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New York City, 1878
It had once been a grand house, but not now. The ballroom, where ladies in pink and blue satin dresses had whirled on the arms of mustachioed gentlemen, was gone, and in its place there were three apartments. The rooms had been divided, and then divided again, until the whole of that grand house was filled with tiny slots overflowing with children who didn't quite get enough to eat, mothers who scrimped and made do, and fathers who left before dawn and came back long after dark.
Ten-year-old Christopher, alone in a sliver of an apartment near the top of the house, was wholly absorbed in the smooth wood in his hands, his eyes fixed on the creature he saw trapped inside the block. Steadily, precisely, he carved it out. Outside, the afternoon grew darker, and the icy rain began to fall. Inside, the sound of wailing babies and the sour smell of thin soup wafted through the flimsy walls. Absorbed in the magic of making, Christopher noticed none of it. He began to see pointed wings and ridiculous, triangular feet. A curving pull of the blade revealed a long, narrow beak. Sitting back in his chair, Christopher looked at his creation and laughed. It was the most peculiar bird he had ever seen.
Just then the sitting room door opened, and Christopher's mother stepped in quietly. Her shoulders hunched against the cold, but her face held the remnants of great beauty, chiefly in her enormous gray eyes. Now, unwinding the shawls that served her as a coat, she glanced at her son's intent face and, as if to ward away danger, she rested her hand upon his head for a moment. Then she rustled away to make supper in the dim corner they called the kitchen. She caught sight of a laboriously written letter and envelope lying near the chair and smiled at Christopher's familiar, awkward handwriting. Stooping to pick up the letter, she began to read.
Christopher's eyes were on his bird as he spoke."Mother? What do you suppose I saw today over at Stuyves—" He broke off when he saw the tears glistening on her face. "What's happened?" he asked anxiously."What is it?"
His mother shook her head. "Your letter, love. It's your letter that makes me cry, but they aren't sad tears."Her son looked at her doubtfully.
"The letter? But didn't you tell me that all children write a letter to Santa Claus at Christmas time?" asked Christopher. "Why would it make you cry?"
His mother dropped to her knees and looked searchingly in his eyes. "Tell me what you see in this room," she said.
Christopher looked around the sitting room. "A wooden table. Your chair. A lamp, with a beautiful glass.My books. Lots of books." He smiled. "You." He leaned into his mother's arms.
"And it's enough, darling?" asked his mother in a whisper.
Christopher looked at her questioningly. "Enough? I don't understand," he answered slowly. "This is home.This is where you are. It's more than just enough."
Without replying, his mother tightened her arms around him and held him for a long time. Then she rose to her feet, folding the letter carefully into its envelope and slipping it into his pocket. "Mrs. Broder at the bakeshop, my dear boy, has been kind enough to extend our account for another week," she said cheerfully."Will you take the carriage to get a loaf of bread, or shall I send the butler?"
Christopher frowned judiciously. "The horses are getting fat and lazy, Mother. But so is the butler. He's an awful lazy fellow. So I suppose I had better go myself."
"And where's your scarf, then?" his mother said, catching him by the arm. "It's dreadfully cold." She could keep her voice cheerful, but her eyes betrayed her.Christopher wound the woolen muffler around his neck. "I'll be fine. It's a very warm scarf. I'll put it over my head if I get cold," he said, watching his mother's face. "I promise."
"Don't forget to post your letter," called his mother, as the door closed behind him.
He stood at the door, bracing himself for the cold. As he always did when he was trying to make himself feel brave, he reached into his coat pocket to touch his father's watch. It didn't matter that the watch hadn't worked in almost a year. It had stopped right after his father had died, and there was no money for repairs.His father could have done it; he had loved intricate mechanisms. Christopher stared into space, remembering
his father bent over a tiny, broken toy. Christopher wrapped his hand tightly around the watch; it was fine the way it was.
Oh, the cold. On the dark sidewalk, Christopher leaned into the wind, for he had learned that fearing the cold made it worse. You had to act as though you weren't cold. You had to step lively instead of huddling near the walls—Christopher stopped, ignoring his own rules.
He wasn't cold.
He looked around him; there were all the people pushing past him, freezing. But he wasn't. Christopher looked up toward the Bowery, where the gaslights were gleaming, and then down at the teeming darkness of Second Avenue. By rights, his feet should have been turning numb, but no. Luxuriating in his comfort, Christopher walked to the postal box and dropped his letter in. All grew still for a moment. Suddenly, a great, golden wave of warmth rolled through him, a velvety liquid warmth that coursed from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. It had no source and no end, and, standing there in the dark, slushy street, Christopher knew that something extraordinary had just happened to him.
Excerpted from The Legend of Holly Claus by Brittney Ryan All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
