Page 59 of Short Stack 3

Barnaby

Holding a sheaf of papers in my hand and cradling the packet of biscuits I just filched from the kitchen, I edge around the throngs of happy tourists in my house. Christmas music plays, and the air is scented with cinnamon and full of the sound of excited chatter and the squeals of children.

Smiling and nodding, I make my way through the hall. A fire crackles in the cavernous marble fireplace, and the vast Christmas tree sits proudly in the room’s centre. Lights twinkle on branches that nearly kiss the ceiling where the cherubs wheel and dip eternally.

“Sorry. Do excuse me. Oh, watch your head. Could I just get around you? Thank yousomuch,” I say on my journey. I breathe a sigh of relief when I finally get to the other side of the hall.Taking a quick look around, I open the door markedPrivateand slide through it.

The quiet is almost physical, making me immediately relax. I wander along the corridor and nod to the statue of Mímir, who is currently wearing a red garland around his head. The garland has slipped down over his eyes, giving him a rather drunken expression. I right the garland and tap him affectionately on his shoulder. “Talk to you soon, my friend.”

I look around. The popularity of the house and the barrow are bringing in a lot of much-needed money, as did the sale of the crown, but there are so many things that need attending to after the years of frugality that our private quarters have just been tidied up and left alone.

The difference between public and private areas is evident in the lack of grandeur. Instead of priceless works of art, family photos now line the walls. Cosmo had found boxes of them in a storeroom and spent weeks framing the ones he liked, resulting in a display that’s a charming mishmash. Secretly, I rather like it. This is a valuable historical building, but it’s also our home, and these little details make our quarters all the more special. Or that could be because I share them with Cosmo.

I stop in my study to drop off the papers and hide the biscuits. Then, munching one, I walk along the corridor and enter the sculpture gallery by the private entrance.

The whole house looks spectacular at Christmas, and the decorations have been made with the staff’s hard work and a teeny bit of Cosmo’s magic. Trees are in all the rooms, each decorated entirely differently, but all with a theme ofAlice in Wonderland. Cosmo likes me to read to him while we lie in bed snuggled together, and the old classic had found a natural home with him. He’d been enchanted, and as in life, his enthusiasm had become my own, and I’d appreciated the magical story anew.

We even have a light show this year projected onto the house exterior at dusk every evening. It was created by three eager men who’d descended on the house a few months ago and spent a week muttering and eating everything in the building. Cosmo was enthralled with them and peppered them with questions at every available moment.

But despite all these marvels, the sculpture gallery is still the best. Decorated in black, white, and silver, the shades echo the black-and-white chequered tile floor and the creamy glow of the marble statues. The air is cool and scented with pine from the trees decorated in white and black. Globes hang from the ceiling, swaying gently in the breeze, and atmospheric music plays, making the room feel strange and magical.

I nod, smiling at familiar faces amongst the statues. The Gap is tomorrow, and I look forward to seeing everyone before Christmas. I can’t help the uptick in my lips as I see the space where Cosmo’s empty plinth stands. The sculpture gallery is full of wonder, but in my admittedly biased view, nothing can equal the reminder of what happened to me on that Christmas.

Thinking of him, I quicken my pace and exit the room, coming out into the main public corridor, which is full of people moving from room to room.

“Their decorations are always so muchbetterthan anyone else’s,” an old lady says as she walks with another lady.

“Magical,” her companion breathes, and I hide my smile. She has no idea.

“Have you seen Cosmo?” I ask Martha, the lady who’s in charge of the tours.

She smiles at me. “He was upstairs in the portrait gallery the last time I saw him. See if you can make him take a break, my lord. He’s been on the go all day.”

“Barnaby, please,” I say for the fiftieth time this week, despite knowing she’ll never address me with my given name. “I will. By the end of today, it’ll all be done for another year.”

She nods. “And then we need to look at the tours for the new year,” she says in a steely voice.

Smiling my thanks, I escape up the stairs, where branches filled with fairy lights shed strange shadows over the stone cherubs, making them look almost sinister. I come out by my favourite Christmas decoration — the Wishing Tree.

A huge Norway Spruce sits alone at one end of the portrait gallery. It’s in front of a tall window, and the twinkling lights in the branches reflect on the glass, making the whole area sparkle like the tree has starlight captured in its boughs. I wouldn’t be too sure it hasn’t because this tree’s concept wasentirelyCosmo’s idea.

I move closer, drawn as usual by its simple magic. There are no expensive baubles on this tree. Instead, hundreds of brown parcel labels are tied to the branches filled with childish scribbles and colourful crayon drawings, and they flutter in the breeze from the heater nearby. I take one and read it, squinting in the fading daylight.I wish for my pocket money to be made of chocolate, the childish writing says. I pick another up and blink.I want to marry Scarlett Johansson.I turn the label over, and the mystery is solved when I find out that Derek, Aged 42, signed it.

I move along, reading the labels, amazed at the brilliance of my lover. He’d decided that we needed a wishing tree. Children (and I’ve noticed a large number of adults) write their Christmas wishes and attach them to the tree in the hope that they will come true. I spoke with my assistant, James, and we’re going to gather them together after the holiday and keep them for future exhibitions.

I’m just reaching up to one of the higher boughs to examine a striped pink and green label when it happens. The whole tree seems to shudder.

I step back in alarm, wondering if it will fall down, but then gasp as a mist rises and hovers around it. The mist sparkles and shines as if hundreds of fairy lights are concealed within it. It surrounds the tree for a second as if hugging it, and then, even as I watch, it coils down and slides along the floor. I go to step back, but it curls around my feet before I can move, making me gasp. The feel of it is cool and invigorating, as if I’ve plunged into cold water on a hot day. It twines around my legs, and the scent of fresh pine is suddenly strong in the air, and I hear the sound of sweet bells.

“Cosmo,” I breathe.

The mist retreats and slides around the base of the tree. Then it’s gone, and I’m left wondering what just happened. I look around as if someone is going to pop up and enlighten me, but there’s no one in the gallery at this moment. I scratch my head and then look up as I hear footsteps running.

James appears at the gallery’s entrance, and I stare at my assistant. Gone is his calm and organised façade — the tidy hair and the neat clothes. Instead, his hair is standing up on end, there’s a streak of dirt on his cheekbone, and his shirt is ripped.

“My lord,” he says and stops to suck in a breath.

“What onearth?” I say, striding towards him. “Whatever is the matter?” Dread seizes me. “Has there been an accident?”

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