Page 63 of Dagger’s Shield

On such a happy day, I hated to think what his words meant. I hadn’t shared the suspicious invoices I’d found with Dagger yet, but I would soon. I would also share what Monsieur Lavigne had told me.

By five, the sun had set, and Rémy turned the strings of lights on. Murmurs of excitement spread throughout the room. When the main entrance doors opened, the children gasped at the sight of Père Noël coming in with a sack over his shoulder.

My father had worn that suit every Christmas Eve since before I was born. He had it cleaned in November and believed nobody knew it was him. Kids of all sizes raced over to him as he took a seat in a large chair that had been placed by a decorated tree. I’d sat on his knee in this same building when I was small and asked for a pony, and the following year, there was a fat gray one in the stable with a ribbon around her neck.

I watched him lean down so a girl of four or five could whisper in his ear. He nodded at whatever she said as though it were a matter of great importance, then reached into the sack and handed her a wrapped package.

Tonight, he was the most beloved person in the room. In the coming days, we might have evidence proving he was a criminal. I couldn’t reconcile the man in the Geneva photographs with the one smiling, teasing, and handing out gifts.

My mother put her arm through mine.

“He waits all year for this,” she said. “Whatever else you remember about him, remember this too.”

“I will, Maman.”

For once, it was a promise that required no lie.

The last of the families left before ten, thanking my parents for their generosity. I tried not to think about how they could afford such extravagances.

Rémy drove my parents and Marthe to the village, and Dagger and I followed in the Peugeot. The air was clear and cold, and the church bells were ringing by the time we parked.

“I haven’t been to church since my mother’s funeral,” he said. “You’ll need to signal me when to stand.”

“Watch the old women in the front row. They always know.”

The church was full and warm when we went inside and found where my family was seated. We sang carols and listened to the priest as he told the story of Jesus’ birth the way his predecessor had told it before I left France, not knowing when I might return.

When the time for communion came, Dagger remained seated in the pew. My mother patted his knee on her way past, then took my hand to join her.

When the service ended and everyone was making their way out, I watched Dagger light a candle, then bow his head and close his eyes. I had no doubt he was praying like I had that my maman would be here next year and the year after that to celebrate. And that meant I’d be here too. I had to be. But would he? Why would he?

Our réveillon began when we returned to the house. The food I’d smelled cooking filled the dining table, and after the oysters were served, Marthe sat in the seat reserved for her beside my mother.

Between the escargots and the capon, my father left the room. He returned a few minutes later, carrying a double-magnum whose label had faded with age.

“This is from the year my daughter, Maëlle, was born,” he said. “When she left for university, I set this aside, vowing to open it when she returned for Christmas. I had no idea at the time how long we’d have to wait. We missed you, ma chérie. So very much.”

I’d spent my life certain of what I was to him—a daughter instead of a son—and not someone to be missed.

He filled our glasses and raised his to me, and for the length of the toast, I saw him as nothing more than my papa.

Dagger’s arm rested along the top of my chair, and I leaned into him without thinking. We sat and listened to my father and Rémy tell stories while we finished our meal with the bûche de Noël. Maman and Marthe laughed at all of them, and I caught myself doing the same. If only this were a real representation of our family rather than an act we put on for the holidays.

It was nearly three when Dagger and I climbed the stairs. He was asleep within minutes of the lamp going off, and I wasn’t far behind him.

We slept until nearly noon, dressed, and gathered in the salon in the early afternoon. Marthe had built the fire high, and the presents were stacked beside the crèche.

We took turns unwrapping one gift each while everyone watched, then gasped and cheered at each one’s perfection.

Marthe unwrapped her socks, turned them over, examined the seams, and announced that they would do. Dagger smiled as though she’d praised him at length. By Marthe’s standards, she had.

Rémy handed Dagger a flat package with the expression he wore when he was very pleased with himself.

It was a children’s picture dictionary, in French and English, with a cartoon rooster on the cover.

“You’ll need it,” Rémy said. “Maëlle argues in two languages and wins in both.”

Dagger paged through it gravely and stopped somewhere in the middle. “There’s an entire section on cheese. This is the most useful book I’ve ever owned.”