The doors to the Cratchit House stood closed, and, against her will, a familiar rush of joy fluttered in Kate’s stomach. Whether or not Clark knew it, this was her favorite part of the entire story. The beauty of the tale and the reversal of fortunes for the Cratchits made the entire journey worth it. In the novella, the confrontation between Bob and Scrooge happened at the office, but for the sake of bringing Tiny Tim back for one final “God Bless Us, Every One,” they transposed the encounter to Bob Cratchit’s house instead.

As Scrooge always did—Kate would know, she’d trained six different Scrooges—he waved away the crowd, they feigned hiding, and he settled an angry scowl upon his brow before knocking upon Cratchit’s door. Boom! Boom! Boom! Goosebumps raised the hairs on her arms.

She just hoped she wouldn’t break and cry. She always cried at this scene.

The Cratchit family generally consisted of a real-life husband and wife and whatever children could sit still the longest and memorize the most dialogue, but when the Cratchits appeared today, Mr. and Mrs. Isaacs were not standing there in their costumes, ready for their close-up. Kate’s breath hitched.

There, framed by the holly-lined doorway, stood Michael and Emily, dressed up in the poor clothes of the clerk and his wife, while the usual suspects of children cowered behind them at the mean ol’ Uncle Scrooge. The last time Emily got in front of a crowd, she picked up the lid of a piano and vomited into it, so her appearance here caught Kate off guard.

If she had a heart any longer, it would have warmed and stretched with love for her friend’s courageous appearance, made all the more amazing by her genuine acting chops.

“Bob Cratchit!” Clark-as-Scrooge boomed. “You did not come in to work today.”

Michael cowered, his knees shaking in a mockery of knocking together.

“But it’s Christmas.”

“I never gave you the day off.”

“You did, sir.” To his credit, Michael appropriately stammered and stuttered over the words forcing them out between his teeth with all the joy of poisoning himself. He even wrung his hands. Kate couldn’t have directed this scene any better. The children in the back did their part, too, huddling together as their mother grew in anger. “You just said to be in earlier tomorrow.”

“Oh, I’m going to throw the book at you, you lazy layabout!” Scrooge shouted, shaking his walking stick for emphasis. Kate would have directed against that particular choice, but hamming it up seemed to be Clark’s style of the day, a noted change from the man who wouldn’t even smile at a little boy yesterday after he begged him to do so.