A Clockwork Christmas

by JK Coi, PG Forte, Stacy Gail; Jenny Schwartz

  Distasteful as the whole thing was, however, it was this very same fact that he clung to now. Because, unlike Ophelia, Arthur was very clearly a child: childlike both in his appearance and size and likewise in his personality. He spoke like a child, acted like a child, he even appeared to think like a child and, when Dario questioned him about his earliest memories, his recollections were appropriately foggy and vague, fading out to nothing at all before the age of two.

  Certainly, there was always a possibility that the professor had learned from his earlier mistakes, that Arthur was merely a more advanced form of automaton. Still, Dario felt justified in at least hoping such was not the case. After all, what would be the point? It was an army of adult soldiers Charles had been hoping to build. Manufacturing a single child could hardly advance that goal.

  “How will we be spending Christmas this year?” Arthur asked, half turning in his seat to look up at Dario.

  The boy’s voice pulled Dario back to the present. He was surprised to find that, while his thoughts had wandered, he’d somehow allowed Leveche to slow to a walk. He frowned absently, annoyed at his own inattention. “What was that?”

  “Christmas,” the boy repeated, his tone unexpectedly stern. “You said that’s why we were coming here, because it would make Christmas more enjoyable.”

  “So I did.” Dario felt a small stab of guilt. His motives for wanting Ophelia and her son out of the hotel had been purely personal. But, all the same, who wouldn’t prefer to be here, rather than in a hotel?

  “But how will it be enjoyable? What do you intend to do to make it so? Everyone says you don’t do anything anymore—that you never celebrate Christmas—that you rarely even leave the house. That doesn’t sound very enjoyable to me.”

  Everyone? “Who have you been talking to?” Dario asked, equally affronted by the idea of the child asking questions about him as he was by his accusations. True, he hadn’t had a reason to celebrate much of anything in the past few years and the stares and whispered comments his presence always seemed to elicit made going out in public something of a nightmare, but his behavior wasn’t unalterable either. He could still celebrate Christmas if he wanted to.

  Arthur shrugged. “Just the maids. And the grooms. And Mrs. Harrison, of course. She said it was because you were so unhappy. And Mama said I was to stop asking so many questions and not to trouble you about it either, but I’m not troubling you. Am I?”

  “Not at all,” Dario answered, lying smoothly. He gazed curiously at the boy. “How are you used to celebrating Christmas?”

  “We’d always have a tall tree set up in the parlor, all lit with candles,” Arthur said promptly. “With presents underneath. Oh, and there’d be cookies, of course, and sweets, and sometimes in the evening, carolers would come to the door, singing.”

  Dario nodded. “And what kind of presents do you like to get?”

  “I dunno. Games, I guess, and toys, maybe some books. Last year I got a pair of ice-skates.” His face fell. “But there’s no pond to skate on here, is there?”

  “Not really.”

  “And there’d always be one special toy that Grandpapa would have made for me,” the boy said wistfully. “But he’s gone now. I don’t suppose I’ll be getting any more like those.”

  “No. Probably not.” Dario could only imagine the wondrous toys an inventor of Charles’ caliber might have made for his grandson: marvelous electrical games and puzzles, miniature steam-powered vehicles that were working replicas of their real-life counterparts, clockwork dolls that could walk and talk and…no, he would not think of it.

  “Here, it’s your turn.” Seeking distraction, Dario took hold of Arthur’s hands. He lifted them from the pommel and placed them on the reins, keeping his own hands loosely clasped atop them. “Guide her where you want her to go.” He smiled at the small tremor that ran through the boy, the way he sat up a little bit straighter in the saddle, the way his hands firmed on the reins. “Yes. Just like that. Very good.”

  A pleasant silence settled between them, broken only by Arthur’s murmured encouragements to Leveche.

  “You know, my father used to take me riding like this when I was your age. This is how he taught me.” And now I’m teaching my own son in the exact same fashion. The thought came to him unbidden and once again set his heart to racing. He wanted so desperately to believe it was true. Why should it not be so, even if he couldn’t prove it? What could it hurt to at least entertain the possibility? And what possible goal could Ophelia have for seeking to deceive him in this fashion?

  “Did you always live here?” Arthur asked.

  “What, here in this house? No. But, if you mean in Santa Fe, then yes. Always.”

  “It must be nice to live in the same place your whole life.” Arthur’s voice held a wistful note once again.

  “Oh, I think both paths have their own advantages.” Dario gave the boy’s hands a slight squeeze. “Think of it this way, you will get to experience so much more, and at a much younger age, than I ever did. And, if something here is not to your liking, perhaps in the next place you go, it will be.”

  “I don’t want there to be a next place,” Arthur muttered beneath his breath. Dario pretended not to hear.

  “What did you used to do here at Christmas?” Arthur asked after a moment’s silence. “When you were my age, I mean.”

  “It was very much like what you described—a tree, presents, special foods. And then on Christmas Eve we’d go into town to view the posada and see the plaza, all lit up with faralitos. But there were quite a few more of us in my family, so it was very noisy at times and we always had to share. And we lived too far from town for anyone to come caroling, there was no pond for skating and I had no grandpapa to make me wonderful toys.”

  “But you had horses, didn’t you? I should think they’d make up for a lot of the other things.”

  “Yes. We always had horses.” Dario smiled, for he, too, had been crazy about horses from a very young age. “And each season the whole family would ride out to the river for Balloon Glow, which is something else I imagine you don’t see much of back in Pennsylvania.”

  Arthur craned his neck again to frown up at him. “Balloon Glow? I’ve never heard of it. What is it?”

  “It’s a local festival involving lighter-than-air craft—mostly balloons. Even back in those days, you know, almost all of the most wealthy families had at least one. On a specific date, we’d gather out on one of the mesas along the river. People would come from miles around. For some, the trip was so long it would take them several days to get there and back. On the day of the event, vendors would set up camp, offering coffee and hot apple cider as well as fry-bread and other snacks. Shortly after dusk, all the other lights would be extinguished and the balloons fired up. They’d glow from within like giant lanterns and we’d walk around among them, admiring all the many designs, listening to the carolers sing…” Dario’s voice trailed off as the memories overtook him. He almost missed Arthur’s next question.

  “Do they not do that anymore?”

  Dario looked at him in surprise. “Why, no. Why would you think that? It’s still held every year. It takes place this coming weekend, I believe.” It had been years since he’d gone, years since he’d even thought about it.

  “Might we go?”

  Dario smiled at the tension in Arthur’s voice; surely that combination of hesitancy and eagerness could not be manufactured? Noticing the boy had let the reins go slack he took them back and urged Leveche toward the stables. “I don’t see any reason why we shouldn’t. Especially seeing as you haven’t been to one before.” In such a vast crowd one little boy was unlikely to attract too much attention and, with any luck, even Dario might be able to go about his business undetected by the gossips. It was a holiday. Why should he not chance it?

  Dario had just finished getting Leveche settled in her stall when he heard Ophelia’s voice outside, calling for Arthur.

  “Mama! Mama!” Arthur called in
response, as he ran out to meet her. “Papa said we might go to the Balloon Glow this weekend. The whole family, he said. That means you’ll come too, won’t you?”

  “Arthur!” Ophelia scolded. “What did I tell you about this?”

  “You said I shouldn’t trouble him—and I didn’t. I asked him and he said so.”

  “I’m sure your father was just being polite.”

  “He was not.” Arthur turned to Dario as he joined them and appealed to him for support. “I didn’t trouble you about it, sir, did I?”

  Dario couldn’t help but smile at the boy, at his wide eyes begging him to corroborate his story, at the small hand, slipped so confidingly into his own. “No. Of course you didn’t. You were no trouble at all.”

  “Thank you,” Ophelia murmured dryly, refusing to meet his gaze. “You set my mind wonderfully at ease.”

  “Tell her she must come with us to see the balloons.” Arthur clung to Dario’s hand with both of his own and gazed earnestly up at him. “You said your whole family used to go. Please?”

  “Arthur!” Ophelia frowned sternly at the boy. “That’s quite enough out of you, young man. This is exactly the type of behavior I’ve warned you about. Now, back to the house with you. Go on.”

  “Please,” Arthur whispered.

  Dario hesitated, uncertain what answer to make. Maintaining the pretense they were a happy family—or any kind of family, for that matter—seemed wrong. And yet…

  “Arthur,” Ophelia said reprovingly. “Do as you’re told.”

  Feeling Arthur’s grasp on his hand tighten, Dario made up his mind. “The boy makes an excellent point. We would be honored if you’d agree to accompany us this weekend.”

  “Won’t you please come, Mama? Pretty please?”

  A flush stained Ophelia’s cheeks. For just an instant, her wary gaze met Dario’s. “Very well,” she answered reluctantly. “I’ll think about it.”

  Dario could not help but return Arthur’s ecstatic smile. He winked at the boy and then nodded toward the house. “You heard your mother. Run along now.” He felt another surge of satisfaction, or maybe triumph, as Arthur responded at once to his request.

  Ophelia seemed less pleased. Mouth drawn tight, she gazed at Dario once more.

  He raised an eyebrow inquiringly. “Was there something else you wished to say to me?”

  She hesitated for a moment longer then, just when he was sure she was going to speak, she seemed to change her mind. “No. Not at all.” Then she dipped her head in a small bow and then turned and followed her son up the path. Dario tried very hard not to notice how the sway of her hips caused her skirts to swing from side to side. It was very like a bell, but was it calling him to worship, or ringing out his doom?

  “Of course you must go with them, missus,” Mrs. Harrison insisted when Ophelia brought up her doubts and concerns about the weekend’s events. “What are you thinking? Why, these past few years, Mr. Leonides has scarcely stepped foot off the grounds—and that’s a fact. Not that you can blame him. The gossip and rumors have been something awful. But, as a result, he’s lived practically like a hermit, he has. And, if he finally feels as though he can venture out again, and he’s asking for your company, you can’t deny him. Besides, a wife’s place is at her husband’s side. Have I not told you so before?”

  They were in the kitchen, it being Cook’s night off. Ophelia watched as the older woman rolled out dough to make biscuits. The repeated slamming of the rolling pin against the pastry board every time she changed directions left Ophelia with no doubt as to the strength of Mrs. Harrison’s feelings on this matter. Still, she couldn’t help shaking her head in protest. “I very much doubt it’s my company that Dario finds all that interesting of a sudden.”

  “Not interesting?” Mrs. Harrison left off pounding her dough into submission long enough to fix Ophelia with a steely glare. “Well, if that be true, then it’s your job to show him otherwise, isn’t it?”

  “Is it? His invitation had naught to do with me. It was nothing more than a rather blatant attempt to curry favor with Arthur.” An attempt that had worked brilliantly to his advantage. It terrified Ophelia to see how quickly her son’s allegiance seemed to be shifting.

  “And what’s wrong with that, I’d like to know? That’s why you brought the boy here in the first place, isn’t it? So that he might finally get to know his father? You should be pleased at how well they’re getting along. There’s many a man who’d refuse even to believe the boy was his, given how long you stayed away. I suppose it’s a blessing the boy looks so much like a Leonides. It’ll make it hard for anyone to argue against your claim, even the most pigheaded or spiteful of them.”

  Ophelia nodded. That was what she’d been hoping for when she brought Arthur here, at least in part, and she should be pleased. But her trust in her husband was not what it once had been and she could not help but worry about her son’s tender heart. What would happen to Arthur if Dario changed his mind, if he grew bored or lost interest in the boy—as he had with her. “Does Arthur really look that much like his father?” she asked curiously.

  Mrs. Harrison nodded. “Oh, lordy, yes. Other than his coloring, I’d say he’s the spitting image of his papa at that age. I thought so the first time I laid eyes on him.”

  Well, that was a relief. Even if Dario was never convinced for certain that Arthur was entirely human, at least he must be somewhat convinced, by now, that the boy was of his stock. And while that had not been enough for him to accept her, perhaps he’d be more willing to make an exception for his own flesh and blood. If only she had even the slightest clue about where that might leave her.

  “And if I may say so,” Mrs. Harrison continued, “I think it will do the two of you a world of good to get out of this house and spend some time together, enjoying yourselves as you used to do. Wear something pretty for him, why don’t you? It’s true, you know, some gentlemen do seem to require a little reminding, from time to time, as to what it was made them find a particular woman’s company so interesting in the first place.”

  To that, Ophelia had no answer. It seemed to her that the greater problem lay not in figuring out a way to help Dario remember the reasons he’d once loved her, but in finding one by which he might contrive to forget why it was he’d stopped.

  Chapter Seven

  It turned out that the dress Ophelia wore to the balloon fiesta was one of her prettiest, but that’s not why she chose it. It merely happened to be one of only a few outfits she had with her that were warm enough to allow her to be comfortable while strolling for hours on the exposed mesa-top. The fact that Dario may have, and possibly more than once, observed that particular shade brought out the unusual violet color of her eyes, and made them look even more lovely than they usually did, also played no part in her decision.

  Or so she told herself.

  And it was just as well that was the case, for if she’d been hoping for a repeat of the compliment, she’d have been disappointed. Dario had taken one look at her, standing on the front steps of the house and had ordered his horse saddled, evincing a sudden desire to take advantage of the fine weather.

  Ophelia couldn’t help but wonder whether or not he’d anticipated Arthur’s reaction—his immediate request to be taken up with him on his horse—but the outcome was the same, and she had the interior of the carriage all to herself for the ride to the event grounds.

  She remembered the fiesta well from her days as a newlywed. Once again, she found very little had changed. The temporary pavilions which had been set up on the perimeter of the field looked the same as they had then, as did the field itself, crowded with a surprisingly diverse assortment of flying machines. Tantalizing fragrances floated on the air: sugar, cinnamon, hot chestnuts, mesquite. Even the small fires in their metal barrels, set up at intervals so that people might warm themselves, were just as she recalled.

  But all those similarities only served to bring into even sharper focus the very big difference that had oc
curred in her relationship with her husband. Every festive note pulled at her emotions until, after no more than an hour or so, she found herself practically on the verge of bittersweet tears, aching for all she’d lost and all that might have been.

  After Arthur expressed an interest in some of the snacks being hawked from various stands, Dario suggested they all repair to the refreshment tent. Ophelia was happy to agree and even happier to accept Dario’s offer of mulled wine. The fact that he remembered it as being something she’d been particularly fond of was only a small scrap of hope, but she clung to it all the same. Perhaps Mrs. Harrison was right. Perhaps it was not too late to fix things between them.

  In any case, it was pleasant to sit inside, to be out of the stiff breeze, to be able to warm her hands on the pewter tankard that held her drink. Beside her, Arthur chattered happily as he alternated sips of hot cider with mouthfuls of sugary fried dough. She couldn’t help smiling at his enthusiasm, as well as his appetite, even though she had to request, several times, that he finish what he had in his mouth before he said anything else.

  Only Dario did not appear to be enjoying himself. Mostly, he busied himself shelling chestnuts, handing the nutmeats to either of them or occasionally eating one himself. His expression seemed to grow more grim and anxious the longer they sat there. When Arthur asked to be excused so that he might go outside and see what progress had been made in inflating the envelopes of the various balloons in preparation for the night’s events, Ophelia quickly signaled her approval, hoping his absence would give her a chance to talk more openly with Dario about his somber mood.