Carol for Another Christmas

Table of Contents

 

 

GHOST IN THE MACHINE

Ebenezer Scrooge, the word “humbug” still droning through his mind, opened his eyes.

Momentarily, he was able to focus on one particular female face, which was looking at him as if she were a judge and he were Jack the Ripper.

“Who are you supposed to be?” she demanded in a growl at once dismissive and impatient. “Santa Claus?”

“Not at all, madam, although it's a flattering error. I am Ebenezer Scrooge, Esq. The late Ebenezer Scrooge, Esq. And whom, may I ask, have I the pleasure of addressing?”

“Tiny Tim, you idiot.
Not!
”

THE GODMOTHER
THE GODMOTHER'S WEB
CAROL FOR ANOTHER CHRISTMAS
THE GODMOTHER'S APPRENTICE
THE LADY IN THE LOCH
CHANNELING CLEOPATRA
CLEOPATRA 7.2

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

 

CAROL FOR ANOTHER CHRISTMAS

 

An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the author

 

Copyright © 1996 by Elizabeth Ann Scarborough.

 

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Acknowledgments

Thanks to Joyce Thompson for sharing her enthusiasm about writers and technology and for introducing me to Miriam Harline and Harald Henry, who shepherded me around Microsoft and introduced me to many lovely, technically gifted people, including Jonathan Espenschied and Brian Meyers. Any mistakes along technical lines in this book are my fault, not theirs, and I thank all of them plus others who shared their time and knowledge with me. Also, thanks to Ron Wodaski, my Port Townsend neighbor, for his suggestions. And of course, my most humble gratitude to Charles Dickens for the wonderful tale we all love to listen to, watch, read, and re-create Christmas after Christmas.

Prologue

Ebenezer Scrooge was being haunted again, which was remarkable since, to the best of his recollection, he was already dead.

Everyone had said so. His spirit had lingered a bit while the register of his burial was signed, like that of his partner, Marley, before him, by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. His nephew signed it, weeping. Scrooge noted the tears with feelings that were understandably mixed since, while he was not particularly happy to have departed a life he had only begun to enjoy, it did please him to see that the departure was mourned.

In the five years since he had been visited by the ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Future, he had been a changed man, a generous man, and had become—dare he say it?—a beloved man. Everyone had forgotten the past, when he was curmudgeonly, miserly, and mean. Until now, that is. For suddenly, his past had returned to mock him.

“Humbug!” was the word that awakened him. “Humbug!” was what he used to say when asked for charity or when wished a merry Christmas; anytime, indeed, when it would have been more appropriate to show a little kindness, a little joy. His answer had been not only “Humbug” but “Bah! Humbug!” and it was the latter word that now returned to haunt him.

A bolt of light seared through him and a single word, “Yes!” resounded triumphantly above the echo of “Humbug.”

One

The morning before Christmas was typically gray and gloomy Seattle winter weather, motorists giving thanks, as they drove off Interstates 5 and 90, that the snow forecast for the day had missed them on their morning commute. Downtown twinkled with white fairy lights and smelled of fir and pine from the many brightly decorated trees throughout town. Christmas flags hung from lampposts. Later in the day, horse-drawn carriages with drivers dressed in Victorian velvet and top hats would rattle and clop through city streets, carrying harried shoppers and high-spirited children. Store windows beckoned with every sort of luxurious gift and piles of beautifully wrapped boxes.

The street people's cups clinked with extra coins and many said, “Merry Christmas,” as a thank-you, while bracing themselves for a snowy night. Wind pulled at hair and mufflers and turned umbrellas inside out. Vendors sold steaming espresso to shoppers sporting Santa Claus and Christmas tree lapel pins. Street musicians trotted out their Christmas carols and sang and played them on guitars, banjos, accordions, hammered dulcimers, and harmonicas.

But in one large corner of the city, no lights brightened the cement buildings except the bleak square moons of flourescent-lit office corridor windows. Within the mausoleum, stillness was broken only by the skeletal clickings of fingertips on plastic, while tiny dots of red, green, and yellow light flickered like the eyes of feral animals. Blue and green screens full of arcane symbols and letters held the occupants of the offices enthralled.

The spell was abruptly shattered by the tolling of an elevator bell followed by carpet-padded footsteps striding into the labyrinth of offices. A hand that might as well have been clawed lashed out, nails squealing against glass, and ripped paper. For a moment the office's occupant was held in a threatening glare accented with Lancôme's blue-black mascara from Nordstrom's, and then released as the figure swooped into the next office.

From keyboard to keyboard the tiny e-mail window opened, and the word spread silently down the hall: “The Dragonlady is abroad—no sexism intended—beware!”

The footsteps stopped, a door creaked open, and a chair squealed as weight sank into it. Slowly, reluctantly, the moonglow screens were abandoned as the shuffling feet of the office occupants dragged into the conference room.

A woman whose ample curves could have bespoken jollity and generosity had they not settled into a puddle of rippling discontent sat in the power position behind a great desk. The white streaks in her hair could have meant she was wise, except that they corkscrewed like tortured snakes in all directions. Her face was well made-up, which might have meant that she cared about her appearance to others, but instead it had the appearance of a deceptively rosy, wide-eyed mask. And her neat black suit and crisp polyblend blouse could have been demure and understated, but rather bore the aspect of full battle dress.