A surprising number of people were trooping up and down the sidewalks and in and out of all the shops around the town square. Maybe Randall’s campaign to promote holiday tourism was working. I wasn’t sure why “Christmas in Caerphilly” had a Victorian theme—maybe Randall, like me, had seen A Christmas Carol too many times at an impressionable age—but I enjoyed it. Nearly every corner had a band of carolers in Victorian costume, entertaining passersby while collecting donations for local charities. The outdoor stalls, also for charity, were doing a brisk business in hot beverages—coffee, tea, chocolate, and cider mulled with spices—and hot snacks, including muffins, cookies, candied apples, and roasted chestnuts. There were long lines for the hay rides, in reproduction farm wagons pulled by teams of sleek draft horses, specially chosen because they weren’t spooked by the constant jingling of all the bells on their harnesses. And even longer lines to have pictures taken in borrowed Victorian costumes either in front of the town Christmas tree or in a genuine one-horse sleigh with a beautiful dappled gray horse harnessed to it.

It was more peaceful when I reached the residential areas of town, although I doubt if I spotted a single house without some kind of Christmas or winter decoration. On the outskirts of town I passed by several hills and ravines bristling with sledders and snowboarders. And when I got out into the country, I passed the occasional group of people who in spite of the fact that they were rapidly traversing the frozen fields on cross-country skis still found the energy to wave their poles and me and shout “Merry Christmas!” and “Happy holidays!”

For a moment I tried to imagine trekking that way across the countryside with Michael and the boys. And then I gave it up. My arm had begun bothering me on the way home. I waited until I was safely parked in the driveway, then took the pill with a long pull from the water bottle and walked inside. Michael’s car was there, which meant he and the boys were home from their shopping.

James and Josh were very glad to see me, and only the sight of my sling prevented them from hurling themselves upon me. They kept staring at the sling and asking what it was until I finally led them into the kitchen and made each of them a dish-towel sling.

The boys were delighted, and began racing around to find someone to admire their new accessories. Mother, when she arrived, was startled.

“What have they done to themselves now?” she asked.

“Swing, Gamma!” Josh explained.

Jamie just held his sling up so Mother could see.

“They both fell off the swing?” Mother asked. “What were they doing outside in this weather?”

“That was ‘sling,’” I pointed to my own sling. “They’re fine. Monkey see, monkey do.”

“Oh, I see,” she said. “Very elegant. You both look quite dashing.”