"Why so forlorn, dearest darling Fletcher?" Clarabelle's entrance to the room is accompanied by the jangling of the gold bangles hanging loosely around her thin wrists and the clatter of the little bells on her shawl. She is dressed festively, all red and gold, and she is grinning.

Fletcher, on the other hand, is most markedly not smiling. He is, in fact, frowning at the calendar hung on the wall of his kitchen. He has invited some of his (read as: all of his) friends to come eat dinner with him, since he wants to test out his recipes before it's actually Christmas and any damage will be irreversible and have long-lasting effects, and Clarabelle has arrived early. By a fortnight. He's still not sure how she managed that.

"It is now December," he says, still scowling. "There is no time at all before the neighbors begin playing their blasted Christmas Carols."

"Oh! Yes! I forgot about those!" Smiling vacantly, Clarabelle wanders off, clapping her hands together to make her bracelets sound and singing gibberish to the tune of God Rest You Merry, Gentlemen. Fletcher very gently hits his head against the wall with absolutely no regard for his hair.

A/N: Honestly, I'm actually awaiting the carols quite a bit, since I can't quite believe it's December already...

~Mademise Morte, December 1