Applejack would not stay the night, though her relatives wanted her to. She had only returned to the house that evening to pick up her gift for Treble’s party; her conversation with Ink had been a diversion, and only a brief one. Shortly after it had finished, she had wished everyone else a hearty goodbye, before setting off for the Mix’s mansion, gift in tow.

Ink finally did come back into the living room, but without a new cup of cocoa. The conversation had diminished her appetite for a warm drink. She came out, a little shaken but otherwise okay, and was immediately swept up by Granny Smith and led to the middle of the room where several other people stood and were talking.

Introductions were in order, but it quickly became apparent to Ink that she would not be able to remember them all. Most had a variation of some Apple-related name, and most had a familiar country drawl to them. There were a few there, however, who stood out for their lack of an Apple surname.

“And these fine folks are Aunt and Uncle Orange!” Granny Smith said, gesturing to a married couple. Both turned to face them, smiles stretching across their faces. A drink each was in their hands, glowing golden.

“Well, good evening,” Aunt Orange said, giving a light curtsy. It was not what Ink was expecting, and so she stared for a moment before catching herself. She apologized, then introduced herself.

Uncle Orange laughed. “Oh, that’s quite all right, Ink. We’re not your ordinary Apples after all. No offense taken.”

“They’re from Manehattan,” Granny Smith explained. “But don’t let their fancy-pants accent throw you off, Ink, girl! They’ve just as much fire as any ol’ Apple among us!” She hooted and slammed a hand on Aunt Orange’s back, pushing her forward a little bit. Somehow, the younger lady was unabashed, and laughed just as strongly, if a bit more… refined.

Ink nodded. “It’s nice to meet you both. I actually know a few people from Manehattan. They’re both from the West Side.”

“East for us,” Uncle Orange said, gesturing with his glass. “It’s a fine city. Have you visited?”

“I have not.”

“Oh, you should. At least once. You’ll love it, I’m sure.”

They talked a little longer, before the two Oranges excused themselves to talk to some more relatives entering through the door. Ink watched them go. Then she turned to Granny Smith.

“They’re—”

“Odd?” Granny finished with a grin.

“Um, I was going to say nice…”

“Oh, that too. But mah point still stands. We don’t have too many high-society types in our family, so the Oranges definitely stick out, eeyup!”

“Too many?”

“Oh, sure! In fact, lemme introduce you t’ a few of ‘em…”

And introduce Ink to them she did. Names and the faces that owned them passed her by. Hands were shaken, words exchanged. Ink quickly became overwhelmed and fell into simply smiling and saying “hello,” and this seemed to satisfy all of those involved. More than once she was complimented about her appearance—“Like a bloomin’ violet!” was one way they put it, and this of course made Ink blush—and, when it was revealed that Big Mac had invited her, there were teasing hushes as the older and younger moved in to get the scoop.

There was a moment, however, that struck Ink as odd. In one of those interactions, after she had revealed that Mac had been the one to invite her, one of the family members there wiped a tear from their eye. “He’s growing up,” Ink heard her say to Granny Smith in low tones. “Pear and Bright Mac would be proud!”

Curious, Ink had turned to ask who they were, if they were here, but the relative had moved on, and by then Ink was was already being ushered into the arms of yet another eccentric and charming Apple-member. The question would not pass her lips and was forgotten in the haze of more introductions.

At one point she was pushed into a small enclosure where a very old man stood bent over a cane. He spoke quietly, though, a far cry different than the Apples who were gathered in the home. He might have been as old as Granny Smith.

“You’re not an Apple,” he said.

“Er, no… no, I’m not,” Ink replied.

“They’re branching out?” He seemed to put a lot of emphasis on that second word, and it took Ink a second to realize why.

“Was that a pun?” she said.

The old man let out a wheezy laugh. “Ah, a sharp one! Good, good. Keep your head on straight, y’hear?”

Ink nodded, though a bit dumbly. This man was pleasant enough company, but had yet to introduce himself. She decided not to pressure him.

The old man murmured some more, then slowly melted into the crowd, becoming just another yellowish addition to the throng.

“So you’ve met Grand Pear, huh?”

Another man, dark-skinned and silver-haired, had suddenly appeared. He regarded Ink kindly, then held out a hand. “Burnt Oak, young lady. You must be Big Mac’s guest.”

“Ink Quill.” Silently, as she shook his hand, she thanked him for not calling him Mac’s date. “That was Grand Pear?”

“Oh, yes,” Burnt Oak rumbled. He gestured to the crowd, but the Pear was already lost. “I hope he wasn’t too much.”

“He was nice. That’s all.”

“Really? Then I guess he has changed,” he mused.

Ink regarded him with a curious stare. “What do you mean?”

“I knew Mr. Pear when I was a kid. He was a lot meaner back hen. Didn’t seem intent on changing until a long time later. He’s as stubborn as any other Apple here, and he’s not even blood-related.”

“Really? So he married in?”

“No, his daughter did.” Burnt Oak paused, looking back at Ink. She sensed words dangling on his lips. His eyes seemed a little sad, then.

Then he shook his head, and a smile appeared. “But, anyway. Long story short, this is his first Christmas party in the Apple household, and I’d say he’s enjoying yourself. How about you?”

And just like that, the topic was avoided. Ink could practically feel it slip from her grasp. Her curiosity remained, but, pushed and paraded about the joyful home, she found herself caring less and less as the night went on.

And on it did.

Gifts came in, to join hers that was on the piano, and soon it was overflowing with boxes and bags of various holiday motifs. The gifts moved from there to the bottom. Soon the call rang out for the gifts to be taken outside, and so Ink gathered hers up in her arms, took her mother’s side, and, along with the other people there, shuffled through the narrow doorway leading to the world beyond.

The cold air smacked hard, but there was no time to flinch for she was already being pushed forward by those around her. Then a space opened and the crowd separated. Like coat-wearing pilgrims set in the darkness of the winter night they walked forth with their gifts in their hands and scarves and hoods covering their necks and faces, misted breath releasing before them, their footsteps becoming low imprints in the soft mesh of the snow. Above stretched a large canvas of swirling stars marked by the glowing eye of the moon peering down. Away from the city lights, Ink saw all that the sky truly had to offer, and she was not alone, for the others there gasped in delight at the vast expanse set above them all.

Crossing the field of snow, they passed through then a narrow grove of blackened tree husks that stood as guards around some unknown enclosure. Lights emanated from deep within. As they shuffled on through they saw hanging from the branches little lanterns and lines of glowing orbs that stretched to-and-fro and swung in the evening breeze like little ghosts of Christmas past.

The grove widened. The crowd kept going, but Ink stopped in shock.

Though barren and asleep and devoid of its fruits, the tree that stood before her was a massive one, stretching high into the night sky like a wooden skyscraper. In its branches were hundreds of lights, orange and red, criss-crossing each other like a glowing quilt. The trunk was the most unique part, though; it seemed as though two embryo trees had grown together, hugging their bodies together in a tight embrace. The space from the fork that resulted must have been a result of careful growth and nurturing, or otherwise some powerful nature goddess’s doing, for it resembled no natural space but instead that of a heart. A heart, Ink seemed to see, that beat against the backdrop of the nightly forest, alive. She knew reasonably that this was not the case, and yet the tree seemed more than simply another plant; in a way, it had its own personality, its own characteristics, that made it seem almost human.

They all gathered around the tree. One by one they placed their gifts at the base and stood back. As the stack grew, the lights that hung in the tree’s branches began to glow even brighter.

“If only they were here,” someone whispered to Ink’s side; who they were, she did not know, and she did not ask.

Soon all of the gifts had been placed. The lights were all glowing, pulsating, beating. They were warm and welcoming, and despite the strangeness of all that was occuring, Ink did not shy away. About, arms and heads rose and were held high. Smiles broke out. What manner of traditions this was, Ink did not know, but who was she to question the loving feeling she had deep in her soul?

And then, at some unspoken command—perhaps it was Granny, or the tree, or some other deity unbeknownst to them yet still influential to the end—their voices rose, and they began to sing.

“Ah didn’t know y’could sing.”

Ink glanced at Mac, blushing slightly under his praise. “I didn’t know you could, either.”

Both were standing on the porch of the Apples’ home, beneath the soft lights dangling from the small shingled rooftop. Inside was everyone else, celebrating and generally having a good time, from what Ink could gather. It had been some time since they had gathered before the tree; in truth, Ink did not know how much, but she supposed when you were enjoying yourself, time tended to pass quickly and unknown, and it was far better to enjoy it than question it further. It was still snowing and all about the world was white and glowing with the lights and down the road, far down the road, stood the city still.

Mac was standing a short distance to her side, having come out only a moment before. He indeed had sung at the tree, and so had she, and yet for some reason their voices had drowned at the rest and all attention had been vested on them as they sung. Untrained, unpracticed, they had realized all too soon what was going on, and had fallen silent; but at the encouragement of the Apple family as a whole, they had begun once again.

“Where’d you learn to sing?” he asked, leaning over the railing, his voice soft and steady.

“Nowhere,” she admitted. “I just do it from time to time.” She paused. “You know, it’s funny. A few weeks ago, Gaige and Hazel said the same thing.”

“What, that you’re good?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, they ain’t lying, that’s fer sure. I bet if you practiced real hard, you’d make it big.”

She was blushing fully now, and regarded him with a smile. “Aw, thank you, Mac. But, honestly, it’s not something I see myself doing.” She tilted her head, closing one eye, a sort-of wink directed now at him. “You, on the other hand? You’ve got a great voice.”

He let out a short guffaw. “Aw, heck. It ain’t much.”

“Well, it’s something, that’s for sure. Seriously! Why aren’t you part of the school choir? They could use a baritone like yours.”

“It’s like you said. Ain’t my thing. ‘Sides,” he added, glancing back at her, “I’m not the type to stand up in front of everyone and put myself out there.”

“Didn’t stop you back at the tree, did it?”

“Didn’t stop you, either.”

They matched smiles. Alone like this, Ink found his company remarkably pleasant—not that it ever wasn’t—and she thought he felt the same with her.

“Maybe we should start a band,” she suggested lightly. “Or a doo wop group.”

“A two-man doo wop? Y’think that’ll work?”

“Stranger things have happened.”

“Yeah. Maybe we can have Artifex be our dancer.”

“Artifex dances?”

“Oh, yeah. What? You’ve never seen ‘im?”

“No! You have to tell me!”

“Well, he’s pretty good. Showed me and Lone Wolf some time back. Learned a while ago, still got it today. If it weren’t for his leg, well, I’m sure he would’ve swept some girl off her feet with his skill.”

She laughed, a little too loudly, and he regarded her with a curious expression. “What? Know something I don’t?”

“Maybe. You know Adagio?”

“Yeah?”

“Well…”

She let the thought hang, waiting for him to connect the dots. When he did, his eyes widened, and he let out a whistle. “Hoo, boy. I hope he knows what he’s getting into.”

“Trouble?”

“With Adagio? That’s the least of his worries.”

“Well. I’m sure things will work out fine between them.”

“What makes you say that?”

She smiled. “Let’s just say… they don’t know what the other is thinking, but I do.”

Mac laughed. “Ink, yer a sly one, y’know?”

“So I’m told. You know, I think both had a plan for tonight—”

She was interrupted by a light buzzing coming from her phone in her pocket. Taking it out, she saw that there was a message from Artifex. “Well, speak of the devil,” she said. “Wonder what he’s up to at Treble’s?”

She flicked past the lock screen, opened the message—and screeched.

“What? What is it?” Mac was quick to ask, immediately coming over to her side.

“I knew it! I just knew it!” And she showed him what Artifex had sent.

A selfie, of all things, which Artifex was not known for. He was smiling, unable to contain his blush, as next to him stood a certain ex-Siren, leaning in close for a light peck to his cheek.

Mac whistled. “Dang. Scored himself the Siren.”

“I think it’s more the other way around,” Ink said, still smiling stupidly. “Oh, Artifex…”

She quickly typed in a reply, with Mac adding in his own comment of congratulations (saying, “What took ya so long, Arty? --Mac), before sending both. A few moments later, there was another image sent, but it appeared Adagio had taken Artifex’s phone. The peck had become a full kiss, and the boy’s face was bright red. Then, another message was sent: “Took him long enough.”

“Oh, Adagio,” Ink said, “if only you really knew!”

A few more messages were sent, before Artifex managed to take back his phone. He thanked both Ink and Mac, and wished them a good night. No further messages came, but no more were needed. The night had indeed been a success for the boy and the Siren, and Ink found her joy for them just barely able to be contained.

And as always, the silence came, but it was not uncomfortable or off-putting, for in that silence the two there were together, and that was found to be enough. And so time passed and they were still outside and it was still snowing and neither thought to leave the other’s side just yet.

“You know,” Ink then began suddenly, before faltering, for she did not know what he knew, nor what she knew.

“Yeah?” he said anyway.

“Oh, you know.”

“Ah… don’t think I do…”

“Oh. Hah.”

“Ha?”

“Just…”

Ink let out a breath. “I’ve been thinking.”

“What about?”

“Us, I guess,” she said.

“Us?”

“Yeah.”

She turned around, and saw that he was actually a lot closer to her than she’d expected. Her heart… her heart was racing. Why was it racing? Why didn’t she want it to stop?

“And…” She knew what she was about to say. Yet, she wasn’t afraid to say it. “And about the date.”

Mac blinked. “O-oh? Y-you mean—”

She nodded. She thought she could hear her heartbeat echoing out of her chest, thumping to the rhythm of another beat, and she thought—and it was a very strange, and also very exciting thought—it was the beat from Mac’s own heart.

Her first line came to her: She fell in love once.

“I-I mean… i-if you don’t mind, that is…” Her tongue felt thick. She felt thick. Use your words, Ink! “I… uh…”

“Ink?” Mac stepped closer. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” she whispered breathlessly.

She swallowed. “I guess what I’m trying to say is… I would not mind another thing like that.”

Mentally she berated herself. That was the lamest thing she had ever said. How could she face Mac?

And yet, she found herself staring deeply into his eyes, utterly lost in them. And he, in turn, would not look away.

Then, slowly, in seconds too long to be justifiable, Mac said, “Really?”

“Y-yeah! I, um… I’d like to get to know you better. Um…”

“Yeah. Ah… I’d like, that, too.”

Now it was Ink’s turn to say, “Really?”

“Eeyup.”

No more words were said, then. Ink had exhausted all of hers, and so had Mac. Both of their faces burned with the result of the conversation, the quiet admission of something more, that neither could fully vocalize but that both could understand. And in that understanding, there bridged a connection between the two. Where that bridge led, neither could say then.

But, as they walked back inside, Ink’s hand slipped into his, it was decided that they would go to that place readily together.