Upon a Midnight Clear by Narya

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Chapter 1

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Massachusetts
1884 C. E.
Christmas Eve

He heard the sobs as he rounded the bend. Young. Female. Tired, and in some distress; she'd been crying for a while, Maglor deduced. Strange that he hadn't heard it earlier, even over the jingling sleigh-bells. You're getting old, he told himself, and chuckled. His breath curled, frozen, away from his mouth.

He'd been old for a very long time now.

The source of the weeping sat on the parapet by the old Red Bridge. The town centre lights were some way away, but his Elf eyes saw her plainly enough. She was no more than eighteen or nineteen, dressed in an old-fashioned red gown with a wide tiered skirt; her golden hair was half-undone, her teeth were chattering, and – alarmingly on this clear, bitter night – her arms and shoulders were bare. She raised her head at his approach, and Maglor drew his cutter to a halt.

“Are you alright, miss?” he asked gently, climbing down.

She shook her head. Her eyes were wide in her pale, pretty face, and tears had clumped her long lashes together. “N-no. I've been w-walking and walking, and now I've t-t-turned my ankle in the snow, and my home's on the other side of town and my father will be s-so angry...”

Quickly Maglor unbuttoned his winter coat and tucked it around her shoulders. Immediately her shivering eased. “There. If it weren't so cold I'd take a look at that ankle for you, but as it is...” He offered her his arm. “I know I'm a stranger, but won't you let me give you a ride home?”

She blinked, and a sweet smile broke over her face. “That's terribly kind. Thank you.”

“Anyone would do the same.”

“Perhaps.” Gingerly she stepped down from the parapet; mindful of her ankle, Maglor took her weight on himself. “I'm Charlotte Brooke. My friends call me Lottie.”

“I'm Mark Lawrence.”

She took his hand as he helped her into the cutter. “Well, Mr. Lawrence, it seems to me you're not a stranger any more.”

Her hand was gloved in thin silk; his own was uncovered, for he had little need of gloves, and he felt a sharp chill through the fabric as she touched his skin. Poor child, he thought, she's frozen – and then he paused, and listened, and looked again.

Lottie Brooke hesitated in the act of tucking furs around her legs. “Is something the matter, Mr. Lawrence?”

“No. Nothing.” Maglor smiled at her. “Nothing at all.”

But as they drove away, he cast one last curious glance at the snow around the bridge, unmarked but for the tracks of his own horse and cutter.

The centre of town was empty now, but the lamplight glowed warmly on the slatted shop fronts. White picket fences glittered with frost; the town hall stone gleamed silver, and a hush lay over the empty streets.

“Where is your home, Miss Brooke?” Maglor asked.

“At the end of Walden Street – past the new church, by Fairyland Pond.”

He nodded.

“Do you know it?”

“I believe so, yes. Opposite Brister's Hill?”

“That's right.” She tilted her head prettily. “I only ask because you're new in town. Aren't you?”

“Yes.”

“Where's your home?”

He gave her a sharp sideways gance. “I bought the house on the clifftops, just off Bennet Road.”

“That isn't quite what I asked.”

“No.” He held her eyes for longer this time. In frozen darkness, under the stars, they seemed to shine with a light of their own. “No, I know.”

“I'm afraid I'm taking you terribly out of your way.”

“I don't mind the drive. And it's good exercise for Asfaloth; he's rather inclined to be lazy.”

“Asfaloth?” She looked again at the elegant beast in the harness, as white as the snow that lay before them. “That's a funny thing to name a horse.”

“You can blame my cousin.” Maglor gave a flick of the reins. “Now, suppose you tell me what you were doing out by Red Bridge in the snow, without so much as a shawl to keep you warm?”

“Oh, Mr. Lawrence.” Her pretty face fell. “I had a fur wrap, but truly, I've had the most horrible time. I went to the Christmas Eve party at the Newbury house, and the Phillips boy was supposed to drive me home – and he did, for a little way, only he kept teasing and vexing me, and pulling my hair...” She paused, and patted her dishevelled ringlets. “Anyway, just as we came around the bend by Nashawtuc Creek, he snatched at my wrap – it was a joke, mind you, only a joke – and I pulled it back, and then the sleigh gave a jerk, and before I knew what had happened my beautiful wrap was down in the water.”

Maglor's brow creased. “Then why didn't this boy tuck you into the furs from the sleigh and take you straight home?”

Lottie Brooke cast her eyes downwards. “I'm afraid I did something very foolish, Mr. Lawrence. I was so angry that I made him stop the sleigh, and I told him if he couldn't behave politely, I'd walk home by myself. And I would have done it, too, if I hadn't fallen in the snow and got stuck near the bridge.”

“I see.” Oh, you poor child. Maglor felt a blade of fury at the idiocy of this Phillips boy, long gone though he likely was.

“Lucky for me that you were passing by,” she said with a winning smile.

Maglor's anger retreated, and he smiled sadly back.

“Where had you been at this late hour?” she asked. “You certainly weren't at the Newbury's Party.”

No, indeed. “I was out by Old Barrett Mill, taking food and blankets and toys for the children who live in the cottages.”

“So they'll have something pleasant to wake up to on Christmas morning.”

“Exactly.”

Lottie Brooke's smile widened. “Our very own Saint Nicholas.”

“Hardly. I'm no saint, that's for good and certain.”

They were passing the church now, bright and raw in its newness. Its white, sharp spire shot into the sky like the tip of a spear.

“Isn't it strange?” Lottie said softly. “As if it hasn't quite made its peace with the land.”

Maglor gave her an odd look, and nodded, and said nothing.

Presently they drew near the end of Walden Street. Brister's Hill rose out of the gloom on their right; on their left was a pretty house with shuttered windows, two chimneys, and a tiled, gabled roof. Leafless maple trees lined the driveway, and hemlock rustled in the woods behind. Beyond the fence, near the turnpike junction, was Fairyland Pond, looking for all the world like something out of the old tales – right down to the thin, swirling patterns recently etched by ice skates. The house itself was gently shabby; the porch was in want of painting, and the empty pots on its stairs were chipped, but it was, Maglor thought, a warm house – a loving house. The sort of house that anyone would want to return to after wandering in the night.

No lights shone onto the snowy yard; the family were clearly abed. Maglor brought his cutter to a halt outside the front door, but Lottie hesitated as he helped her down from her seat, and gave a winsome smile.

“Mr. Lawrence...” She laughed a little. “I wonder, would you mind taking me around the back? If it's all the same to you, I'd rather go in through the kitchens. Hettie keeps a key in the herb beds, and I'd hate to wake them all up; they'd make such a fuss about my ankle.”

“Of course.”

He helped her limp around the side of the house, and hunted through the snow in the stone trough by the back door until his fingers lighted on a heavy brass key.

“Don't forget your coat.” Lottie shrugged the garment off, and handed it back to him as he gave her the door key. Her smile now was quiet, and thoughtful. “Thank you again, Mr. Lawrence. You've been very good to me.”

Maglor folded the coat over his arm. “Will you be alright now, Miss Brooke?”

“I'll manage.” Suddenly her blue eyes seemed old beyond her tender years, and for a moment they gleamed again with that strange, cool light. “Goodnight, Mr. Lawrence.”

He listened for the door as he made his way back around the house, but it did not open – as he had known it would not. Instead he felt a gentle shift in the Song, as though an echoing note had faded, and settled back into place.

“Poor child,” he said again, aloud this time. He clicked his tongue at Asfaloth, who gave a reluctant harrumph and trotted away down the drive. Maglor hoped the family wouldn't be alarmed by the tracks the next day, especially since they led right to the kitchen door. He wondered whether he ought to go back, whether he should wake them, whether they would want to know that their daughter – dead for twenty years or more, going by her dress – had found him at the bridge, and made her way home for Christmas.

It was not until much later, when Asfaloth was rubbed down and stabled, and he was putting the sleek little cutter away for the night, that Maglor found the dainty silk glove on the velvet upholstery where Charlotte Brooke had sat.

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Chapter End Notes

As I'm sure you've realised, this is my Maglor-centric take on the quintessential urban legend, the phantom hitchhiker - with a dash of Frozen Charlotte thrown in for good measure.  My test readers were divided on whether it should end here, but for me, the conversation with the the deceased's loved ones is a key part of any phantom hitchhiker tale.  If you want to see how this plays out for Maglor, please carry on to chapter 2...