With Kate at the top of the stairs and Clark at the bottom, she reveled in the literal high ground. All she had to do was hold onto it. She glanced out of the house’s wide front windows. Though the decorations on the inside of the house were almost entirely complete, a near army of workers on ladders were still hard at work hanging lights outside.

“So.” She placed a steadying hand on the top of the staircase banister, hoping it looked more like a power move than something necessary to keep her upright. “What do you think?”

“What have you done?”

“Is there an echo in here?” The quip, in her opinion, was brilliant, but he either didn’t get the joke or purposefully withheld his laughter. Rude. She gripped the banister tighter and gave a sweep of the grand atrium with her free hand. The chandelier hanging in the high, vaulted ceiling had been dotted with poinsettia plants and evergreens, giving the room a sweet, rich smell. Kate was glad for their perfume; it meant she couldn’t smell the smoke coming out of Clark’s ears. She would’ve been lying, though, if she didn’t secretly derive pleasure from his displeasure. He’d made everyone she knew uncomfortable when he ended their employment yesterday. Maybe he deserved to be uncomfortable, too, even if she was trying to heal what she suspected was his broken, used-up heart. “We decorated for Christmas. Do you like it?”

Don’t shout. Don’t raise your voice. Don’t even let her know this is bothering you. Just be clear, direct, and get the job done. Clark’s internal pep talk was strong, but not strong enough to hold his bewildered frustration at bay. He flexed his right hand, a nervous habit he’d spent almost his entire life unsuccessfully struggling to break, and tried to answer her question. Did he like it?

“I’d like it to be taken down.”

“I’m sorry. No can do.”

She stood at the top of the staircase like some silent film star, taking control of the garish scenery. He didn’t need to look around him to see the marks of her handiwork everywhere. His family’s house—that cold monument to excess and emptiness—had been transformed. In his memory, this place was always closer to Wayne Manor than Hogwarts—a shadowy prison for cobwebs and abandoned family photos.

When he’d driven up with Michael this morning, however, he’d almost turned around, convinced they’d made a wrong turn somewhere. Woodward today looked nothing like it did in his dark memories. With every turn of his car’s wheels, they moved closer and closer to a postcard of a Victorian Christmas, not the palace of pity he’d always known the place to be. Though men and women still busied themselves on high ladders arranging wreaths upon third-story windows and hanging lights along the roof, the picture was clear.