Yule being the big sort of holiday of the year, it’s only natural that there’s decorations and all that. (In comparison, Samhain is mostly just bonfires, costumes and lanterns.) Yuletide itself is the twelve days starting on the winter solstice with “Christmas day” on the first day. Preparations usually start the week before (depending on the family) and, well, that’s now.

I wish I could see how Tuton looks—what Lottie and her family do, and Iris and her family. A thought from Ellie’s memories, I can imagine Terri making a set of “Santa” dresses for the waitresses to wear. Oh what a sight that would be. Red is a good colour for Iris and Len, maybe Annie, probably too strong for Millie.

Well, for me, Yule decorating is the tree. It’s a rather new tradition (as far as traditions go) to actually decorate the tree, and I think it’s just the nobility that do it. From what I’ve read, the commonfolk do like to put up a tree in their house, but I guess there’s no sense in them decorating it, is there? The tree is the decoration, right?

Anyway, the tradition in this household is for us to gather five days before Yule to add tinsel (made from silver, so it unfortunately doesn’t last long before tarnishing) and baubles (beautiful things of glass made by a proper craftspeople) and little figures and ribbons. There are also faerie lights, but a servant puts that on for us before we start.

Oh my goodness, the faerie lights—it’s probably the one thing this world does better than Ellie’s. Tiny glass bulbs like dewdrops enchanted to shine different colours, pulsing to an unheard beat, a beautiful dance of colours untainted by cables, strung along something like fishing wire (I forget what it’s called here). I can’t imagine how much such a thing costs, never mind that we have another one that’s something like five times as long for decorating the patio.

That’s not to say the other ornaments are lacking. I mean, my family is super-rich. It’s just that Ellie had seen displays in London and the town centre near where she lived, but they never had anything as stunning as these faerie lights.

The tree itself is tall (high ceilings and all that), near enough twice as tall as me, and even my father can’t reach the top without a stepladder.

“Tinsel, tinsel,” Clarice mutters, emptying a fabric bag onto the floor.

“Come now,” my mother says, half-heartedly chiding her. Rather than take it any further, she stoops down to pick up a piece and, with all the grace of a box of bricks, tries to throw the tinsel high onto the tree and barely gets it halfway up.

Clarice giggles, getting one of her own. “Really, mother?” she says. To add a pinch of salt to the wound, she launches her piece over the top branch.

My father chuckles at their antics, adjusting Clarice’s tinsel into a spiral around the outside. I used to worry for him when I was young, but he’s made it through all these Yules without falling, so I give his sense of balance the benefit of the doubt.

Just as I go to have a go myself, I notice Cyril standing off to the side. Oh he’s so glum when he’s off by himself. I step over and pinch him by the cuff, tugging him towards the tinsel. He offers a token resistance, but follows, only to still stand there and do nothing in front of the tree.

I pout for a moment, and then pick up a short length of tinsel. “If you’re going to pretend to be a tree, shall we at least make that grumpy face of yours pleasant to look at?” I say, draping the tinsel around his shoulders.

Clarice snorts behind me, and I’m sure I can hear Joshua’s muted laughter from the other side of the tree. Cyril himself tries to resist, but quickly gives in, ducking his head as a chuckle slips from his lips.

“What shall we add next—a bauble to his collar?” I say, turning towards the other decorations.

Before I can say or do anything else, a tickling against my neck makes me bring up my shoulder to my cheek, trying to squash the feeling, only to be prickled by whatever is there; tinsel slides over my other shoulder.

“That is quite enough, don’t you think?” he asks.

A squirmy shiver runs down my back from the ticklish tinsel, but I manage to nod and say, “Quite enough.”

So we get to decorating in the merry spirit of the season. Glass baubles like frozen bubbles hang, polished to a shine and with etching (or some other technique) to add snowy swirls that catch the light, glittering. Figures of birds associated with Yule (e.g. robins) made of porcelain and painted beautifully are tied to the branches, looking so real it’s as if they might fly off at any moment, and also some deer and rabbits (carved from wood, and these animals are more associated with snow than Yule itself). We also have some tin figures that my father brought back from Lundein, these tubby things somewhat like cherubs or angels and are the faeries that “deliver the presents”. The silver tinsel adds a snowy twinkle to the tree, while red ribbons add, well, I don’t really know what red has to do with Yule. Maybe it’s because the royal family started the tradition in this country and we’re supposed to use crimson?

For the topper, we have what’s called the, um, don’t quote me: “Gealach sa grèin”, which usually gets shortened to Geagrèin, and means something like “the moon in the sun”. No idea why it’s called that considering it’s not even a century-old symbol and made up by English speakers. Well, the name is because it’s literally a flat sun (made of a bronze) with a crescent moon (made of silver) stuck over the middle of it. Something to do with symbolising our prayer that the sun triumphs over the moon and the days become longer.

Or maybe not, who knows.

While we might not be the best decorators, it’s hard to mess up with such good decorations, the tree looking amazing. And when night comes, it will look even more incredible.

In the calm after finishing that, me, Cyril and Joshua stay behind, everyone else having wandered off. Joshua is lost in a book—one I think Cyril recommended. Cyril is lost in thought, staring at the tree, lights reflecting in his eyes.

Quietly, he asks, “Is it really all right for me to be here?”

It was so quiet I’m not sure he meant to say it aloud, yet I answer him all the same, leaning over to pat his hand. He breaks from his thoughts to look at me, and he finds me smiling.

“When you are around friends who love you, it is never the wrong place to be,” I say.

He holds my gaze for a moment longer before turning away, hiding from me. I giggle at that, this man I knew as a boy not always that different from how he was.

Speaking softly, he says, “I haven’t decorated a tree since my mother passed.”

Oh no. My heart swells, wanting nothing more than to pat his head and say, “Poor thing,” but he probably wouldn’t appreciate being so patronised. Patronise… is that when you regularly go to a shop? It is also when you are being condescending, right?

Stop it, don’t avoid the situation because it makes you uncomfortable. Focus.

“All I am doing is running from the home I lost all those years ago. That empty house which even my father avoids, cold no matter how many fires burn, empty no matter how many staff employed. For all the good that money brings me, it cannot be piled up and called mother.”

His voice cracks on that last word, and that seems to bring him out of the mood he was in, shaking his head and then putting on a wry smile (at least, it looks wry from the corner of his mouth he shows me).

After a long breath, he says, “My apologies. This season especially tends to make me… unsightly.”

I look at him for a long few seconds, my thoughts and feelings in a muted turmoil. Though I know these things aren’t a competition, it’s hard for me not to compare what the two of us went through, the different kinds of loneliness we carry with us.

His position on the armchair changed, this time I have to shuffle forwards and then lean over to rest my hand on the back of his. “I don’t mean to make presumptions of your situation, but it’s okay to miss your mother. I can’t imagine the pain it has caused you throughout your life, so I won’t say I know how you feel, but I can say that I don’t think less of you for having such feelings.”

Slowly, ever so slowly, he turns to look at me, showing me unshed tears and a blank expression. “Do you truly mean that?” he asks.

I gently nod my head. “Say, what’s your mother’s name? I’ll remember her on Mōdraniht.”

No more than a whisper, he says, “Cecilia.”

“Aunt Cecy,” I say, repeating it to myself a couple of times.

A bark of laughter escapes before he catches himself, then chuckling. “Aunt Cecy, she would have liked that,” he says softly.

“If you wouldn’t mind, could you tell me about her?” I ask.

One second, two, three, and then he says, “Sure.”

With mothers on the mind, I wonder if this is what my mother was hoping for all those years ago when she invited him over for dancing lessons? Well, right now I just have to listen, so I’ll devote myself to that.

It’s a long afternoon of talking between the two of us (mostly him), Joshua none the wiser, no one disturbing us until supper is ready.

In a way, I think it’s a bit funny how I’ve become closer to Cyril, close enough that he opened up to me about such a personal thing, without anything really happening. We had a little tiff at the start of the year, which was entirely my fault and I owned up to that, but we haven’t done anything since then, have we? I guess I invited him to the club, and he (at my family’s request) bought me a birthday present, yet I wouldn’t say those are important at all.

Is it that we’re family? Is it that being around each other is enough? Is it that I caught him in the right mood? Those are questions only he could answer, but I feel like asking them would be cheating. If anything, I would say that it’s because he’s… strong. He’s strong enough that he can trust someone else with his weakness—just like Lottie.

I don’t know if I’m worthy of such trust, but I’ll try to live up to the responsibility.

All too soon, Friday becomes Sunday and I have to send him off. We haven’t talked more than a few sentences and niceties since that afternoon; however, I like to think he has looked happier. Or rather, less grumpy.

Of course, he will always be grumpy prince to me.

With how long he’s been here, it feels strange to say goodbye, even considering how long he wasn’t here before. I’m struggling to think of what exactly to say without saying too much. That sentiment doesn’t seem to be shared by a him, a curt, “Thank you for having me,” his only words at the front door.

“Do come back for another visit,” my mother says.

And the door closes.

Since I didn’t actually say goodbye, I don’t have to greet him when he next comes, right?