit down at once.”

  Mr. Hartman laughed and sat. “What is it, Holly? May I call you Holly, my dear?”

  “No! No, you may not!”

  Mr. Hartman’s complacent smile faded. “I see,” he said angrily. “You don’t want to be won too easily. Come, my dear, don’t be foolish. It’s the life you want. I can give it to you. In return, all I ask is—you.”

  Holly stared at him, outraged. “How do you presume to know what sort of life I want? You know nothing about me. Nothing! But I will tell you one thing—I don’t want the life you seem to be offering me.

  Hunter Hartman shifted in his seat and looked sullenly at the untouched glass of champagne upon the table. “You want the necklace, don’t you?” he said. “Go ahead and take it. It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Holly vehemently. “I don’t want your necklace!” She stood, her cheeks pale now with anger. “Good night, Mr. Hartman.”

  “No!” he cried, seizing her hand. He stood, too, and his face was twisted with panic. “No, Miss Claus! Please sit! It was my fault! I was too pressing! I ask nothing but to be in your presence!” He saw Holly’s startled look. “Here, I’ll throw the necklace away if it offends you. See?” He tossed it on the table. “Of course you wouldn’t want to exchange your lovely locket for such a vulgar collar. I can understand that perfectly,” he babbled, “perfectly. For your locket is charming, charming. Yes, charming.” He swallowed, and she saw thin beads of perspiration crawl down his cheeks. He stammered on, “It is very like one my grandmother wore, may God rest her soul. Bless me, the similarity is remarkable. Would you be so kind as to permit me to inspect it?” Without waiting for an answer, he reached his hand out to touch the old gold.

  But Holly was too quick for him. She leaped up and swiftly walked through the restaurant and out into the snowy night.

  “It was Herrikhan,” she concluded. Her voice was steady now.

  The hansom cab rattled and squeaked. Finally Tundra said, “I knew that he would come here. I knew it and I dreaded it, but now that the thing has happened, I cannot think what to do. If you hide, he can find you. We cannot leave until Nicholas comes tomorrow. There is no safe place.”

  “I know.”

  Tundra considered. “Holly, remember this: the locket cannot be removed by force, but only by your consent. He has tried trickery and failed. Next he will try blackmail. You must not let him succeed. Promise me.”

  Holly’s eyes were wide and frightened in the gloom. “No,” she said. “I’m not going to promise that.”

  “Holly.” Tundra sounded tired. “You must.”

  “No! I’m not going to let him—let him”—she couldn’t bring herself to say the word—“hurt you if I have the power to stop him. Even without the locket, he can’t take me away without my agreement. Remember? I’m not without power. I have to choose him. And I won’t.”

  “Holly, you know it comes to the same thing,” said Tundra. “Listen to me. If you lose this battle because of me, it will kill me. I’ve been your guardian for sixteen years; please, I beg you, don’t become mine. I beg you.”

  “I’m not promising anything,” said Holly, her mouth trembling.

  Click. The little door in the roof of the carriage opened. “That’s four times around the block, miss,” said a beery voice. “Don’t you want to go somewheres?”

  Tundra listened with surprise as Holly gave the address of the toy shop. The little door snapped shut. “Is that sensible?” he asked. “Perhaps the park would be safer.”

  “I don’t want anything to happen to the children,” said Holly. “And I’ve made a decision. Just now, I made it. It’s no use hiding, we both know that. So I’ll do what I hoped to do. I’m going to the store to find Empy and Lexy and Euphemia, just as I had planned. And then I’ll go to the Kleiners’ house. And tomorrow will be my last day in the Empire City, and I’ll say good-bye to all my dear ones here”—her voice broke—“and then I’ll go home. And I’ll know that I helped Jeremy find his way, and Bat and Louise and Phoebe and Lissy and all the others. And if—if—something happens between now and then—well, then it will. I’m not going to give in.” She felt stronger as she said the words and her fear began to ebb.

  “That’s right, Holly,” said Tundra softly. “That’s right. That’s what bravery is—being afraid and going forward anyway.”

  She laid her hand on his head as the cab clattered on.

  The key that Mr. Kleiner had given her turned smoothly in the lock, and they stepped inside the silent shop. The pale glow of the moon illuminated a small area near the window, but its weak light could not penetrate far, and the snow-dusted shelves and tables were just ghostly outlines in the shadowy dark. A few silvery snowflakes spiraled lazily to the floor, and the pungent spice of fir needles scented the room with Christmas. Holly strode purposefully to the storeroom with Tundra at her heels.

  She lit a candle and saw the empty roll of silk laying where she had left it on the tall table.

  “Boo!” shrieked three tinny voices. A tiny fox, owl, and penguin leaped out from behind a basket of teacups and saucers. “Fooled you!”<
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  “It’s not the time for child’s play,” began Tundra angrily “Herrikhan is here!” As he explained, the three little creatures, now shamefaced and miserable, turned to Holly for forgiveness.

  “Please, Holly, forgive us for being so silly!” began Alexia.

  “Holly, dear, if only you could fly away,” cried Euphemia.

  In silent despair, Empy butted his head against Holly’s hand until she petted him, a distracted look upon her face.

  “Where shall we go? What shall we do?” Alexia was wailing when suddenly Holly interrupted her as though she heard nothing.

  “I’m going upstairs,” she announced.

  “What?” croaked everyone but Tundra.

  “Upstairs. I’ll be back.” She slipped off the stool.

  “But he’s up there,” hissed Lexy.

  “I know,” said Holly, her face unreadable.

  “Go,” said Tundra. “Go on. We’ll wait.”

  The silk of her dress rustled over the carpet as she ascended the darkened stairs. She was guided only by the ticking of the clock above her, which grew louder as she climbed. At the top of the gallery, she laid her hand upon the balcony and edged her way toward the velvet curtains she knew lay somewhere in the shadows. When the tips of her fingers brushed against the yielding softness, she moved forward. This time she felt protected inside the thick waves of velvet, and for a childish moment she wanted to hide there forever. She pushed aside the soft folds and found herself standing in the wood-paneled hallway. Lighted candles stood on a small table nearby, and they shed a glowing light along the passage. As before, the dark doors that lined the hall were closed. There—at the end—was what she wanted. She moved forward cautiously, trying to hush the whisper of her skirts, until she stood again before the massive timepiece. It was mysterious and haunting, its lovingly carved hands halted at ten minutes before four. And there was something else. Something that Holly had not seen before. Down below the clock’s face was a carved wooden scroll, unfurled, and written upon it, in capital letters, were the words Love Conquers Time. Holly touched the gleaming wood, tracing the carvings with her fingers. It was like a portal to another world, a magical door that led to a unknown land, a beautiful place. It was the world Mr. Carroll lived in. She wanted more than anything to enter the room beyond, for it seemed to hold the missing piece of her heart. She rested her head against the shining wood. Then, with golden silk spread around her like a pool of water, she raised her head. There was no knob but, of course, there wouldn’t be. Slowly her slender white hand crept across the smooth wood, searching for a tiny, secret latch hidden within a scroll or festoon.