’Tis the Season – A Glenmyre Girls Story by Sarah E. Burr

A Note from Sarah: Season's Greetings, everyone! I'm delighted to share a special short story featuring the two main sleuths from my Glenmyre Whim Mysteries, Hazel Wickbury and her aunt/bestie, Poppy Glenmyre. The award-winning Glenmyre Whim Mysteries is a paranormal cozy mystery series set in the world of Crucible, New York. I hope you enjoy taking a trip down memory lane with the Glenmyre Girls!

“Hazel? Dinner’s almost ready.” Poppy’s voice was muffled by the door between us.

I pressed my face deeper into the pillow. “I’m not hungry.”

My twenty-five-year-old aunt—who was more like my sister and best friend—sighed so heavily, I’m surprised she didn’t blow down the door to her guest room. “Ruthie will be here soon. I know she really wants to see you.”

I cringed at the word “see.” I hated seeing things these days. “I’m not in the mood for visitors.”

“You can’t stay holed up in there forever.” The kind sympathy that laced Poppy’s response was marred by slight irritation. She was growing tired of my dramatics, I could tell. “I know you’re dealing with a lot of pain and uncertainty right now, but you’re strong. You can’t let this defeat you, Hazel. You’ve got to figure out how to live your life.”

I heard her unspoken words, like so many Glenmyres have done before, loud and clear. And deep down, I knew she was right. I couldn’t stay hidden away in her guest bedroom forever. I had to figure out how to deal with my whim, my morbid new ability. But that was easier said than done.

“How, Pops?” Tears returned to my eyes for the fifteenth time that day. “How am I supposed to live like this?” Most members of the Glenmyre clan considered their whims—our family’s term for the unique, supernatural powers we were “gifted” with—a blessing. Mine felt more like a curse.

I heard a click, followed by the sounds of a door hinge squeaking. Scrunching my eyes closed as tightly as I could, I rolled over on the bed to face the direction of the doorway.

“You don’t have to do that, silly,” Poppy reminded me.

“What if my whim starts behaving like yours?” I countered, my eyes still screwed shut. “You can see my aura, right?” Poppy’s ability allowed her to see colorful, glowing hues around people that indicated their emotions. “What’s to say I won’t suddenly start seeing the lifeclocks of our family?”

Soft footsteps approached, and the bed shifted under the weight of Poppy’s slender frame as she perched beside me. Her fingers soon began stroking my long, dark hair. Just like Mom used to do when I was little. “Our abilities don’t evolve like that. I’ve always seen Glenmyre clan auras. Right from the moment my whim awakened.” She paused to let her words sink in. “You’re safe with me, little niece.”

At twenty-three, I was hardly little, but I still snuggled up against her, calmed by her comforting words.

“And you’re safe with Ruthie.” Poppy’s palm rested on my shoulder. “She can help you figure this all out, Hazel. If anyone can, she will.”

Reluctantly, I inched open my eyelids, and Poppy’s pretty features swam into focus. Seeing her supportive smile, my entire body relaxed. There was nothing hovering above her head. No glaring, bizarre digital clock countdown that revealed how much time she had left on this earth.

Her rosy lips widened into a toothy grin. “There, see? We’re gonna get through this. Together. Now, come help me set the table.” With a firm grip, she began to drag me out of bed. This wasn’t a suggestion. It was an order.

My aunt had given me weeks to mourn over my misfortune, for which I was grateful. Yet, her attitude today suggested that her coddling had finally reached its limits. I could have fought against her, but I honestly didn’t have the willpower to combat Poppy’s vibrant personality. When she wanted something, she made it happen. So, feeling I had no choice, I obediently shuffled in her wake and followed her downstairs.

“Holy hexes!” I blinked as my eyes adjusted to the sight that awaited me in the foyer of the old Victorian Poppy had inherited from her parents. Lush, green garland snaked across every surface imaginable, peppered with glowing white lights and red bows. Sprigs of holly and mistletoe dangled from the ceiling, and the scent of pine overwhelmed my already fragile senses.

Poppy must have seen the surprise in my gaze. “I thought a decorated home might brighten things up for us. Besides,” she added, her eyes growing misty, “Iris loved Christmas.”

My throat tightened at her mention of Mom, and a wave of grief threatened to drown me. “She did,” I managed to croak out.

We made our way into the kitchen, which was also decked out for the holidays. “You look like you raided an entire aisle at HomeGoods,” I murmured as I toyed with a snowman-themed tea towel.

Poppy dashed over to the stove, where a large pot bubbled. “Retail therapy at its finest.”

Her comment was light and joking, yet I couldn’t help but feel a shadow of guilt pulse through me. Poppy had lost her sister. A sister who had also been like a mother to her after their parents died. I wasn’t the only one grieving here, and I needed to do a better job of remembering that. Poppy deserved to have someone looking after her, too. I’d all but abandoned her to wallow in my own heartache. Not anymore, Hazel Wickbury. Get it together. It’s time to be there for Poppy like she’s been there for you.

With a renewed sense of purpose, one I hadn’t felt in weeks, I moseyed over to her side to peer into the pot. “So, whatcha brewing?”

She chuckled at my witchy phrasing. “Butternut squash bisque.” She nodded toward the far corner of her large kitchen. “Could you take the salad into the dining room for me?”

I hurried over to a blue ceramic bowl painted with white snowflakes and scooped it up. The dining room, adjacent to the kitchen, had been given the same Christmas treatment as the rest of the house. Once the salad bowl was on the table, I took the initiative to grab the holiday-themed plates, bowls, and silverware atop the antique buffet and organized our place settings. Poppy had bought ’Tis the Season mats that sparkled in the overhead light. I frowned as I read the looping script, unable to keep out the darkness clawing its way back into my mind. ’Tis the season for what? Misery? Grief? Despair?

A sharp knock echoed through the stately Victorian, and a familiar sing-song voice rang out. “Helloooo! Where are my darling nieces?”

My heart hammered against my chest as I hurried into the foyer to greet our new arrival. Relief spiked through me when I caught sight of the spry older woman hanging her bright red poncho on the coat rack. The space above her head was blissfully empty. “Hey, Aunt Ruthie.”

She whirled at the sound of my voice, her green eyes wide. “Hazel! You’ve left your lair.” She rushed toward me, wrapping me in a bone-crushing embrace despite her thin arms. “I’m so happy. I wasn’t sure you’d be joining us.”

A shy smile curled on my lips. It was nice to see her. “When did you get glasses?” I hadn’t exactly been present these last few weeks, but I didn’t remember Ruthie having problems with her eyesight—other than her whim, that is.

“Yesterday.” She modeled the loud pink-and-teal frames. “What do you think?”

Her giddy antics turned my smile into a giggle. The weightless feeling in my chest surprised me, and I treasured it. “They are very you.”

“What was that noise?” Poppy came rushing into the foyer, waving Santa potholders in her hands. “Did Hazel just laugh?”

Her joking incredulity coaxed even more laughter from me. It felt…amazing.

Ruthie nodded, her stylish salt-and-pepper bob swishing across her enviable cheekbones. “’Tis the season to be merry.” She pulled me in for a one-armed hug. “Your mom’s favorite saying this time of year.”

The tightness returned to my chest. No wonder Poppy had scooped up those new placemats. How could I forget? A silly memory of Mom yelling the merry phrase at our ornery mailman wafted through my mind. “You’re right. She wielded it like a weapon against the Scrooges of the world.”

Poppy herded us into the dining room and instructed us to take our usual Saturday family dinner seats. As I claimed my spot, I did my best to ignore the empty chair where Mom always sat.

“Nice glasses, Ruthie.” Poppy collected the soup bowls I’d arranged around the table. “I didn’t realize you needed them,” she called over her shoulder as she floated into the kitchen to ladle out her bisque.

With a flourish, Ruthie laid a red-and-green plaid napkin across her lap. “I’ve needed them for the longest time, but nothing ever seemed to work until now.”

I studied my great-aunt, noting how her lips had twisted into a satisfied grin. Despite the challenges she faced regarding her whim, Ruthie had always been a bright, bubbly soul, but tonight, she practically radiated happiness.

Considering how I was still processing my grief over Mom’s death and the awakening of my own morbid ability, Ruthie’s outlook seemed foreign and a bit out of place for this particular family dinner.

Poppy returned with a tray of soup bowls, which Ruthie and I eagerly accepted. Once she was seated at the head of the table, we thanked her for the delicious-looking meal and dug in with our spoons. Appreciative murmurs made up our conversation for several minutes before Ruthie cleared her throat.

“Girls, I’d like to host Christmas at my house this year.”

“W-what?” Poppy’s silverware clattered against her bowl. “Really?”

Ruthie dabbed her lips with her napkin. “Yes. It’s something I’ve always wanted to do but…couldn’t.”

Poppy and I shared a suspicious look. “Ruthie,” my bestie began hesitantly, “if you’re worried I won’t be able to host the annual Glenmyre Christmas party for the town, you don’t need to. I’ll be fine. I can handle it.”

For as long as I could remember, our clan—one of Crucible, New York’s founding families—had hosted a grand holiday party to which everyone in Crucible was invited. While it had started as a way for my great-grandparents to open their home to people spending the holidays alone or who perhaps didn’t have the resources for a festive Christmas dinner, it was my mom who’d changed the invitation to include the whole town.

“My dear,” Ruthie tutted, reaching across the table and patting Poppy’s hand, “I know you’ve taken on the mantle as Glenmyre matriarch, and for that, I am grateful. My…condition hasn’t always allowed me to be out in public much.”

The soup sliding down my throat turned into a hardened lump. Ruthie had spent her entire life shuttered away in her beautiful manor for fear of seeing lifeclocks above the heads of everyone around her. Each rare journey out into the world had always been filled with pain and jarring realizations for her. Mom, Poppy, and I were the only people—the last of the Glenmyres—whom she could be around without having the glaring lifeclock blinking in her face. Before Mom’s death, I’d always held deep sympathy and compassion for Ruthie’s situation. Now… I was besieged by fear. Her condition was also my condition. Was I really destined to spend my life alone, as Ruthie had?

Poppy’s cerulean eyes pinched with anxiety as she examined our aunt. “Why the sudden desire to host the party, then? There’s always a lot of people, Ruth. And they all won’t have long lifeclocks like Cynth.” For the past several years, Hyacinth Hartwick had worked as Ruthie’s personal assistant, often serving as her public stand-in when the need arose. Cynth, at twenty-seven, had a good ninety-some years left on her lifeclock. Readings like that were easier to deal with when it came to our whim.

Ruthie’s wrinkles multiplied as she broke into a grin. “I know. But I thought it might be a nice way to reintroduce myself to Crucible and to give you girls a reprieve.”

Reintroduce herself? “Why do you need to reintroduce yourself?” A light bulb suddenly went off inside my head. “You’re not doing this for me, are you? To prove I can somehow still have a normal life with this whim or something?”

Ruthie chuckled. “I wish I could say I was being altruistic, my love, but I’m not. I’m doing this for me. To make up for all the years I’ve missed being a part of this world.” She twiddled absently with the frames of her new glasses.

Poppy’s forehead furrowed with confusion. “What exactly brought about this sudden change in perspective?” Her right eye twitched, and I knew she was using her aura-reading whim to see if she could decode Ruthie’s strange behavior.

Her shrug was coy. “’Tis the season.”

My gaze dropped to my soup bowl, tears clouding my vision. What was going on here? I thought I had an ally in Ruthie, that perhaps we could commiserate over our whims together. While I was happy to see her ready to face the world after decades of being a shut-in, I knew I wasn’t prepared for the challenges such a lifestyle would bring. No. I was planning to hide away in Poppy’s guest room for as long as she’d let me.

Poppy’s hand found my knee under the table, and she gave me a reassuring pat. It was good to know she had my back.

“I know Christmas isn’t for another two weeks, but I’d like to give everyone their gifts tonight.” Ruthie clapped her hands in excitement, clearly not able to see the sour mood of the room with her new glasses. She darted away from the table with the agility of a ten-year-old and returned a moment later with a large gift bag, which she handed to Poppy.

Poppy accepted it with a strained smile, her eyes revealing the lingering confusion I still felt about Ruthie’s whole demeanor. Who was this person, and what had they done with our aunt?

My bestie gingerly tugged at the tissue paper and extracted a steel, futuristic-looking piece from the bag. “Wow. This is heavy duty.”

“It’s a research-grade desk lamp,” Ruthie explained. “Historians and book restoration specialists use them for their work. I thought it might be a nice tool for the Glenmyre opus.”

Poppy's smile turned genuine at the mention of our family’s ancient historical record containing centuries of Glenmyre secrets. “Thank you. This will definitely help me sort through all those pages. Someday,” she added with a sheepish wince. Since inheriting the house and the opus from her parents, Poppy had wanted to investigate every inch of the old tome but had yet to find the time.

“And now, for you, Hazel.” Ruthie scooted a small, wrapped rectangle across the table. “I hope you like the style.”

Curious about what she had gotten me, I tore off the decorative paper to find a sunglasses case covered in irises. Just the sight of the flowers made me picture Mom, which was why I suspected my great-aunt had given me such a practical gift. “Thanks, Ruthie.” I smiled gratefully. “I’ll put this to good use.” I planned to spend the summer staring out at Lake Glenmyre, enjoying what beauty I could in my now-sheltered life.

Ruthie batted away my thanks. “Oh, please, Hazel. The real gift is inside the case.” She tsked in joking offense.

Wondering what shades she had picked out, I cracked open the container. My bemusement turned to bafflement as I stared at the purple-and-gold frames resting within the case. These weren’t sunglasses, though. The lenses were clear.

   

 “Um, aren’t I a bit young for readers?” I joked awkwardly as I lifted the glasses and held them up to the light.

“Not these. At least, I hope.” Ruthie giggled. “Put them on.”

Doing as she instructed, I slid the frames onto the bridge of my nose and blinked a few times.

“How do they feel? Good? Comfy?” Ruthie peppered me.

I nodded, although the frames inched downward as my head moved.

“Ooo, let me fix that.” Ruthie whipped the glasses off my face and started manhandling the temple tips.

As she did so, Poppy shot me a worried look. “Is she all right, you think?” she mouthed.

I shrugged. “I have no clue.”

A knock echoed from the front hall, jolting us from our silent conversation. Poppy’s lips curled downward. “I wonder who that could be.” She hurriedly excused herself from the table and flitted toward the front of the house.

“There you go. Try now.” Barely acknowledging Poppy’s departure, Ruthie handed me back the glasses.

I followed her orders, the frames feeling comfortable yet secure as I slid them into place. “What are these for, Ruthie?” I already had great eyesight. The lenses didn’t change the way I saw the world.

She steepled her fingers together, looking quite smug. “Oh, you’ll see.”

“—I’m sorry, Poppy.” A familiar, muffled voice caught my attention out in the foyer. “I got a weird request from Ruthie that I said I’d help her with.” The voice was getting closer.

“Hey, Cynth.” Poppy sounded stressed as footsteps grew louder. “It’s probably not a good time—”

Before I could shut my eyes, Hyacinth Hartwick skidded into the room, her graceful pose akin to “Ta da!”

I stared at her, open-mouthed, wondering what in hexes was going on.

As quickly as she entered the room, Cynth dropped her hands on her hips and glared at Ruthie. “There. I did what you asked, you kooky old bat.” She tossed her wavy hair—dyed cherry red for the season—with a sniff.

Ruthie laughed at her personal assistant. “And you did it with such flair, sweetie.”

Puzzled by their little exchange, I glanced back and forth between the two women. Even though Cynth didn’t know about Ruthie’s “condition,” the twenty-seven-year-old had been my great-aunt’s personal assistant for years, landing the position while she was still in college. She was probably the closest confidante Ruthie had, outside of Poppy and me.

Wait…Ruthie’s condition. Curses, my condition! Where was Cynth’s lifeclock?

Ruthie must have seen the question in my bewildered expression, for she tapped knowingly at her new glasses and winked at me. “Merry Christmas, Hazel.”

 

∞

 

“You ladies having a good time?” Cynth popped up between Poppy and me, the jingle bells on her ugly sweater—her words, not mine—ringing out with twinkling cheer.

We clinked our champagne glasses with hers. “You threw together a fabulous party on short notice.” Poppy motioned to the glitzy banquet hall that looked like something from The Great Gatsby.

Cynth batted away her praise. “Ruth’s infectious holiday spirit made it easy. It also helped that my best friend is an event planner. She really came through with the catering and decorations.” Cynth motioned to the indoor winter wonderland that was Ruthie’s home. She then lowered her voice, despite the fact no one in the crowded room was paying us any attention at the moment. “I don’t know what’s gotten into your aunt lately, but she’s been a completely different woman these past few weeks. Totally new lease on life.” She studied Ruthie on the opposite side of the hall, where she talked animatedly with the Crucible mayor. “Who would’ve thought a new pair of glasses could do so much to boost her confidence?”

Poppy and I shared a joyful look. “Who would’ve thought, indeed.” Poppy took another sip of her champagne, her cheeks rosy with delight.

I gazed out at the room filled with festive Crucible partygoers. The simple act was something I never thought I’d be able to do again after my whim awakened. But Ruthie—bless her—had finally found a way to suppress our morbid power, to hide those dreadful lifeclocks that glowed above the heads of everyone around us. Apparently, it had been something she’d been working on in secret for years with little success. After learning I’d been beset by the same dreadful power, Ruthie had doubled down on her experiments and finally discovered a viable solution. By infusing the lenses of these purple-and-gold glasses with a special protection enchantment involving thyme, she’d saved me from the loneliness and suffering she’d long endured. It was the best gift imaginable.

“I’m tempted to call it a Christmas miracle.” Cynth wiggled her eyebrows playfully.

I took in Ruthie, who brimmed with happiness as she greeted her party guests, and chuckled. “’Tis the season for them, after all.”