Lila tried to protest, but the word “ridiculous” turned into a yawn halfway through. Serena’s grip on her phone loosened, and the device slid onto the table with a soft thud. The toddler, Leo, stopped hiccupping. He stared at the swinging silver teardrop, his mouth forming a perfect little ‘O’.
Cora didn’t flinch. She pulled a small, antique silver pendulum from a pocket inside her cloak. It wasn’t showy, just a simple teardrop on a fine chain. It caught the candlelight and threw tiny, dancing stars onto the tablecloth.
Later, as they were bundling up to leave, Lila pulled Cora aside. The hypnotic peace was still on her face, a soft, rosy glow. “That was… remarkable, dear,” she said. “I feel like a new woman. How did you do that?”
“And now,” Cora murmured, the pendulum coming to a stop in her palm, “when I count down from three to one, you will all feel a deep, abiding sense of peace. The perfect, simple peace of a silent night. No arguments. No resentments. Just the quiet joy of being together. Three… two… one.” Mistress Of Hypnosis Holidazed
Serena, instead of snapping, squeezed back. “Thanks, Mom. You know… the yams are really good this year, Chloe.”
Lila Joule sat at the head of the table, a string of real pearls resting against her cashmere turtleneck. She was the family’s unspoken matriarch of disaster, a woman who could weaponize a compliment about the roast beef. Her son, Mark, was already on his third scotch. His wife, Chloe, was trying to stop their toddler from launching a Brussels sprout into the crystal chandelier. And Mark’s sister, Serena, was glaring at her phone, freshly dumped and radiating bitter, peppermint-scented fury.
The annual Joule Family Christmas Eve dinner was a masterclass in performative joy. Silverware clinked against bone china like tiny, polite warning bells. Beneath the garlands of pine and the soft glow of beeswax candles, old resentments festered like uninvited guests. Lila tried to protest, but the word “ridiculous”
Mark, who had been staring at the ceiling fan with a blissful, empty smile, obediently took a bite. “Wow,” he breathed. “It’s like… a yam from a dream.”
Chloe saw it and gasped. “Mark?”
Dinner was, predictably, a car crash. Lila praised Serena’s ex-boyfriend’s new girlfriend’s Instagram. Mark accused Chloe of burning the yams (she hadn’t; he was just drunk). The toddler, Leo, began a sustained, high-decibel meltdown because his mashed potatoes were “too lumpy.” He stared at the swinging silver teardrop, his
In the ensuing chaos, Cora simply sat back, swirling a glass of water. She watched them all with a small, serene smile. The family was a symphony of discordant notes, and she was the only one who could hear the silent, simple melody underneath.
“Enough,” Lila finally snapped, her voice cutting through the wailing. “This is Christmas . Can we please just… be happy for one hour?”
Cora sat in her corner, eating a slice of her clay-like fruitcake, which she had secretly laced with a calming, non-psychoactive tincture of chamomile and skullcap. The pendulum was back in her pocket.
No one had wanted to invite Cora. She was Mark’s eccentric younger cousin, the one who’d dropped out of medical school to run a “hypnotherapy and holistic resonance” studio in a refurbished shipping container. She arrived late, wearing a velvet cloak the color of a thunderstorm and carrying a fruitcake that looked alarmingly like a lump of clay.