It was freezing cold. Christy pulled his coat around his chin and made his way back across the Piazza, past the enormous columns of the church, towards St Giles. It was two days before Christmas, and there was a merry buzz in the air as people hurried about, laughing and shouting. It was dark, so when Christy arrived at his mother’s house he could stand outside and peer through the window. He could see her, sitting in the chair by the fire sewing. He couldn’t see March anywhere so he risked tapping on the door.
It opened a crack, and his mother peeped out. A smile lit her face when she saw him. She pulled the door wide open.
“Come in.”
Christy stepped inside. The room was cold as the fire was very low. His mother wore two shawls and fingerless knitted gloves. Christy kicked himself for
