Merry Christmas everyone! I had a Halloween story (which I didn't finish in time and is being kept in the story freezer for next year). I had a WWI Centenary story (which I didn't finish in time, and may publish at some point). I have several 'ordinary' stories on the go (which haven't been updated in FOREVER). So, why, in the name of all that's sane, do I start a Christmas story, I hear you ask! Call it the triumph of hope over experience...and deference to Lady Tarlea and her call for Christmas stories. I never could bear to disappoint a lady.

Three Christmases when Anthony Strallan was lonely, and one when he wasn't.

1883

The candles had burnt out long ago. Anthony sat in the dark, empty dormitory gazing at the crisp, far-away stars through the icy windows. He was used to the freezing temperature and he had a rough wool blanket wrapped around him. It wasn't the winter that chilled him.

He was the only boy in the school who didn't have anyone to go to for Christmas. His parents and sister were away in the colonies where they had been for the last three years, since his father gained a position in the Indian Civil Service. His parents took his sister with them as she didn't have to go to school.

But he did.

Even the other boys whose fathers were scattered around the Empire had relatives in England for them to visit. Anthony was here, in this stone-built almost-prison with only his housemaster for company, and the man was a mass of seething resentment that he was stuck here with Strallan instead of merrymaking with one of his cousins. Anthony had tried to apologise and point out that it wasn't his fault, but the man had glowered his displeasure at the boy, then stomped off to his room and the entire bottle of 1860 port that he intended to drink that night.

Anthony didn't have even that comfort. He watched the stars. And wished.