She had to be dreaming. She had to be.
Her fingers reached out to brush the lush material of the gown. It ran like water beneath her skin. Quickly, as if afraid someone would come in and take it from her, she held it up to her body and rushed to examine herself in the bathroom mirror. Yep. Definitely a dream. The Belle dress for the festival stopped fitting after her growth spurt in junior year of high school.
No. It wasn’t a dream. If it was, she would have woken up by now. She didn’t know who had gifted her this dress, but if the festival was closing and all its assets sold, she was going to get one good Christmas Day use out of this gown. Even if she hated the book from which it came—which she did—it was too beautiful to pass up. Her practiced hands flew through the motions of dressing and preparing herself. Years and years of helping Belles fit themselves in the fabric guided her until she looked the part. Victorian curls framed her face, crowned by a halo of holly, a customary feature of Belle’s costume. Bright red lipstick brought some color to her otherwise pale skin. A red and gold brooch glowed at the base of her throat, pinned to the lace collar of her gown.
Oh, the gown. It fit as if it had been made for her. She spun, letting the skirts swirl up and reveal the petticoats and shoes hidden beneath. Even if everything was falling apart, even if her heart still felt half-stitched together, even if she didn’t want to believe in Christmas anymore, her girlhood dreams were coming true.
She looked better than beautiful. And she felt it.
“Extra! Extra! Read all about it!”
Her vain inspection smashed to a halt with the intrusion of a squawking voice; it filtered through her thin window panes, a little, booming cry from the streets down below. Doing her best not to trip over her own feet—she couldn’t remember the last time she’d worn heels that weren’t her sturdy work boots—she scrambled for the window, stopping only for the briefest of moments to grab the READ ME copy of A Christmas Carol waiting on the sill. Costume firmly in place and book tucked under her arm, Kate opened the panes and looked down below, searching for the source of the newsboy cries.
Only, she didn’t see the source. Not at first. Instead, an uncontrollable, unstoppable gasp flew from the depths of her chest as she stared out at the town square. It was there. Everything was there. As if Clark Woodward never demanded they take down the sets and facades and decorations, the square looked picture-perfect and ready for Christmas. As she leaned out of her window, she realized she was leaning into Dickensian England, with all of its beauty and wonder.
They’d put it back. They’d put it all back. She just didn’t understand why. But there, on the corner between the facade of Marley and Scrooge’s office and the butcher’s shop, Kate spotted Susan Cho, a nine-year-old who played one of the Cratchit daughters in last year’s festival. Dressed in one of the countless street urchin outfits Kate put together over the years, she held a newspaper high over her head. From this angle, Kate couldn’t make out the headline or even if it came from Dallas or their stock of Dickens-specific recreations of London newspapers.
“Merry Christmas, London! Extra! Extra!”
“Susan! Come over here!”
As if she’d been walked through this a dozen times, Susan hustled down the block to stand beneath Kate’s window, tucking the newsprint under her arm. If this were the festival come back to life, Kate would have scolded her for getting newsprint on the costume, but her confusion and awe at the entire situation overtook any practical thought. It didn’t matter if the costumes got dirty or the fake newsprint smudged, not when there was so much outside at which she could marvel.
“Morning, miss!” Susan lisped through her two missing front teeth and tipped her newsboy cap. “What can I do for you?”
“What in the world is going on here?”
“Sorry, Miss Kate. Can’t talk now. I have to stay in character,” she stage-whispered before returning to her strolling and hawking. “Extra! Extra!”
For her part, Kate remained rooted to the spot.
“But if I was able to talk to you, I’d say you should come downstairs.”
“What?” Kate whispered back, starting a complete conversation in hushed tones.
“You’re supposed to follow me.”
“Oh.” Whatever was happening here, whatever character Susan was meant to keep and whatever was happening to this town, it was clear there was a plan and an order in place. Kate just didn’t know them. But if she knew anything from a lifetime of working with and around children, it was to play along with their games. “Okay. I’ll be right down.”
She gathered up her skirts and did as she was told, skidding down her steps towards the town square. Once out on the street, following close behind the little girl as she hawked her papers, Kate couldn’t contain her curiosity.
“Hey, Susan?”
“Yes, ma’am?”
The little girl must have felt Kate’s distress radiating off of her because she dropped her character in order to answer. God bless children and their inability to pay attention to anything for more than ten minutes.
“Is this a dream? Am I dreaming?”
She didn’t exactly believe she was dreaming, but it seemed as likely as Clark suddenly having a change of heart and giving her the festival back.
“Hmmm.” The little girl tugged on her cap, considering the question. “I don’t think so. If you were I hope I’d be wearing something much cuter.”
Unconvincing as the argument should have been, it swayed Kate. After the events of last night, would this bizarre journey through Miller’s Point be something she would dream about? Unlikely.
By Sherlock Holmes logic,
