Freya stood in the center of a room glistening with decorations, twinkling lights, and dangling tinsel. Her mother, with Aunts Belle and Luna, had adorned the stairwell railing and room arches with handmade garlands of dried citrus slices, fresh cinnamon sticks, boxwood, eucalyptus, and blueberry cedar.
The vision and aroma of Christmas touched every corner of the home. As did the hum of magic. Over countless generations, the use of spells within the old house had enchanted the structure, all but creating a sentient, independent being.
She held a small box in her hand; one she’d stored in her room and had forgotten about during the tree decorating party the night prior. Lifting the lid, she revealed a cartoon-like cricket wearing a top hat, a red coat, and holding an open umbrella―a bauble collected from a family vacation and a memory lost to her.
Her lips curled up at the imagined trip. And at the fact that this year she’d be celebrating her first holiday with her whole family, reunited after too long apart…not just her birth parents, but aunts, uncles, and cousins.
She hung the ornament on the tree, her smile slowly slipping from her lips…a sadness unfolding within her like night-blooming jasmine. Her foster parents with whom she had spent countless years and had taken the trip where she’d gotten the holiday embellishment, would not be present this year. Neither physically nor in her memory.
Soft static danced over her skin, the whisper touch of magic.
“Why so sad?”
Freya’s gaze jerked to the barer of the question, the cricket ornament. A smirk immediately tugged at her lips.
“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised to find a Christmas decoration talking to me.”
“No.” The cricket swung on the tree, circling his umbrella overhead. “No, you should not. You live, after all”―he swung his free arm wide, referencing the room―“in a place where the improbable is never so. So, tell me, little witch, why are you so sad?”
She barked a laugh and wandered to the nearest chair, slumped into the seat with her back bowed and her arms resting on her thighs. “Are you to be my holiday therapist?”
“Therapist, friend, confidant. An amiable ear.” He spun in a circle as he dangled from the branch. “Whatever you share with me will be shared with no other, because…” he wiggled back and forth and then slapped his free hand to his chest, “inanimate object.”
Freya wrinkled her nose. “You don’t look all that inanimate to me.”
“Meh.” He knocked his heels together. “More inanimate than not. Now stop avoiding the topic and answer the question.”
Freya weaved her fingers together and scrutinized the dancing Christmas figure. She trusted the magic at work, whatever its origin, because intent mattered in her home. Her family wouldn’t purposely hurt her, and outside forces had no power here. They couldn’t penetrate the protection wards surrounding the outer walls.
She glanced around the room. Was she actually talking to the house right now?
“You know,” she began with a sigh, “There is no reason I should feel as I do any more now than any other month of the year.”
“You are right, and you are wrong.” The cricket tipped his head, his top hat unmoving. “Humans tend to reminisce at this time of year. And you are sorrowful for those no longer with you, here…” He swept his free arm wide, “…or in here.” He tapped the side of his head. “But they are always here, whether you are aware of it or not.” He thumped his palm over his heart.
With a quick tip, twist, and jump, the cricket freed himself from the tree and flew into the air between them. His now closed umbrella popped open, softening his descent into a gentle glide. He landed on Freya’s knee, sending a startled jerk through her body.
He closed his umbrella and pressed the tip to her skin, leaned into it. “Why not use your magic to heal yourself?”
Freya’s nose wrinkled. “Because my magic doesn’t work that way?”
One side of his lips lifted. “Does it not?”
“Ah…no.” She muffled a tiny laugh. “When on my own, not working with the coven, I can either drain or jump start, but that’s about it.”
He tilted his head to the side. “You sell yourself short, only recognizing the obvious.”
She fought the desire to cross her arms, signifying her stubborn refusal to agree with his statement. “How do you figure?”
He crossed one leg over the other, tapping the tip of his shoe against her thigh. “Think of yourself as a supernatural version of Joe.”
“Joe?” Her voice squeaked. “Our mechanic?”
“Exactly,” he confirmed. “You go to Joe when your car needs a new battery. You’ve called him when you were out and about and needed a jump. But…you also go to him when your car requires a tune up.” He stared at her point blank. “You, little witch, should you allow yourself, can be a magical version of Joe, but for things other than a car. You could give the body’s electrical system a tune-up. And, in case you aren’t following”―he waggled his finger at her―“both your brain and heart are tied directly to that internal electrical system.”
“O…okay.” She smashed her lips together. “And your point is?”
“My point is,” he continued, “Using your magic, you can tap into the heart and what it remembers and send those signals to the brain. The memories you seek are there, just buried deep. With the right push from your ability, you could bring them to the forefront. Make them accessible again. Recall what you have lost.”
She frowned. “You make it sound far too simple.”
“It need not be difficult.” He shook his shoulders, a small smile brimming across his face. “The level of your success rather depends on the strength of your intention.” He jabbed his closed umbrella toward her.
Despite wanting to believe she was capable of healing herself, she huffed and pinched the back of his jacket between her thumb and forefinger. She lifted him from her knee, her gaze shifting to the coffee table a foot away, indicating where she intended to relocate him.
“Hey,” he chirped, his feet kicking and arms pinwheeling. “Put me down. I am not some object to be tossed about.”
“And I am not tossing you about,” she retorted.
He wiggled. Wiggled until he slipped from her grip and landed on her leg once again. “This is where you want me to be if you wish to remember what you’ve lost.”
“Why is that?” she asked.
“Because…” He shook his umbrella, tip toward the ceiling. “I can help you. And my proximity will make a difference.” He jerked his bent arms to his side. “Give me your intention and I shall amplify it, swing it back upon you so that it might work its wonders.”
Truth be told, she wanted to remember her foster parents, but believing a Christmas ornament on how to make that happen…
“How exactly am I supposed to do that?” she asked.
“Allow your heart to feel freely when I speak their names.” His gaze tightened. “The one’s you’ve lost.” His focus dipped to her chest and back up. “Let your heart guide your magic and intention. Let it weave your will into fruition.”
“But I―”
“Deon and Joan,” he exclaimed.
Freya jolted.
He knew their names. But of course, he knew their names. He was, after all, magic personified.
“Deon. Joan,” he repeated. “How does that make you feel?”
“I―”
“Deon and Joan,” he blurted, to which Freya blinked. “Deon and Joan. Deon and Joan.”
“Stop it.”
“What do you feel? Hmm?” He tipped his head. “Deon and Joan. Joan and Deon.”
He recited their names like a broken record, saying them over and over and over again. For reasons she couldn’t pinpoint, her skin prickled and heart ached. She wanted, so desperately, to remember. She longed to remember the family she had previously and included them with the warm circle of family she now had all around her.
She also wished for the cricket’s silence. Wanted him to stop chanting her foster parent’s names. Because hearing their names flushed her body with heat and squeezed her chest too tightly.
“What do you want? What do you intend?” the cricket pushed, his closed umbrella pointed at her.
Her body vibrated with a need, that before that moment, she hadn’t realized lived within her as strongly as it did.
“I want to remember,” she all but shouted. “And I want you”―she jabbed her finger toward him―“to shut up already.” She shoved the end of his umbrella with the tip of her finger.
Her emotions exploded with an extension of her power in the form of glimmering stardust. Tiny stars surrounded her, filling all the spaces. An unseen force yanked her to a stand, spun her around, and no sooner had she become aware of the change transpiring, then her body was falling…or more accurately gliding…to the floor, her eyes drifting closed.
When she reopened her eyes, she found herself upon a bed, a milky mist receding from where she lay. She pushed herself up onto her elbows, blinked her eyes, and remembered. Remembered the room that had once been hers when she had lived with her foster parents.
The bedroom door opened and her foster mom Joan stepped through the threshold. “Get up, lazy head,” she said, a tease in her tone. “Your dad is getting anxious and the presents under the tree aren’t going to open themselves.”
Last Christmas, she thought.
“Mustn’t keep them waiting.” Freya tossed her blanket aside and dropped her feet over the edge of the bed.
As her feet touched the ground and she rose to her full height, the surrounding world transformed. Her body shifted into a younger version of herself, and the room’s décor morphed to match, while the dimmer light hinted at a different time of day. In the blink of an eye, years had simply melted away. Joan no longer stood in the doorway, and the door now rested in the closed position.
Like a child attempting to sneak up on Santa, young Freya crept to the door, cracked it open, and peered beyond. Darkness consumed the hallway, but the reflective flicker of the Christmas tree lights danced along the stairwell wall. In the living room below, Deon and Joan exchanged whispers amongst soft holiday tunes.
She recognized the memory as one belonging to her nine-year-old self. She had already learned the truth about Santa Claus, but her foster parents played the game, nonetheless. She loved that about them.
The stairs creaked beneath the pad of her bare feet, just as they had on the day the memory was created. She burst into the living room, as she had so many years ago, and her foster parents jumped, broke into huge smiles and laughter. They both sported Santa hats and Deon even wore a fake Santa beard.
Deon crouched and opened his arms wide, and into those wide arms, a young Freya ran. Only, Freya as she was today, remained at the bottom of the stairs watching. A smile touched her lips and her heart as she recalled things previously lost to her and as she witnessed her family laugh and dance and eat cookies meant for Santa.
How many Christmases had she spent with her foster family? Seven? Eight? More? Even in those years when she had remained aware of her missing birth parents, she had found happiness with Joan and Deon. They had been good to her. Not only at Christmas, but every day of the year.
Or so she suspected. She had yet to claim all her lost memories.
Nevertheless, Freya’s heart swelled with histories and the endless emotions associated. She pressed her hands to the blooming warmth in her chest and…
Magic skipped and pranced across her skin, raising her arm hair, and with the sensation, the scene before her distorted. A second Deon pulled away from the first, only this newer version of Deon didn’t wear a Santa beard or hat, and he had his gaze trained squarely on her.
“Freya,” he said, circling the vision version of her family celebrating the wee hours of Christmas morning. “I don’t know if you’ll remember this or not when you awake later, but Joan and I need you to know how proud we are of you.”
Freya bit her lip and took a step back. “Is this a manifestation of wishful thinking?”
“Not in the slightest, Freya bug.” His meaty palm dropped over the curve of her forearm as her lips twitched at the enduring term Deon had often used. “You may not be of my blood, but as far as I’m concerned, you will always…always…be the daughter of my heart. When your magic called out to me, I couldn’t help but answer.”
Before she could stop herself, she threw her arms around him and squeezed him in a tight hug. He was warm and solid and tingly beneath her touch, and he was not a memory.
“How?” she asked. “How are you here?”
“Freya, my girl, do you have so little faith in yourself?” He pulled back and clasped her shoulders. “You are powerful. You are magical. And you are currently residing in a house overflowing with magic that only serves to amplify your own. Plus, your primary affinity is electrical currents. What am I now if not energy, a compilation of electrical currents.”
“So you’re a gho―”
“You’re second father?” The edges of his lips tipped up. “Indeed. And I am always here for you, should you feel me, see me, or not.” He lightly pressed his fingers to her left cheek. “I’ll never abandon you, Freya Bug. And right now, I’m going to grant you your Christmas wish.”
“Aren’t you already doing that by simply being here?”
“Maybe so, but there is more you be wanting. You know it, and I know it.” He cupped her face in his hands. “And when we’re on the other side of this, give your mom Joan a call.”
He pressed a kiss to Freya’s forehead and her world exploded in light and color, scents and sounds, once felt emotions and life-filling recollections. She simultaneously existed in every moment of her life while gliding on a cloud of stardust.
She floated, her mind wondering, and memories fitting together like puzzle pieces. Time bent and stretched, expanded before and behind her, her sense of self getting lost in the experience.
Deon’s voice whispered at her ear, his form unseen, “Words cannot express how proud we are of you. Live fully and be true to yourself, Freya bug. Our love for you is eternal.”
“Yo, sleepy head.” Someone shook her shoulder and she snapped her eyes open, stared at her cousin Chloe towering over her. Chloe smirked. “What are you doing sleeping in the living room?”
Having slid to a slouch in the sofa-side chair, Freya jerked upright and quickly scanned for the cricket. The ornament, no longer exhibiting anything remotely magical, hung on the tree exactly where she had placed it before everything began.
“Hey…” Chloe leaned closer. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah.” Freya pressed a finger to her forehead, bit her lip, then shook her head. “Something weird, otherworldly happened…” she glanced at the clock on the wall. Had so little time passed? “…a couple minutes ago.”
Chloe’s eyes widened. Not in fear or concern, but in clear curiosity. “I want to hear all about it,” she said. “But right now, the sun is down and your foster mom is here to see you.”
Freya leapt to her feet. “Joan is here?”
Chloe nodded.
Freya’s chest heaved. Had the magic triggered by the cricket ornament drawn Joan in, dead but not dead, as it had Deon’s spirit? She needed…. She needed…
“I need to see her.” Need to tell her I remember. That I appreciate her and love her. Freya marched toward the entrance door indicated by Chloe, her cousin following in her wake.
Joan turned as the two entered the room. “Hey―”
Before Joan could get another word out, Freya threw herself into Joan’s arms and hugged her with all she had. Freya didn’t care that Joan felt different than she had in all their earlier remembered years. She also didn’t care about a lot of the changes that had transpired where her foster mom was concerned. All that she cared about was what they had shared together. What they still had together. And what blessed future memories she was determined to make together.
“I love you,” Freya murmured to Joan. “And I remember, truly remember, who you are to me. Thank you…so much…for everything you have done and sacrificed for me.”
Joan’s arms tightened around her. “I’d do it all again in a heartbeat.”
The greatest Christmas Freya could have possibly received―remembering and appreciating the people who mattered most to her. She prayed she would carry this lesson with her always and never again take anything for granted.
If you aren’t familiar with Freya’s circumstances, I invite you read the Gifted Girls Series and familiarize yourself with all the fun details.
