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Somehow an idea had become lodged in Anya’s head and gotten thoroughly stuck there.
She was going to have a Christmas tree. Very little could be done to talk her out of it and fortunately thus far no one had truly tried. Passing by the various stands and stalls that had popped up across the city as she had gone about her daily business had put her in the spirit of the holiday in a way she hadn’t been in years. The day that they were all counting down to might be wrong (it was January 7th not December 25th), but she was going by getting a tree later in the month it would last the entirety of Svyatki.
Last year she hadn’t quite been ready to celebrate the holiday, hadn’t known quite what to do. Christmas had gone away with the Bolsheviks and Gleb had arrived and she had been all over the place. This year would be different. This year she was making it count.
Dressed for the damp and cold weather, albeit in fewer layers than she would have back home, she’s carefully studying each of the trees in the small lot. Her breath is forming a gentle fog around her, her expression serious. Gleb is thoughtfully by her side. There had never been a question in her mind of whether or not he would join her. This celebration was just as much for him as it was for her.
Then she spots it.
Giving Gleb’s hand a gentle tug she scampers over to a tree that is a bit on the scrawnier side. “This is it,” Anya declares, letting go of his hand to run her hand over the branches. “It’s perfect, don’t you think so?”
She was going to have a Christmas tree. Very little could be done to talk her out of it and fortunately thus far no one had truly tried. Passing by the various stands and stalls that had popped up across the city as she had gone about her daily business had put her in the spirit of the holiday in a way she hadn’t been in years. The day that they were all counting down to might be wrong (it was January 7th not December 25th), but she was going by getting a tree later in the month it would last the entirety of Svyatki.
Last year she hadn’t quite been ready to celebrate the holiday, hadn’t known quite what to do. Christmas had gone away with the Bolsheviks and Gleb had arrived and she had been all over the place. This year would be different. This year she was making it count.
Dressed for the damp and cold weather, albeit in fewer layers than she would have back home, she’s carefully studying each of the trees in the small lot. Her breath is forming a gentle fog around her, her expression serious. Gleb is thoughtfully by her side. There had never been a question in her mind of whether or not he would join her. This celebration was just as much for him as it was for her.
Then she spots it.
Giving Gleb’s hand a gentle tug she scampers over to a tree that is a bit on the scrawnier side. “This is it,” Anya declares, letting go of his hand to run her hand over the branches. “It’s perfect, don’t you think so?”
