Her father’s study had always fascinated Lily, probably because she was forbidden to enter it.

Yet another unquestionable rule, set in place for their safety, and enforced by her father—at a cost.

Almost ten years ago, when the reaper virus had first emerged, decimating the world’s population, Lily’s father had become a stranger.  Gone was the fun-loving man she’d adored… replaced by a bleak-eyed patriarch.

Not that she blamed him, how could she?  It was the virus that changed the world, the structure of everyday life regressing; disintegrating.

When the virus claimed her mother and brother, just days apart, her father had responded without hesitation. He’d turned their home into a fortress, offering everyone within, relative or not, a choice.  Remain, protected, or take their chance outside… From that point on, no one questioned his dictate, nor how he provided for them.

But Lily had sometimes wondered… on days she heard him behind the study door, fevered, excited words pouring from his lips, too muffled to decipher. What toll did such responsibility take on a sane mind?

Now, standing in front of that same door, at the boundary of her father’s domain, Lily gripped the tray she carried and rapped her knuckles on heavy oak.

The sound was hollow, lifeless.

Movement: leather soles tapping across wood, timbers creaking as they flexed. A click, as the key turned in the lock, and a ribbon of dusty light that widened rapidly. But no squeak of metal hinges—maintained with care, they moved in perfect, well-oiled silence.

“Ah… tea.” Her father’s figure filled the study doorway. Lily’s heartbeat quickened. Usually their maid, Miriam, brought him his tea, but today he’d requested she do so. Staring at him, she wondered why.

His body was too thin, accentuated by his height; it was as if time had worn him away. His hair and skin were bone-white, ancient looking. But Barnabas Wright’s intellect was as sharp as ever, seeming to snap out at her, from eyes the colour of slate. “Come in, Lily. Place the tray on my desk if you would…”

Shock surged. He was inviting her inside? Tremors raced along her spine, spreading through her body to shake the tray, until the clink of china filled the tense atmosphere.

Then she moved—obeying—her booted feet pacing forward. Mentally, she catalogued everything: the weight of the tray, the coolness of her skirt and petticoats as they swirled around her ankles; the pinch of boning as her ribcage expanded on an agitated breath.

She was finally here.

The study, generously proportioned, had a high, plaster-embellished ceiling suspended above book-lined walls and glass display cases. These housed an array of grotesque-looking curios. Small, half-decayed corpses (of what, she couldn’t tell), fused onto jointed metal armatures that glinted in the golden glow of the oil lamps. Lily tried not to stare.

It was only as she approached her father’s desk that she realised he wasn’t alone. A silent, cloaked figure stood in a darkened corner of the room—watching her. Lily’s step faltered, but only for a moment.

Ignoring the figure, she relinquished the tray and turned, hands clasped in front of her, chin raised, gaze steady.  “Forgive me, I was unaware you had a guest, Father.  Would you like me to fetch another cup?”

Barnabas shook his head. “That won’t be necessary. However, if I may introduce you, Lily? This is Lord Oscar Darwin… your fiancé.”

Eyes wide, Lily’s gaze moved from her father, to the cloaked figure, and back again. “I… I don’t think I…”

Before she could finish, Barnabas waved an impatient hand. “Don’t prevaricate, child, you heard me well enough. I grow too old to ensure your safety and have arranged for Lord Darwin to take the burden from me. He will protect you—and is a man worthy of the honour.”

Lily remained speechless. Shock and disbelief held her in place.

Stepping from the shadows, the cloaked figure crossed to her side. Large in build, and as tall as her father, his step was strangely hushed.

Like the door hinges.

Reaching out a gloved hand, Lord Darwin took her fingers in his. Beneath the soft leather, his flesh felt hard, almost rigid, with no warmth to it at all.

“I understand that this must be a shock to you, Lily, but there is no time to explain. Travelling is dangerous, and night provides a measure of cover. We must leave as quickly as possible if we are to reach our destination before dawn. As I have promised your father, I will protect you, but speed is essential.”

Lily’s head jerked from side-to-side. Why hadn’t her Father warned her?

Barnabas stepped forward, eyes cold, as they’d been since the loss of his wife and son. “No arguments, child, you will go with Lord Darwin and accept him as your husband.  It is my wish, Lily.”

…and her father’s wishes were always obeyed.

Lily stared at the hand holding hers, then into the shadowed features of Lord Darwin. Mutely, she nodded.




They exited through the back door, hurrying across shadowed lawn to the gate that led to open countryside. Glancing back, Lily tried to memorise the view… the only home she’d ever known. Members of the household watched them silently, expressions bemused, some raising a hand.

When her father secured the house, he’d retreated from Lily’s presence; his grief too raw. These people had made her life bearable—and now she was leaving them, with little more than a hurried wave and tears burning her eyes.

“I didn’t say goodbye,” she whispered, distress making her stumble. It was a long time since she’d felt like this… felt anything.

The man at her side tightened his hold. “I’m sorry. We have no time for farewells. Cavalry is waiting.”

“Cavalry?” Lily frowned. They’d cleared the gateway, emerging into the fields behind her home. Lord Darwin secured the locks her father insisted on and deposited the keys inside his cloak before drawing out a small, metallic object.

A whistle? No. A soft whir of sound and a cascade of pin-point lights… a signal.

Out in the fields the night shifted as something responded. Lily’s fingers tightened around Lord Darwin’s. Fear took hold, her nostrils flaring around cold air.

Distinctive perfumes, sweetly sour, rushed in on a single breath—musk and sweat. The smell of oil too, unmistakeable in a world reliant on cogs and springs. Then a faint hiss, like levers, and the clicking of… gears? Whatever it was drew steadily closer.

Muscles tensed, ready to run, Lily couldn’t help but lean forward, even as fear of the unknown built within her. It was heading towards them… “What is that?” she asked.

A large, velvety nose bumped against her cheek, accompanied by Lily’s shriek of alarm, hastily muffled, and a puff of warm air tickling her neck.

Her companion chuckled. “That is Cavalry, my horse… a miracle of modern technology, as am I, thanks to the skill of the perfectionists and your father specifically.”

Lily turned, looking with interest at the man who was almost a stranger to her. “I don’t understand, Lord Darwin…” but the words petered out as a whimper of surprise replaced them.

Her fiancé had silently lowered the hood of his cloak, leaving his face unshaded.

“My name is Oscar. Don’t you think you should call me that, Lily?” he asked, staring at her with hazel eyes. Lovely eyes, fringed with dark lashes… but that wasn’t the surprise.

No, that was the fact that his lower forehead, right cheek and part of his chin were moulded from polished glass, through which a whirling mass of clock-like cogs were visible, fused to the bones of his skull, yet moving freely. Reaching out, Lily brushed her fingers against the cold, clear glass. She’d never seen anything quite so fascinating.

For a brief moment, Oscar’s eyes closed, as if he relished the contact. When he opened them again, a look of satisfaction gleamed in their depths.

“I knew you’d understand… how could you not?  You are your father’s daughter.

“As you see, I’m a survivor of the reaper virus, as is Cavalry. Your father repaired his right hind leg using the same techniques employed on humans.”

“Father repaired a horse?” That didn’t sound like the man Lily knew.

Oscar smiled. “He wanted to experiment on something bigger…”

“And now Cavalry is going to carry me to safety?”

Oscar didn’t reply, the only hint of his thoughts a subtle hardening of his jaw. It seemed their mode of transport wasn’t up for debate.

“Then I suppose we’d better get going,” Lily said, turning so he could boost her onto the saddle. But when he swung up behind her, she twisted round, her gaze calm. “You know, the future is something we’re going to have to talk about… and you needn’t think you can push me around either… but I’ll accept a ride for now. Even if your charger is black, and has a gammy leg.”

(I've just 'rediscovered' this story.  Actually written for Christmas, but I thought I'd add it to the 'Free Reads' library anyway...)


For the umpteenth time, Mary wondered why she’d allowed herself to be talked into this. True, she and Joseph had the right names, were recently married, and were about to become parents—and yes, the absence of her baby’s biological father, and the fact that she owned a donkey (and was quite capable of riding it) might be seen as just perfect by some. But all that aside, she wasn't sure that doing the Vicar ‘a favour’ was worth the embarrassment of having her fat, pregnant body paraded around in public.

Having wrestled her way into the voluminous, itchy costume—as provided by the sewing group of All Saints church, South Bethel (Bethlehem, for one night only), Mary turned to the mirror that hung on the wall behind her. The costume fit okay-ish, but her hair was a mess and the worry of the last few months could still be seen on her face. Smudges of exhaustion lay beneath equally dark eyes and her pasty-white complexion, free of cosmetics, appeared stark beneath the electric lights. The Vicar had been adamant though: the cast of The Nativity should be ‘Au Naturel’ where possible. Apparently, this helped to make the performance more real.

A quick brush of her hair, and Mary reached for the headdress that was, admittedly, a lot nicer than the tea-towel she’d been expecting. Carefully positioning it atop her long, black tresses, she realised that lack of a recent haircut, for once, worked in her favour. After all, if the Vicar wanted realism…

“Hiya!” a high-pitched voice shouted from the floor below. Sticking her head around the bedroom door, Mary peered down the staircase. Her elder sister, Faith, was standing in the hallway with her daughter in her arms. Angel, almost two now, also had a part in the Vicar’s grand production, and was resplendent in— a sheet?

“Is that her costume?” Mary asked, staring at the thick cotton dubiously.

Faith grinned at her. “Nah, this is just protection. I'll take it off when we get to the church. Underneath she’s wearing white satin and enough frills that, with the wind in the right direction, I reckon she could fly.” She shifted her daughter’s weight, bouncing her up and down until the toddler giggled in approval, and jingled. Bells, it seemed, were also part of the hidden costume. Then she looked back at Mary. “You ready yet?”

“Almost.” Mary gave her reflection a last ‘look over’ before rubbing her pronounced baby-bump, as if in reassurance, and stepping out onto the landing. Lifting up her long skirt, she cautiously made her way down the stairs.

“Wow,” Faith said as Mary arrived beside her. “You really do look like your namesake… how I imagine her looking, anyway.”

“Considering where she lived, I’d have said she’d be a bit more tanned,” Mary commented.

She’d expected her sister to laugh at that, but instead, Faith’s eyes narrowed. “Now you mention it—you do look a little peaky. Is everything okay with the baby?” she asked.

“You mean, apart from the chronic back-ache, night cramps, insomnia and the fact that I look like Augustus Gloop? Yeah, everything’s fine.”

Faith opened her mouth to reply, her expression sympathetic, but Angel beat her mother to it. Waving her pudgy arms in the air, she once again shouted, “Hiya!” at the top of her voice, demanding their attention.

Mary latched onto the conversational ‘out’ on offer. Grabbing one of Angel’s flailing hands, she kissed the soft knuckles. “Hiya to you too, Angel. If the original Mary had been greeted with enthusiasm like that, she’d never have set foot in that smelly stable.”

Faith laughed. “Mary giving birth in a cosy Inn wouldn’t be quite the same though,” she pointed out. “Joseph is treating you right, isn’t he, Mary?”

The unexpected question, bluntly delivered, shocked Mary. She turned to Faith slowly. “Yes. Apart from spending too much time in that shed of his, coming back covered in wood shavings, and refusing to tell me what he’s up to, he treats me like I'm the most precious treasure in the world. Which feels odd, to be honest, because even though we've known each other forever, I never dreamed we’d end up as a couple. Especially when… you know.”

Faith looked clueless, so Mary continued on, “Let’s face it; there aren’t many men who’d take on an already pregnant wife. So I guess…”

“He loves you,” Faith finished for her. “And really, Mary, it’s not that surprising—he’s been crazy about you since you were kids!”

Mary began fussing with Angel’s fine, blonde, baby curls. “Hmm… I’m not so sure about that, but I’ll accept that he might love me now. I can’t think why else he’d insist on marrying me, and giving my baby a father—someone to rely on.”

“Exactly,” Faith agreed. “And you, Mary, do you love Joseph?”

Silence descended over the hallway, and Mary realised that even Angel was watching her with uncharacteristic solemnity. “I…” she stopped, unsure of quite how to answer her sister.

Faith's expression became thoughtful. “You know, I never realised it before, but there’s something missing from The Nativity story: How Mary felt about Joseph and vice versa. I mean, I know it was about duty, and honouring God’s wishes, but surely they must have…”

Her words were cut short as the front door flew open, powered by a blast of cold air and male frustration.

“Come on, ladies, get moving. Joe and I are nithered out here, and the donkey’s getting restless.” Faith’s husband, Matthew, stood in the doorway, dressed for his role as The Nativity's narrator. The long, all-encompassing costume actually suited him, which was surprising. Mary was more used to seeing him in a pinstriped suit, with a briefcase and highly polished shoes, befitting his career in accounting.

“Daaadeee! Hiya!” Angel shouted, in obvious delight.

“Hiya, baby. Now, why don’t you come to me, and I’ll put you in your car seat. Because it’s time we were off!” Matthew said, holding out his arms at exactly the same moment that his daughter started to squirm. Safely transitioned from one parent to the other, she immediately stuck her thumb in her mouth and rested her head on her father’s shoulder, looking as angelic as her name.

Faith snorted a laugh as her husband and child disappeared, out into the frosty darkness of Christmas Eve’s early evening. “And Matthew’s word is once again gospel. That child was a daddy’s girl from the moment she set eyes on him. Mind you, one blink of those baby blues and he was pretty much enslaved for life too.”

“She must take after her mother then,” Mary said, a smile curving her lips.

Faith grinned. “Yeah, I guess you could say that. Now, talking of smitten men…”

Mary held up her hand. “But we weren’t, and we aren’t going to either, because we haven’t got time. Just grab your coat and let’s do what the man ordered: get moving and get to that church. I’ve yet to see the Vicar lose his cool—but there’s always a first time!”

It was a bit of a squash in Matthew's car, but the church wasn't far. A small horsebox, with Hope the donkey inside it, trundled behind them.

At the church they were greeted by the Vicar and his family, some of whom wore shepherd and angel costumes. As the rest of the cast arrived—including three of the church wardens, looking suitably majestic as the wise men—Angel’s ‘sheet’ was removed, and the bells on her costume tinkled merrily as wings were tied in place. Then came the arrival of various farm animals and a camel, and Mary could only gape, slack-jawed.

A glance at Joe, and enlightened pride followed. So this was what he'd been working on.

Skilfully crafted from wood, sheepskin and fake fur, he’d even thought to fit the animals with wheels—for ease of positioning when needed. Only Hope was the live equivalent of that long ago mount. Mary prayed that her old family pet would act with dignity, in a venue filled with both regular and seasonal church goers.

As everyone took their places, she allowed her husband to hoist her onto Hope’s back. It was getting hard to move around.

“You okay?” Joseph murmured, his breath fogging in the cold air. His large, warm-brown eyes stared at her intently, shadowed by his headdress.

Mary shivered, feeling oddly shy, and nodded. “Yes, thanks, Joe,” she said, smiling at him. Was there more than concern in his gaze? Her heartbeat quickened.

But then they were told to ‘get ready’—and the moment was gone.

Stretching the material of her gown over her bump, Mary emphasised her condition for the first part of the re-enactment. Later, when the baby Jesus was placed in her arms, she’d rearrange the flowing costume to hang loose, and shield her stomach with the heavily swaddled doll. It had all been practiced, again and again, until the Vicar was satisfied that everyone knew what they were doing.

And they did. Everything progressed smoothly, except for the reading from Luke, when the angel appeared to the shepherds and shouted, “Hiya!” with the comedic timing that only a modern-day Angel could achieve.

The church looked beautiful, decked out in greenery and red holly berries that glowed in the light from banks of candles—placed well out of reach of the congregation’s youngest members. The Bible passages were heard clearly, and the music issuing from the ornately carved organ combined with hundreds of enthusiastic voices, singing age-old carols. The words lodged themselves in Mary’s soul, and rare tears of happiness prickled at her eyes.

The past year had not been easy. She could still remember the terror of discovering that she was pregnant, with no one to stand by her. But Joseph had proved her wrong. Looking at him now, singing lustily, with his face bathed in golden candle light, Mary let the last doubt slip from her mind. The life inside her was real, touchable, but so was the man who’d offered to be there for them.

Though their relationship had never been all hearts and flowers, or anything approaching traditional, that didn’t make it less valid.

She watched as Joe turned to look over at Hope, making sure she was still content to munch on the provided hay. Then he pulled a face at Angel, until she giggled at him over Faith’s shoulder. And suddenly, Mary was reminded of a Bible verse—not one about Christmas, but one that could have been written for her.

1 Corinthians 13:7 – Love never gives up, never loses faith, is always hopeful, and endures through every circumstance.

Well, Faith had known her all her life, Hope the donkey had carried her here, and Joseph, it seemed, had never given up. He’d persevered, until doubt had vanished, and she'd slowly come to recognise her true worth—and his.

Perhaps Joe had loved her since childhood, and it was time for her to look at the bigger picture.

Christmas would always be about the most precious of gifts, a child, but it was also a celebration of the love and strength that can exist between two people—because these are the gifts that extend outwards, to family, to friends, and to the rest of the world.

It’s not every day that you find yourself stealing from your mother’s purse.  Mind you, it’s not every day that a twenty year old shop assistant is befriended by the little guy living under her garden shed either.

On the day in question, it was sunny.  Not unusual you might think—but you’d be wrong.  Yorkshire isn’t known for its sunny weather, at any time of the year.

As a result of this unexpected boon, work had been manic with customers streaming into the shop to buy mounds of bread rolls, sausages and burgers—not to mention charcoal and firelighters.

By the end of our shift, Amy (my best friend) and I had decided to spend our evening relaxing in the sunshine.  We watched, unimpressed, as my mother made a complete hash of coaxing our rust-bucket barbecue to life.  If we were lucky, she’d eventually get some food cooked.

I know I should have helped her, but I had provided the sausages… and anyway, I was knackered.  I’d taken her a cold drink, what more did she want?

The smoke from the barbecue set us coughing and the hiss and sizzle of the meat was annoying, but Mum looked a little flushed… so I didn’t comment.

When it arrived, the food was over-done.  Mum didn’t seem concerned when I mentioned it, or apologetic.  She hadn’t bothered toasting the bread, which was disappointing, and I had to ask her to get me the ketchup too, because she’d managed to forget it.  After that, she seemed out of sorts for the rest of the meal.  I said as much to Amy.

“She’s probably on the change,” my friend muttered.  “My mum’s all over the place at the moment; mood swings, hot flushes, memory loss.  Don’t worry about it.”

So I didn’t.  Instead, I relaxed back on my sun lounger, took another gulp of my drink and watched the ice cubes slide around its creamy, almost caramel coloured depths.  I didn’t care what anyone else said, Amy and I both agreed, there was nothing old ladyish about our preferred tipple.  It had a smooth start, a fiery kick at the end and it was awesome ‘on the rocks’. 

“Psst… over here!” came a scratchy whisper.

I’d been so relaxed, I’d almost fallen asleep, but I roused myself enough to peer towards the unexpected voice.

The sun was sinking lower in the sky now and the shadows from the garden plants created pools of intriguing darkness amongst the borders.  I scrunched up my eyes, trying to focus, and as my blurry vision cleared, I saw him… a little guy, watching me from just in front of the garden shed.  He wasn’t a child, but it was difficult to place his age.  He wore baggy topped boots and tight breeches, both made from peat coloured leather, and a moss green jacket.  He also wore a bright magenta messenger bag, slung across his chest, with a monogram stamped on it; two Bs, back to back?  I rather liked that bag… Radley did one very similar.

His face was only a few shades lighter than his breeches and his hair and beard were a tangle of red curls.  He had eyes like sparkling emeralds and his ears were—pointy?

He wasn’t what I’d expected to see at all.

“Good day to you, fair maidens,” he said, bowing low, his scratchy voice taking on a slightly sing-song quality.  “May I trespass on your generous natures to beg you for your help?”

Amy sat up beside me, rubbing her eyes.  I watched as she finished her drink, and then stared at the little guy.  “Who’s that?” she asked.

Before I could reply, little guy introduced himself.  “The name is Erin Whiskey, my lady… so pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Riiight… pleased to meet you too, Erin,” Amy replied.

She seemed to be taking little guy’s presence way too calmly, which worried me.  I handed her another drink.

“What can we do for you, Erin?  And… where did you come from, exactly?” I asked.

Erin grinned, showing yellowed, crooked teeth.  “Why, I came from here, my lady.  My current abode is below your most excellent shed, but I’ve recently travelled here from Ireland; my country of birth.  I and my brother Leprechauns have been sent on a quest, to find the magic elixir.”

“Magic elixir?” Amy spluttered.

“Leprechauns?  In Yorkshire?!” I added.  “And what makes you think we can help you find this stuff?”

Again, Erin grinned.  “My brothers and I, like all young Leprechauns and even some humans, rely on the elixir—in our fight against the oppression of our elders!  Under its influence, and with the support of our members, we’ll show them that going to ‘Heroes Ensuring Leprechaun Liberation’ is an option for all!” he paused, punching the air with enthusiasm.  “As for how I know you can help us… why, is that not the elixir you drink now?”

Amy and I stared at our glasses.  Well, it did taste good.  “Possibly,” I hedged, wondering where this was going.

“Well what we need, my lady, is MORE.  The fate of all Leprechauns rests in your hands,” Erin announced dramatically.

I looked across at Amy, who shrugged.  “Well, we haven’t got any cash right now… but I could ask Mum,” I suggested.

Trailing into the house, I was surprised to find that Mum wasn’t forthcoming with the cash.  She kept spouting off about an ungrateful, lazy daughter who treated her like an unpaid skivvy and then went on about how she hadn’t been sitting on her backside all day, and had it never occurred to me that she might appreciate a rest?

Which brings me to the theft…but, come on…it was an emergency!  Erin and his Leprechaun brothers were counting on me!

Luckily, it wasn’t far to the shop. Amy and I were soon back, rushing through the house to the garden… elixir in hand.

That must have been when Whiskey turned nasty.  Before we knew what was happening, we were out cold and left unconscious on the patio all night.  When we finally woke up, the elixir was gone, our memories fuzzy and our heads throbbing.

And let me tell you… I’ve never felt so sick…