Page 41 of In Stockings
“Me?” she says, laughing.
“But maybe he wants to take you back to Lapland.”
She leans closer, pulling me in for a hug. I stroke her hair as she talks.
“I’ll let you in on a secret, Lyra. I’m a part-time elf. I only help Santa out at Christmas time. The rest of the time, I live here in Studworth.”
“You do?” I say, my tummy spinning.
“Yes. And I’ll tell you another secret.” She rests her forehead against mine. “I like you and your daddies an awful lot.”
“So will you come live with us, and get married and make me a baby sister … perhaps a baby brother too?”
“Do you think you’d like that?”
“Duh!” I say, pulling a face.
She smiles, kissing my cheek. “Me too,” she says. “I’d like that too. Happy Christmas, Lyra.”
11
EPILOGUE
Astrid
Five Christmaseslater
“Keep stilland close your eyes, and they might leave us alone,” Samson whispers into my ear.
I jab him in the ribs. “Wishful thinking, Pops. Nothing will deter them this morning.”
“Morning? Is it?” Archie groans. He rolls away from me and reaches for his phone. “Jesus Christ. It’s barely five am.”
“It’s Christmas. They’re excited,” I whisper.
“And if we pretend to be asleep,” Samson says, dragging me closer, flush against his warm body, “they might go back to sleep.”
“I can’t sleep,” I say, shuffling up the bed and arranging the pillows against the headboard. “This one’s excited about Christmas, too, and he’s been keeping me awake with his kicking.” I stroke my hand over my bulging stomach, and Craig leans in to kiss my tummy button. It popped a few weeks ago, and I look fit to burst.
“He’s going to be a football player,” Craig says. “Aren’t you, son?”
“Soon, we’ll have an entire squad,” Samson mutters.
“No, we won’t,” I say. “I think we’re going to have our hands full with four.”
“But I love knocking you up, sweetheart.” Samson runs his hands between my thighs. A hand I bat away as three pairs of footsteps clamber across the hallway and pause outside our bedroom door. Eager whispers follow next, and I suppress a giggle in the darkness of our room.
The door creaks open.
“Mummy? Kisscuss?” It’s Betty, our youngest daughter. She toddles through the crack in the door and stops by our bed, lifting her chubby little arms into the air. “Up?”
“It’s nighttime,” Samson tells her, sweeping her up into the bed anyway. She has a mop of dark curls just like his. “Are you going to go to sleep?”
Betty shakes her head, and soon her brother Ted is standing by the bed.
“You too?” Craig says.
“I told them it was too early,” Lyra says from the doorway, “but they wouldn’t listen.”
