The scene in Fred’s house always pleased crowds, and this morning was no exception. Kate giggled as Fred’s wife fainted at the sight of Scrooge and Scrooge scrambled to help her—a comedic diversion not written into the original text, but added at a much later date by Miss Carolyn in order to beef up the character when Kate played it at sixteen—and followed along as Scrooge proceeded to collect people, imploring them to bring along foodstuffs and presents, treating them all with the charm and guile of a newly risen king. Such generosity, such goodness was an unnatural fit for Clark, but perhaps that was why the cautious parts of her hated how much she wanted to believe it.

In spite of her newfound hatred for this bogus holiday, the naive glass shards of her heart longed for him to be the real-life Ebenezer Scrooge. She wanted his smiles and his warmth to be real.

But it wasn’t. And when she examined things more closely as Clark picked up small children and spun them around or joined in carols, Kate realized she didn’t care for this at all. The spectacle was just that: a spectacle. Fake. Phony.

He had an angle. All of this was part of some plot. To humiliate her or to make fun of her or to stomp on her one more time… She didn’t know. But he was working a fix and she wouldn’t fall into its trap. With that, she folded her arms across her chest and resolved to give off the most unsympathetic, hateful, grumpy vibes she could manage.

Basically, she channeled him from one day ago.

“Can you show me the way to Bob Cratchit’s house?”

All at once, he was there, directly in front of her, asking for directions to Bob Cratchit’s house. Oh, yes. He was real. And so, so unfairly handsome. She’d never seen his eyes catch the light like this or his smile relax into an effortless assurance of his goodwill.

Kate urged herself not to give in. And she didn’t. Something was going on here, and she could indulge it for the sake of her festival family, but she didn’t have to invest herself in it. Blindly, Kate nodded and took the arm he offered her. Soon, she found herself leading a parade of Victorian-dressed characters carrying presents and goose, pies and wreaths like some kind of out-of-place drum major. Behind her, they sang in unison, a feature of their penultimate scene. They did it every year. This was the ending of A Christmas Carol. Clark, somehow and for reasons passing understanding, brought the end of the festival into his home and let it take life there.