I parked in one of the faculty spaces and then led the boys around to the front door. We probably could have slipped in with Michael, but I wanted the boys to see all the people lining up and paying money to see Daddy. To keep down expenses we didn’t print tickets for the show—just took contributions at the door, and attendees could donate any amount they felt comfortable with. Last year we’d taken in a lot more fifty and hundred dollar bills than fives or ones.

Of course we were early, so there weren’t too many people lining up. Still, we formally handed over our contributions to the ushers, who were clad in Dickensian costumes. I recognized the one in front of us as one of Michael’s graduate drama students.

“Thank you, my good man,” the usher said as Josh handed over his dollar. “At this festive season of the year, it is more than usually desirable—”

“That we should make some provision for the poor and destitute,” Jamie rattled off.

“Bravo!” Our usher and several others nearby applauded.

“Bah, humbug!” said Josh, not only competitive but contrarian tonight.

The drama students all found this delightful and applauded some more.

“I take it this means that Professor Waterston has learned his lines,” our usher said.

“If he forgets any it’s not from want of rehearsal,” I said, handing over my contribution.

“Thank you, madam,” he said, with a bow. “Enjoy the performance. And I look forward to seeing you the day after tomorrow.”

“On Christmas Day?”

“Your mother has very kindly invited those of us who cannot go home for the holiday to share in your Christmas dinner. Christmas orphans, she calls us.”

“Lovely,” I said. And since I wasn’t hosting the dinner and had every intention of dodging all attempts to suck me into cooking, I meant it.

The lobby was decorated with whole forests of greenery festooned with red ribbons and flickering faux candles, and with all the ushers and ticket takers dressed in Victorian costumes, the effect was quite splendid. In a far corner, a costumed string quartet was playing a lively version of “Good King Wenceslas.”

“Meg, dear!” Mother was standing just inside the door, also dressed in period costume, though her red velvet gown was much more elaborate than those worn by the women ushers. “Come have tea. And some hot cider for the boys.”

“Gamma in play, too?” Jamie asked

Josh just trotted past her to the stand where volunteers—mostly women from St. Clotilda’s Guild and the New Life Ladies’ Auxiliary, resplendent in hoopskirted Victorian dresses in jewel tones—were selling hot tea, coffee, and cider to benefit the cleanup and renovation of the churches of Caerphilly, according to the signs posted nearby. I had a feeling this would be only the first of many benefits.

“Nice to see you,” said a familiar voice.

Chapter 36