There was a family pile of stockings, each with a name embroidered on it. Typical Sofia overkill.

As she leafed through them, though, she pulled out two more, one with “Carmen” and one with “Oke” on it.

“What?!” she said. “When did you do these?!”

Sofia smiled an irritating smile. “Oh, want something done, ask a busy person.”

“You are just showing off!”

THEY WERE A happy band around the Christmas Day table, introducing Oke to everything new, which was hilarious to the children, particularly when he tried to pull a cracker by himself.

The meal was perfect, the roasted potatoes plentiful, and as they sat down at the table, the children pulled away from their lovely new wooden dollhouses (Santa) and plastic lightsaber electronic game kit (Carmen). Sofia and Carmen’s mother gestured to the newest guest at the table, whom she approved of very much.

“Oke, would you like to say grace?”

He smiled. “Ah, sorry . . . we don’t say grace in my culture. We take a moment of silence, to listen to the still, small voice within all of us. Not just on this . . . I suppose, this ‘special day.’ All days are special days. Every day we should feel, I hope, a little grace. And we can use it to bring peace in everything we do, to reconcile and bear quiet witness to our common humanity. Sorry. I don’t really have anything special to say . . .”

“Actually,” said their mother, “that was perfect.”

Epilogue

The adults were dozing or talking about boring things upstairs, and Pippa and Phoebe had scrambled away to find something else to do. There was a tiny glass vial of something sitting on Carmen’s dressing table.

“Don’t grab that,” said Pippa. “It’s not yours.”

“I just want to smell it,” said Phoebe, opening the little swirly stopper. Instantly some spilled out onto the floor. “Oh no!” she said, looking at her sister in terror.

“It’s all right,” whispered Pippa, after a long pause. “Let’s not bother them; they’ll just get cross with both of us. Let’s clean it up together.”

“Okay,” said Phoebe, and they went and grabbed the most expensive towels from the bathroom to do so.

“What do you think it is?” said Phoebe as they scrubbed.

“It’s from the magic shop,” said Pippa, reading the label. “Wow! Maybe it’s a love potion for Uncle Oke.”

“Hahaha,” said Phoebe. “You can’t call him that!”

“I’m just saying. Maybe.”

“Maybe it is,” said Phoebe. “Hang on—if we fill it up with water, she won’t know we spilled it.”

“Okay,” said Pippa. “But that means we’ll never know what the magic potion was.”

“Yeah, well,” said Phoebe. “Still. Don’t mention it. Okay? Sister pinkie swear?”

“Sister pinkie swear.”

Acknowledgments